OK, I have to admit. Birthday wasn’t too bad. Wasn’t knock-me-over-with-a-feather stellar, but it was doable. At the very least, it was another wonderful reminder of all the fantastic friends and family I have. Blessed, I am.

Funny enough, one person surprised me by completely forgetting my birthday. And I’m not saying I was waiting for them to wish me any cheer…but when they stood in my cubicle and stared straight at the flower arrangement my folks had sent me…and they didn’t say a word about the flowers…didn’t even ask why I’d received them…I was a bit surprised. Because it was a person whom I didn’t think would forget such a thing. I didn’t really get butthurt so much as mildly irritated. Kind of like “Oh are you kidding me?” But oh well. It’s only one person. Didn’t do anything to ruin everyone else’s kindness for me.

I’m so tired lately…to the point where when my weekends arrive, I feel like blowing off every prior commitment I’ve made and just staying in bed to catch up on rest, reading, and my grossly overweight TiVo (93 unwatched recordings and counting). But really, I need the commitments to keep me invigorated.

This happens to me sometimes…it’s just a thing I do. When I feel like going out with friends or attending a barbecue or going on a weekend getaway is just too tiring, I get this overwhelming urge to just back out. And I’ve actually done it a few times. I’ve backed out and come up with a lame excuse because I’m never really sure that anyone would understand my reasoning (and to be honest, I’m not sure I understand my reasoning either). I was never this stupid back in the days of working in a gas station and living hand-to-mouth and all that. Even when I was broke as a joke, I still went out and parcipated in things. Hell, CAB (Cheap-Ass Beer) nights with Debbie and her friends were a staple for an entire summer back in ’99. I loved it! Playing Drinking Dawson’s Creek, gathering in the backyard with the tiki torches while waiting for the power to come back on, sitting around with semi-warm Keystone Light and bags of Rold Gold pretzel sticks and thinking “This is fucking great. I never want this to end!”

If someone were to invite me to a CAB night this weekend, I would honestly think twice about it. Three times even. I’d probably hem-haw and conjure up an excuse involving calc homework (which I actually DO have to do…have another test coming up next week) or maybe even lie and say I had to go in to work. I’m just too exhausted to give up my weekends to anything other than just being. And really, I’m more emotionally and mentally exhausted than anything else. The physical exhaustion is minimal, though getting four hours of sleep per night tops is starting to wear thin after almost two months. At this point all I can do is laugh and drink more coffee.

And speaking of coffee…good GOD. My consumption is up to a level where if I go more than 24 hours without coffee-grade caffeine, I get a crippling headache. TIME TO CUT BACK. Fuuuuuuck.

Yeah. It’s probably time I head to bed. I realize how late it is. This is the part where I get only 4 hours of sleep. And no, my sleeplessness has nothing to do with the coffee. I stop drinking that by noon at the latest. No, this is entirely related to me taking a lot of work home to do because if I don’t, my brain won’t stop thinking about it and I’ll just be up all night. Poo.

I just keep reminding myself “Only a few more years…only a few more years…”

Three acceptance letters down, one to go. And of course it’s the one I REALLY want. Here’s to hoping!

A couple weeks back, Coworker Tom, Coworker Sean, and myself went out for beer and snacks after work. As is prone to happening, we got a little loose-lipped and there were admissions of butt-plug usage, discussions of smells and locations and flavors, and even a very badly-rendered drawing of a Rabbit Pearl. (which was an eye-opener for Coworker Sean, I might add. I think he’s now concerned for the vaginas of the world. Oh if he only knew…)

I’ve always been one to discuss sex very frankly. I don’t care what someone knows or how I come across. I will tell you anything about me and I’m always curious to know what you have to say as well. I love the topic, no matter how inappropriate some view it. (don’t worry, I have boundaries…I will carefully gauge a person first before ever broaching the subject; even then I will tailor any conversation to that person’s comfort level. I’m not a total heartless wench!) And I think that has mostly worked against me, not only securing me the reputation of having a mind that permanently resides in the gutter (and on more than one occasion, the observation that I’m clearly not getting laid enough. THANKS COWORKER SEAN), but also giving certain people the wrong idea of the kind of person I am. Namely, they think I’m a slut who puts out at the drop of a hat.

This is probably what has gotten me into trouble more than a few times with the opposite sex believing I am going to give them a verbal handjob via instant messenger. Oh, I’m never surprised when the conversation takes an unhealthy turn in that direction, but I am entirely dismayed and more than a little disgusted with the person for behaving in such a manner. And these aren’t random people I just run across on Yahoo! or AIM or anything. These are people that I’ve met via message boards and online projects and have been having normal conversation with for months at that point. People whom I didn’t expect that kind of reaction from. It’s discouraging to know that I can’t even talk about sex anymore without someone expecting me to type “I slowly lower my mouth onto your quivering cock”. Good grief.

And yeah, the flirtatious banter is entertaining at first. Because that’s all it is to me. Banter. Conversation. Calling someone by a silly term of endearment (usually “sexy bitch”) or making comments about how I certainly agree that someone is doable should be harmless fun. But after a while, the other party starts to turn the banter into semi-serious conversation. Asking questions about what I’d do if we were alone or if they can feel my tits. Telling me about their boner. Implying that at that very moment in time they’re beating off (usually phrased as “I’m typing with one hand right now…” Oh dear). And even if they really aren’t, it’s still not what I really care to hear. Because what could be more of a conversation killer than having someone tell you that their dick is in their hand right at the exact moment you’re trying to discuss the merits of Donnie Darko with them?

I’m to a point nowadays where I just don’t even know how to react anymore. Sometimes I’ll just pretend I got disconnected and shut down my computer for the night. It’s easier than confrontation, which muddies the waters. Not that I’m one to avoid confrontation (oh NO. Not ME). However, confronting someone about their dick is mortifying on some level. Were it one of those random chat perverts who IM’s you and within three minutes is asking if you’re wearing panties, I would be ALL about the confrontation. But someone with whom I’d been previously enjoying friendly familiar conversation? Ick. I’ll walk away, thank you.

Which, yes, I know it flies in the face of what I said earlier about not having any problem talking sex with anyone who’ll listen. But there’s a difference between discussing the demerits of blumpkins and a person cumming on their computer screen in your honor. You may not see the distinction, but I definitely do.

(And yay! With that paragraph, I’ve just provided fodder for fifty-thousand perverts and their Google hits for fecal porn. Welcome, folks! Rest assured the blumpkin-talk most likely will not stop here)

These oversexed folks and their need to wank in my presence is just about putting me at my limit. I’d ask for suggestions from my readers, but I know what you’ll say (“Stop talking about sex!” “Tell them their insensitivity to your needs really hurts your feelings.” “Maybe you need to get laid…”) and I’m so not going there. I think for now I will just practice being reserved. Boring, yes, but safe. Everyone should feel safe from unwanted jizz.

Oh VAST, thou hast forsaken me so.

I’m now locked out of my message board account at VAST’s website. No, didn’t do anything wrong. I just updated my e-mail address in my profile and it locked me out until I could confirm the change via an automated e-mail they’d send me.

Well. The e-mail has yet to arrive. And I’m irritated. I sent a message to the admin account for the board and requested assistance. I have not yet heard back and it’s been two days and now I’m just plain grumpy. The message board was my only real link to getting shit straightened out for the fan club, and now I can’t even get in. Cocksuckers.

To make matters worse, I don’t think they received my request for the VIP pass (I am almost positive of this, since the same e-mail address that failed to produce a message about my changed message board profile information is the one I sent my pass request to). Which ordinarily wouldn’t frost me too much because tickets to their shows are ridiculously cheap ($10-20, depending on city/venue) so I’m not really saving anything by having a VIP pass, nor am I getting any special privileges, though I DO get a nifty little backstage-pass-looking thing that…well…I can stick in my pocket ’cause there’s no lanyard or anything. Whatever.

So anyway, accepting the fact that I can’t rely on the VIP pass thing, I figured I’d just buy an extra ticket today…just in case.

Well.

The goddamned show is SOLD OUT. Hm. And there’s no way I’m going to drive my ass all the way into the city and take the chance that my name isn’t on the list and I’m screwed.

At this point I really am just like “Oh fuckit…” because it’s just not worth the fuss anymore. Watching their Cleveland show online was kind of depressing because it was just not good. And I can’t get excited about something like that. Oh yay, I want to go watch one of my musical idols suck major ass in person. WTF? Pass.

I realize the two aren’t even close to each other in terms of the calibre of their popularity and subsequent support system, but can I just say that Depeche Mode wouldn’t ever bend me over like this and thank god for that. I think I’d hang myself if all my favorite bands started fucking me up the ass with no lube. Ouch.

Birthday next week. Keeping my fingers crossed that it won’t suck. I’ve had three really good years…I don’t want to break the streak.