A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || October 6, 2006 || 9:32 pm

Let the good times roll, let them knock you around.

So we’re all three leaving the restaurant, Jilli, Peckah and me. The boys had already left some thirty minutes prior. We had mugaritas to draw deeply from yet and they had to go do whatever boy things there are to accomplish on a night like tonight.

This guy, he’s standing on the front walk with a buddy and says, “Nice ink.”

It was delivered rather slyly and self-confidently and I, despising those sorts, locked eyes with him for about the whole of two-point-seven seconds while saying “Thanks.” I then slid my gaze away, intent on rummaging about my purse violently.

(this is why I loathe toting purses about; they encourage the prevalence of girly detritus and then I end up looking like a chicken pecking gravel for my favorite tube of lipstuffs)

He was referring to the work on my left arm, the one that was plainly in view because of my lazily-layered tank tops. The one that I thought I’d never get, because “…bicep tats on females just look so grody and butch.” but then changed my mind about because when I drew it out I was just so taken with it and wanted it to be the most visible of all the (four and counting) body art I sport.

“Ooooh,” Peckah said to me, “ooooh, he was a daddy.”

“Gack, no he wasn’t!” I fussed back, wrinkling my nose in a displeasure-disapproval combo that conveyed the message cleanly.

“Shuuuh-uuuuuh, he was.”

“Peck, he had dirty fingernails. He had a shaven head. If I am to entertain the notion of a dalliance, however brief, it is going to be with a boy with lots of mussed hair and the grooming practices of a keyed-up metrosexual. If you want to run back and see about hitting that, you are welcome, but I’ve a very satisfactory male on tap who will be meeting me at home,” here is where I squint drunkly at my leather wristcuff –the one with nary a watch in sight– and do quick calculations, “in about forty or so minutes.”

In closing, I am drunk (YES! YES, THOSE OF YOU THAT ARE JUDGING AND KEEPING SCORE!) again, and hoooweee I feel grrrreat. The moon is deliciously full, you fabulous Muffinasses; I believe I may pull on the ole running shoes and hit the trails for a near-midnight jog.

Don’t any of you wait up.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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