About two weeks ago I had the honor of joining a bunch of other crafters for a show at Koipod Salon. It was really fun. There was a rockin’ DJ and free booze. The booze, I beleive was sponsored by the amazing Ride On! For those of you who don’t know, Ride On Rocks! They’re a non-profit, and If you are drunk, and you have your car with you, for a flat fee of $10 you can call them, and they will come to pick you up and drive your car home with you. It’s the kind of non-profit that flourishes in Portland: it caters to drunks.
There were also tons of other rad crafters who made pretty things. I had brought my crutch and my typewriter, and I typed up custom cards, while other people read Snarky Cards I’d already made and laughed and laughed.
It was really fun. The next day I went to the Library, and I ran into a girl who I’d met at The Koipod Salon Show, and she told me the story of What Happened After She Met Me. I love it when people tell me that story. It makes me feel like my cards are important. She emailed me the story, so I could share it with you! Here ya go:
I have had a pitifully low sex drive for oh-too-long now and aside from that have been too-fucking-exhausted to do anything about it anyway. But two weeks ago, I ran across the term “hot-monkey-sex” and have since become fascinated with the concept. It has become my mantra, my muse; an obsession so encompassing that last night I vowed to adopt it as my personal theme-of-the-month (a theme, I think in the long run will prove to be more gratifying than last month’s theme “flightless wonders of the insect world”) and then immediately upgraded it to Theme-of-the-YEAR! I began affirming, “I am hot-monkey-sex”. I made a hot-monkey-sex dream manifestation collage and placed it under my pillow. And then…I took my dog for his regular evening poop run.
On my way to the park, I passed a funky holiday craft sale and went in because I could see through the window that they were passing out cookies and I wanted to be open to all possible manifestations of hot-monkey-sex. Cookies are an important part of all sex, or so I reasoned, as I opened the door.
And there she was, smiling up at me over her manual typerwriter (and bodacious bosom), the goddess messenger of hot-monkey-sex. “I’m here to encourage people to have more sex!” she said brightly as she typed-up snarky, monkey messages on cute-little hot, sex cards.
Clearly a sign supporting my hot-monkey-sex mission. In anticipation of the year to come, I bought a half dozen of the goddess’s cards.
Are you hanging with me, because it gets weirder! Less than 24-hours after the inception of this rashly conceived hot-monkey-sex intention, the Universe prematurely delivers; spewing hot-monkey-sex vibes all over my unsuspecting, unprimed body in the IV room at the Fibromyalgia and Fatigue Center (of all frigging places). These sex-vibes errupted from a 250lb, testosterone driven, ex-army special-forces scout, Las Vegas cage-fighter (did you get that last part?).
And here’s the thing: I am weirdly turned on! I want to see where the tattoo peeking out of his shirt collar originates. I want to share chronic fatigue stories with him as he rubs testosterone replacement cream into my labia (seriously, that’s where it goes). We went to lunch. And the ending of that story, dear readers might be the best part of all. But that’s for another day.
And weirder still! Just hours after the IV room sex fest, who should I run into at the local neighborhood library? The lovely goddess messenger of hot-monkey-sex from the night before! I went ape-shit. I told her all about the hot-monkey-sex manifesto and she herself is a firm supporter of hot-sex, monkey like or otherwise.
As you can well imagine, I can’t think straight after 24 hours of non-stop monkey-sex bombardment (remember the dream collage under my pillow last night? I’m pretty sure it works). And so the hot-monkey-sex adventures begin!
So there it is, another person whose life is improved with Snarky Cards. I’m so excited! I found a job that helps people discover their inner sex monkey!