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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, mummy dearest.
My Name Is Fruit Punch And I Don't Get Out Much 06-January-2006
My cat is gay. I have nothing at all against this fact, holding all things festive in high esteem, but this dude is a gay pervert. Not that this is worse than a straight pervert—certainly that is not the case. And we all know gay perverts would be more smartly dressed than their straight counterparts, let's not kid ourselves, although I do hate to make sweeping generalizations. Truly, a pervert of any variety is unfavourable, unless it's just the random, lovable perverts I like to think of as the folks who read this journal. Then it's A-OK.
So, let me tell you briefly about Julian, my gay pervert cat. He's 14 and he's in love with Otis, who is seven. Half his age, right? I think in a court of law that makes Julian a big pervy molester. (But we don't turn him in because we really like him and he makes great Crème Brule.) Otis must be supervised in the front of the house, for Julian will jump at any chance to pounce on him, take his scruff in his mouth, and mount him. Help. Julian screams with some certain delight right before this takes place, so if you've gone into the kitchen to get more Crème Brule, you're hip to what's happening in the other room and can run back in there to try to coax the perv away from the object of his affection.
I should tell you that Julian has been self-pleasuring for years. (Please know that I typed self-pleasuring for the sole purpose of causing hot-cheeked embarrassment to the someone I love and see naked on a regular basis. My Love feels the need to hide under an adequately-sized piece of furniture when the word pleasure is used as a verb. Sorry, love—I have a bit of the devil in me today.) The furry perv is a serious neutered masturbator. I have not one thing against this either, save for the seemingly devious manner in which this activity now takes place. It began as a few thrusts in the air whilst kneading a soft surface, like a blanket or couch pillow, and has evolved into the screwy scenario I will now attempt to describe in as little detail as possible.
Otis quite enjoys his time on the couches. He can often be found lounging on the arm of the smaller one, this dashing young man spending some quality time alone, as one might do at a local park with a good book and some nachos. Julian notices this quickly and cozies up to opportunity. He jumps onto the couch and begins kneading the closest pillow, all the while watching Otis intently. Otis usually has no idea he's there. The thrusting in the air starts while Julian keeps his gaze fixed on the younger dude, like some guy lurking behind trees with his trousers down. This thrusting goes on forever if you don't try to distract him.
"Julian, check it out—Yahtzee! Your favourite. I'll even write your name on your score sheet in those curly letters you like."
No dice. You go over and nicely say "Listen, you're grossing us out," while giving him a little nudge to jump off the couch. Within 15 seconds he is back, resuming his humpfest. And Otis notices none of this; he just lies there, obliviously content. This takes place several times a day, often when Otis is not available for service. During those air-hump sessions, Julian stares off into space, thrusting his Elvis pelvis, very likely fantasizing about the absent Otis, careless of the fact that he is ruining the couch.
I want you to know that I just felt really bad for telling you about my lascivious cat. He's my friend, you know. But since he does this in front of company, and I have no ill intent, I am going to just get over it.
And now I would like to explain this entry's opening picture, if I may be so bold and sexy. I have been asked a few times over the course of a year whether I write these entries out quickly or whether I toil over them. I have decided now is a perfectly lovely time to divulge my secret: I wear my mummy finger puppet who scares me into writing each and every line. Go ahead, scroll up the page and you will feel the fright that I feel when I stop typing. Look into that grisly bastard's eyes, if you dare. Have you ever seen anything more gruesome than that? Welcome to my macabre little world.
I keep little scribbled notes about things I want to mention here and there. Things too important to forget, if you know what I mean. Like this, for instance:
I wonder if anyone has a job repairing candles.
I think I would make a wonderful candle repairperson. You know how you'll have a candle going, and everything seems to be great until you notice hot lava-like wax oozing down the side onto the surface where you have placed your now unruly candle? I know how to fix that. What you don't do is this: You don't pick up the hot candle and attempt to bring it into the kitchen for repair, dripping bitchly wax all over the wood floor as you go. Instead, you wait until the candle has completely cooled and then you bring it into the kitchen, placing it on the cutting board. You get out the large kitchen matches—wait a minute. I was just about to give away my trade secrets. What the hell? In these fast-paced times where everyone and their Aunt Nipper is looking for cutting edge ideas to one up the next guy, I was about to innocently give up my job security, thereby creating more competition for a career I am not even entirely certain exists.
Screw it.
And here's another.
My neighbour looks like Satan. He now wears a blue velour jogging suit daily. I don't think he ever washes it.
This poses a few questions and concerns. The first question would be what does Satan look like? I really don't know, having no direct contact with the SOB. It was actually brought to my attention by my friend that the guy looks like the devil. The concern would be that I simply took her word for it based on her idea of what Satan may or may not look like. Does the devil wear a blue velour jogging suit? I don't want to lie to you. Yes. Have I ever been close enough to my neighbour to know if his blue velour jogging suit required laundering? No. What's the concern? That I am spending too much time talking about my neighbour. It is said that people who talk about other people are not interesting themselves. But I suspect—and I hope you won't repeat this—that the folks who came up with that idea are the ones who really don't want anyone else to talk about them. You know, because they would cry.
It will be my birthday on the 9th of January. Please, put away your wallet and your man-purse. I don't want your money or gifts. I don't even want your body, although you do have a smashing body. See, what I want is simple. I am going to post an entry on that day, because it's an international holiday—let's not kid ourselves twice in one entry. I would love a hello, no matter how brief, from anyone who wants to leave one. That would be sublimely ducky. If you've been reading this journal for a little while or a big while, maybe you'll want to pop up for a quick greeting, or say something like "Could you take a look at this rash?" or "Hey Linda, I come here for the sex." I will be standing on the left side of the page handing out cupcakes, wearing nothing but a disheveled wig and some modest hoop earrings. See you there.
Quote From My World
"Ow!"
"What happened?"
"I bit the cheek."
"The cheek?"
"Yes. And later I'm going to watch the Goodfellas."
Well, I'm off to reinvent the Tango. But before I go, I wanted to share with you a picture of my new year's eve festivities.
A couple of Shirley Temples. Lampshades were worn, I can assure you. And the tiniest Trader Joe's frozen pizza was enjoyed some time after dinner as well.
I wish you a most enchanting 2006. Thanks for reading, and may all your pizzas be hearty.
Linda
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