My fetish boots came today. They are beautiful, but too small. I must have accidentally ordered in kids' sizes. Fortunately, I got them wicked cheap, so I can turn right around and sell them at the club, no loss.
If I ever get back to the club, that is. And I would really like to, not least because I have something like $500 of uncashed funny money that I would like to turn into actual green with which to do fun things like fill my Prozac prescription and buy my lover a supernice birthday present. Only I haven't been back to the club since my fun-filled evening with the footlicker, as I almost immediately came down with my annual spring-time nasty respiratory infection.
At first, I thought it was a smoker's hack -- a cough as dry and airy as antique lace. I complained far and wide that I'd only been smoking again for a couple of weeks and that the Nicotine Fairies should cut me some slack, already. Then the cough turned hollow and thick, and my throat swelled until I couldn't swallow my own spittle. I spent the weekend taking off and putting on a single pair of pajama pants and calling my boyfriend at work to plead for sympathy. On Monday I caved and saw my doctor. He told me the back of my throat was full of white pustules and that if I had waited another day to be seen, I would have had to have my tonsils out. He gave my a course of antibiotics and a prescription of synthetic heroin and told me to eat a lot of pudding and ice cream. Is it any wonder if I have a crush on such a man?
The next couple of days are kind of a blur. In fact, right now is kind of a blur, if you want to know, although the pain in my throat has died down to the point that I skipped my breakfast-time pain pill, hoping that would clear my head to the point I could resume normal daily functions, and even work on the articles whose deadlines squat on the horizon like those things that the Titanic hit, you know, with the ice? But my head's not any clearer, and I think I'll spend the rest of the day with the cats.
Anyway, I don't know if you're the kind of person who likes to go to the strip club and pay for a lap dance and then try to lick the stripper, but if you are, I'd like you to take this occasion to consider for a second what a perfect vector of disease a stripper is -- particularly one who allows herself to be licked by people like you. Are you thinking about it? Good. Now put reel your tongue back into your mouth, where it belongs.