What a weird couple of days it's been here for BourbonBird, it must be the melty goodness that is summer weather. Wait, it's November now -- is it summer already?! Oh, be still my beating left thighpit, I love summer as if it were my firstborn! While the top half of my good self has never really had much of a problem being tanned, my outright refusal to show the world my legs in the winter months has left them looking like they belong to some freakish albino Korean. I cheated about a fortnight ago and fake-tanned, but now that's faded and my legs are returning to their regularly scheduled colour. Thank Jeebus, too, since I had mentally geed myself up to re-instate the wearage of skirts. It's been a long, three-plus years of feeling so uncomfortable in my skin, it's time to suck it up and get on with the gettin' on -- while obscenely short, my pins aren't too shabby when they look like there's regular bloodflow going on.

Four days ago, I came to the realisation that I rule at parenting. As regulars know, my mother gave me a lot of physical fury, which has left me with anxious guilt about giving Chuck a simple smack across the bottom when she's been in a mischief -- I'm not against an open-handed smack across the butt if she's been a little mongrel, but I'm not for making that my only form of discipline. So what of the options? Either letting her run amok, or introducing The Naughty Corner. I chose the latter, since I've already got my hands full running after her, on constant verge-of-heart attack alert, and could use the physical break. While I've been known to spout that Super Nanny is a crock of shit, I thought I'd secretly give The Naughty Corner a go -- when Charli's naughty, I explain to her what she did wrong, stand her in a corner of the room, facing the wall. No TV, no toys, no turning around for 3 minutes. After her 3 minutes are up, I walk over, remind her what put her there, we have a cuddle, a kiss and all is forgiven. Lo and behold, success! Now I've got to make sure ex-hubby, Jerkface, doesn't go lax on the weekends with this. If he does, I'll kill him.

And now, what's doing my head in:

Reading Nailpolishblues' post on summer, I came to the realisation that I, too, am in heat. While I confess to having shocking hearing at the best of times, I'm mishearing things to sound like they belong in some blacklisted, paper-bag-wrapped Joan Collins novel. I freely admit that I think about sex a fair bit even at my low-points, but this is getting beyond ridiculous. Everybody's wearing significantly less clothing than they were a month ago, it's like some horrible mocking at my mental health's expense. I see happy couples out and think about what kind of sex they'd be likely to have, where they'd have it, etc. I see phallic objects everywhere. I've grown this sudden urge to condition myself to be trim, taut, and terrific in the hopes of maybe getting that special someone over here sooner rather than later -- whether I act on it remains to be seen, heh. I've also got the hankering to slowly-but-surely turn my wardrobe into a throwback tribute to those sexy pin-up girls, with the blood-red lipstick and the line-up-the-calves pantyhose with stabby heels. I want to be a vixen, but after getting so sidetracked on my steamy stream-of-consciousness, I need to be firehosed before anything else. I jump from wanting primal, grunty, loud sex to wanting sappy eye-gazing, mewly, kissy sex with lots of holding hands and rolling around in bed. Late at night, cradling a well-earned drink, I drive myself insane wishing upon every fricking star that he was here to put my drink on the table and have his way with me. Ugh, I am so lonely, lonely, lonely. I get frustrated to the point of scrinching my face when I've been thinking too long and hard about how great the rabid, hungry sex would be right about now, but I'm aching for that simple male/female intimacy and affection, too. Heh, long and hard.

I love summer, but I seriously fucking hate it for this reason alone. It's like I've become possessed and obsessed with this tangibly distant but all-consuming notion of sex, sex, sex. I've come to the conclusion that my stint in celibacy, while there is reward, is going to turn me into an even bitterer wench, at least until I get my crumpet. I tell yeh, if it weren't for renting, I'd have started to horde cats to peg at everyone. I am so frustrated that want to pull my hair out, but that's not going to do anything good for my state of mind. God damn fuck on a crabstick. Dammit. Luckily, I've not regressed to the point of dryhumping inanimate household objects.

Yet.


Update: What I thought was a mutant fly was actually two flies making sweet love, JOINED AT THE ARSE. Even the bugs are getting more sex than me, fucking FUCK.

Update #2: By invitation, I had a cuppa and a chat with the 50+yo South African ex-pat neighbour, Sonja. Twice -- once at lunchtime, once this evening. A lovely little gnome of a woman, she reminds me of a flesh-coloured Chud, but full of maternal goodness. Total buzzkill. However, just like the rhythm of the night, the endorphins are once again raging within the hour post-cuppa.

Update #3: Midnight, a few drinks under my belt... sex on the brain has completely died, died, DIED. Now, I'm just lonely and sad. And angry at everyone in the world who is getting sex.

Update #4: Midnight 051105, a few drinks again, candles burning, alone... one of my candles burnt wonky and leaked wax all over my bookshelf in my bedroom (ooh, saucy), and I swear to JeebusAllahBuddah this is how it turned out without ANY shaping or tweaking:

I immediately saw purple/pink bent manhood with laughably tiny testicles. Upon closer inspection (actually, I lie -- I had to stand up and step back), I realise it could possibly be the most demented loveheart in the history of everything. Either way, a blatant mockery of my existence. Cunts.

Update #5: Big thanks to Jay for bringing this back to my life -- I saw this for the first time about a year ago and fell in love with it. Now you can, too! Then come back here and shower me with pity.

Note for update #4 - spilt wax may/may not resemble screaming feotus when you tilt your head. That has absolutely nothing to do with my pining, sicko.