The Way Things Are






You know, on second thought
2005-12-07, 11:53 a.m.

You know, on second thought, I really donít have all that many nice things to say. I donít dislike my co-worker. I just wish he had a bitty bitty tiny little bit of self-awareness. If people continuously made a big show of tuning me out (clenching their jaws, staring into space, slitting their wrists) when I talked to them, I really hope I might get a clue.

Please, yíall, let me know (kindly!) if thereís any clue floating around out there that I need to get. OK?

Today, I am going to share some gritty details, through oblique reference, about my Sweet DishWasher. And Iím going to share with you some of the things that he has shared with his friends about me, which will provide you with some even more grittier information through obliquer reference.

I am justifying this titillating content by rationalizing that his friends know everything about my own personal body and our own personal sex life. Things that, were I a shy, blushing, young maiden (rather than a prickly, anti-social harpy), might make it difficult for me to make eye contact with said friends. But Iím not, so it doesnít. La la la la la.

Do you like my sentence structure?

Here are a few snippets of conversation:

DW: I donít know why my voice is cracking so much. Maybe Iím going through puberty.
Me: Maybe your nuts will finally drop.
DW (shouting off the phone): SHE SAID MAYBE MY NUTS WILL FINALLY DROP!!!
(raucous, bawdy, drunken laughter in the background)


DW: David thought that was really cool, what you said.
Me (worried): What did I say?
DW: When you told me that if my dick were big, youíd be sore all the time and we wouldnít be able to do it as often.
Me: You told him I said that? Did you tell him I think your dickís big enough? For me? How in the WORLD did this even come up in conversation?
DW: We were talking about my little dick.
Me: ?????
DW: It was basketball day, and you know, in the locker room...


DW: I told David that your tits are perfect. Like Playboy tits.
Me (rolling eyes in despair): Thatís nice. Thanks.
DW (laughing AT me, not with me): He wondered if maybe youíd show him some time.
Me: I going to show him my foot in his ass.


My poor baby. He LOVES to dance around the house, and by dance, I mean the White Manís Overbite, Big Elbows kind of dancing. When I once remarked on this (because most men I know hate and refuse to dance, and are proud of it), he said ďWell, I figured early on, Iím short, not that good-looking, with a little dick, so Iíd better have a good personality and know how to dance.

Nothing like a bit of self-awareness, even if you are pretty rough on yourself. It has served him well. For the record, okay, yes, heís pretty short, but he IS TOO good-looking, and heís a grower, not a show-er, people. A GROWER (shaking fist at sky).

Everyone in the world who knows him, loves him, but I got him, SO BACK OFF, LADIES.

A grower, I say!

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