In a recent post, I led you to believe that I am living happily ever after, with the non-sexual life partner of my dreams.
Some of that is true. But it’s not all roses. There’s some cat-shit in the soil, as they say.
Originally, the plan was, Claire would move in, Patrick would move out. Claire and I would live happily ever-after, and Patrick would have cat visitation privileges. Then, a month ago, we found a 3 bedroom apartment. So, Claire, and Patrick and I thought we’d split The Art Shack, until March and then rent the other place. But it turns out, our lease is hard to get out of. Something we didn’t realize, until we were all committed to living together in The Art Shack, which is tiny. I spend lots of late night in the living room, which is also my office, so it made sense that while we are splitting the rent 3 ways, I’d sleep in the living room, Claire would take my room, and Patrick would continue to live in Claire’s room.
We’re two weeks in, and I’m pretty sure the walls are closing in on me. I’m getting claustrophobic all the time, for no reason at all. There’s nowhere to get away from anyone. And I haven’t masturbated in 12 days. Which is turning me into a psychotic hornball. I went out of my way last night, to get felt up by a boy I should, by all rights, be ignoring. I can’t stop thinking about George Clooney (he’s my fall back fantasy, when I don’t have enough energy to fantasize some snappy patter for me and Seth McFarlane, Seth and I like to talk a little before we have broom closet sex, he’s a talker. George usually just grabs me in the elevator. And sometimes I don’t have enough energy to do mine and Seths’ part of the conversation). I am a complete mess. I need to go out selling this week, for the money, but also, possibly because I need to prowl.
My sense of concentration is gone. I’m trying to paint and type new Snarky Cards for all of us to enjoy. But I find myself staring into space, forgetting what I was about to do, putting off any kind of real work.
Let this be a lesson to all of us. Women of a certain age (above 25) cannot sacrifice their privacy, unless they have at least one (but preferably several) dependable booty calls. And think of yourself as one lucky bastard, Internets, when you crawl under your covers and pleasure yourself in the privacy of your own room. Because right now, that sounds like Heaven to me.