So, I really like it when my neck is kissed or licked or nibbled on. It's a real turn-on for me. Gets me all tingly and jingly. And sir Riddle is more than happy to oblige. Yesterday, however, he may have gotten a bit overzealous after not seeing me for a few weeks.
As I was toweling off from the shower last night, I looked in the mirror and I saw...I saw...
A HICKEY.
In case you don't understand how I may have reacted to finding this, I'll show you kind of what I was like in the mirror:
A HICKEYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, I'll tell you that I don't really mind how I got the hickey. Because that part was really quite enjoyable. That being said, I'm not a fifteen year old slut. I'm a twenty-six year old slut. There is somewhere in the last decade where having a hickey became not so much a badge of honor as a badge of ho. Forget the nor. I mean, for example: I went into Panera a couple of weeks ago, and the guy that was making my salad had a couple of dark hickeys on his neck, and even though he was wearing gloves I legitimately was not sure I wanted him to be making my salad. True story.
Anyways, I thought about taking a comb to it because the last time I had one I think I was fifteen and I tried to "disguise" it by putting a finger band-aid on it (because it was the biggest one I could find) and wearing a cloth headband around my neck with a broach and I called it a "necklace". That really fooled people. This guy that had a crush on me- it just so happens this same guy is 100% guaranteed to be at the wedding and perhaps the only one that will say hi to me besides my ex- knew the minute he saw me and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the summer. Apparently summer is the only time of year I really get hickeys. Maybe my slender neck is so much more edible during this season, I'm not sure. Thank god there are no zombies around. I just know that I have never had one in the winter, when I could actually cover it up with a nice turtleneck. I remember that I took a comb to it and it seemed to help it along. Although I'm not sure if this was more wishful thinking and seeing what I wanted than it actually disappearing.
I don't really have time for the comb. I don't really have time to cover it up with makeup in the morning, either. So I am reduced to hair fixing. I mean, thank god that this didn't happen when I cut my hair in the "pixie" style (aka lesbian short), where I had no coverage. And thank god I wasn't still with Signor Nookie, because then I would just be plain screwed, and I probably would have forcibly given one to Sir Riddle so that he could go down on the ship with me. Here is the one thing that I must remember at all costs: DO NOT FLIP YOUR HAIR. I have fixed it about my shoulders so it covers my neck with semi-accuracy, and it is hot as freaking hell, but at least I won't get questions from my co-workers at the Inferno. Because at times it seems like a henhouse in there, a bunch of clucking.
About two hours before I left work, I got a little visit from this guy that works in another department at the Inferno. He used to be in this little menial position at a completely different town from where I am, and although even now that he is still in a different building, he visits like two or three times A DAY. And his department does not have anything to do with mine. He says that he's just bored and figures he'll just come over and see what's up. What's up is that you got your job with absolutely none of the credentials listed for the job position so you don't know what you're doing and they're paying you to do nothing but be a social butterfly, which they deserve since I'm pretty sure the only reason you got the job is because you're the only swinging dick who applied. And he acts like his job is so fucking tough, I want to punch him in his stupid face.
He's a fat fucktard. Now, I know that you are probably thinking that I have it out for the fatties, that I'm somehow prejudiced against them. I'm really not. In all honesty, I used to be a fatty myself, well over two hundred pounds. My single, biological father used to make me a snack of saltines with slabs of butter on them. He used to make me PB,B&J sandwiches. In case you don't know what that means, it means peanut butter, butter, and jelly. Yeah, he put butter on it, on the side opposite of the peanut butter because he claimed that it kept the jelly from soggy-ing up the bread. You know what also does that? A little more peanut butter. Just a smidgeon. My grandparents used to butter my pop tarts in the morning. Listen, I get it. Food is delicious. Butter was my weakness. My name is Miss Mused and I am a butter addict. If butter was in trouble, I would don my superhero cape and fight to the death to save it. But it bothers me that people are that fat. Like, they say "oh, genetics," or "oh, processed foods," or "oh, it's just big bones." Really, your bones are six inches thick? Give me a break. My biological father is so fat his legs can no longer support the growth of hair because the skin is so stretched. He's like four to five hundred pounds. You don't see me that big. It takes discipline. The first step is putting down the butter-sicle.
Anyways, this guy, I used to be ok with him. I thought eh, he's alright. He would call me and shoot the shit for a minute, but then a customer would come and save me and I got to throw my phone back on the receiver. That was before he was on my home turf, and I had to have exposure to him EVERY GODDAMN DAY. Now I think he's freaking annoying. I can't stand this guy. Like now he calls for every little thing, and since he works in a completely unrelated department, I have to consistently repeat myself that I can't help him. If you know Miss Mused, you know that I cannot stand repeating myself. It is like my number one pet peeve. If I have to ask someone to repeat themselves more than once, I just kind of fake a response like I heard them and hope it wasn't too important. If I have to repeat myself more than once, I either tell the person to never mind, or I speak very loud and very slow, like I'm talking to the mentally disabled who is also hard of hearing. He's also one of those people that is an over apologizer, which drives me fucking nuts. Like I could answer the phone and he could be saying "Hey, how's it going?" and later he'll be like: "Oh my god, I just wanted to apologize for asking you how it was going, I didn't mean it. I was in a mood, I'm so sorry. Here, I cut off my testicles and put it in a jar for you. Please accept it with my sincerest apologies as I had no right to ask how your day was going." As Garfield the cat would say: Argh.
Well, I used to put these little payday going-out-for-drinks get togethers for some of the people here that I like. I was taking a break for awhile because a)the last time I was the only girl that showed, b) it was a ruse to spend more time with Sir Riddle and he doesn't work there anymore, c) it was nice to get away from Signor Nookie for a night, d) I am flat broke and have no money for superfluous restaurant food stuffs, and e) the last time the guys gave me a hard time about not reserving a table near a table near a television so they could watch "the game." I say that in quotations because I really don't remember nor care what game was being played, it could have been curling for all I care. And now Lumpy McSorry has got it in his head that he's going to set it up and has been talking about it for literally THREE MONTHS. And it's always the same conversation, and it's really the only thing that's holding this sick and sad "co-worker-ship" together, like he's going to be sending out an email momentarily, and I'm so glad I didn't hold my breath because I would be worm food right now. JUST PULL THE DAMN TRIGGER DUDE, IT'S A FREAKING EMAIL. The only way in hell I'm going is if Sir Riddle is going. Or Lady Craft. Sometimes I think I might be slightly in love with Lady Craft. I bask in her attention. Last night we spent hours sending humor pins to one another on Pinterest. We have so much in common and always have so much fun together. Although I lover her newborn son dearly, I'm a little jealous of him sometimes because he gets all this time with her and her attention, and I don't. Jesus, what's wrong with me.
He freaks me out, Lumpy McSorry. I wouldn't be half surprised if I'm watching the news one day (and I mean one day, because I never watch the news, and it would have to be the one day I was watching) and they've found fourteen dead bodies in his basement. His girlfriend of like a ridiculous amount of time, like five years or something which I think is just too long to just be dating, she lives in Boston. She's cheated on him, which for some reason really makes me want to find out what she looks like. I'm dying to know, in all seriousness. To give you an idea of what he looks like, besides being large and oddly proportioned, he has an abnormally large bottom lip that hangs out and has these eyebrows that seem to be caterpillars coming in for a little smooch on the top of his jutting forehead. And because I'm sick and love to torture myself through my mind, I try to picture him humping and pumping some girl and I have no idea what type of girl would find him attractive. Honestly, I'm not 100% convinced that she even exists, because I've heard that he is a conjurer of fabrication. And you can practically smell the desperation on him: like the apologizing thing, it's so emasculating.
I would say that I've begun to dread his presence, but it's well beyond that. He is the bane of my existence. I cannot stand the sight of him in my meager cube or the appearance of his extension on my phone. Whenever the name L MCSORRY comes up on my email, I want to run away from my computer like it's out of some Stephen King novel. I pick up the phone and call my mother when he comes into my department so I have an excuse not to talk to him. If she doesn't pick up, I sit and pray to the gods of the switchboard to give me a customer. And I hate customers. So, the jist of these past six paragraphs is, he's annoying, and I wish he would leave me alone.
There is another guy that I work with, we call him Dip, he spent a majority of his day on the phone about his daughter making B-squad in basketball. This guy is the epitome of what is wrong with America today. It drives me fucking INSANE. She didn't make the A-squad and it's like he and his wife are in turmoil over it. Oh my god, Susan, she didn't make the A-squad. We should probably disown her and leave a bottle of your Valium pills by her nightstand with a big 'ol glass of water. Who the fuck cares that she didn't get on the A-squad. She is a kid, she's resilient. So what she's not on the same squad with her friends, she'll learn to make new ones. But no, you're going to call every coach and neighbor and daughter's friend's parents and she'll learn nothing. Just coddle her for the rest of her life, until you die and she's learned ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
Two of the people that I respect most in this world, my mother and my grandfather, taught me that life was not fair. It is one of the first things I can remember learning. And I was WAY younger than thirteen, which happens to be the age of Dip's daughter. When I was twelve, my parents signed me up for a swimming class at the local community pool. I walked into the pool area, and all the kids were around the age of six. SIX! I was mortified. And it was a month-long course. And the real shame is that I don't really swim all that much, so the doggy paddle wouldn't have done me wrong necessarily. But what I did learn was that I had to deal with it. It's life. God, why can't parents make their kids see that?
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