Well I woke up with a friggin’ cold sore on the cupid’s bow of my upper lip this morning. I hate these things; they’re painful, they’re ugly, and they go through a terrible metamorphosis over a period of ten days or so: First, it starts out as a red bump, then it doubles in diameter and gets a head on it, then it pops, leaving a raw, open wound that scabs over, sheds, and scabs over again, two or three… or four times. Plus they’re itchy. I can already tell… this one’s gonna get so big, it’ll have its own heartbeat.
Wanna kiss me?
Jesus Christ, I already feel undesirable as it is… now this. I was planning on calling a male prostitute for a date tonight too, now that’s out the window. No, no, no… not to have sex or anything… I just want the companionship. Really, I swear. I know it sounds hard to believe… listen, I know my male readers will totally get it; they’d understand because they’d say the exact same thing… if they got caught doing it. At least I’m being honest from the get-go.
It doesn’t really matter that I look like I’ve been punched in the mouth, I don’t have the money to hire a male prostitute anyway. I’ve been spending it on a totally different kind of therapy; the kind where you pay someone to listen to you talk about your problems. Doesn’t seem like such a great deal now that I’m comparing it with hiring a hot male prostitute to essentially do the same thing. Maybe I need to rethink my priorities.
I haven’t had a date in Idunnoknowhowlong (I do, but I’m not telling), and I haven’t been able to subject myself again to the humiliating online dating experience because I’m not a sucker for punishment.
“Hey there, you don’t know me, but since you’re shopping for a partner, here’s my picture for your consideration. It’s not an accurate representation of me in everyday life, that would be too fucking unacceptable because I wouldn’t be able to use filters or the right lighting or the best angle to try to disguise my true age every single fucking moment of the rest of our lives together. By the way, how old did you lie about on your profile?”
No thanks cowboy. I’d rather have spurs stuck in my eyeballs.
So my dating life this past week consisted of me going to the movies with a good guy friend of mine, and we ended up talking about aging and everything that’s going wrong with our slowly failing bodies. This is the topic du jour for the 50+ set, for those of you who are still wasting your youth.
Anyway, I’m not much of a moviegoer. I think I go maybe three or four times a year, mostly because it’s completely overpriced for what you get. Hollywood just re-hashes and repackages the same old scripts and story lines and most of it is done poorly and not something I’d wanna spend almost twenty bucks doing. Hmm, I wonder how much time I could get with that male prostitute for twenty bucks?
We went to see Mission Impossible (sounds like my love life), and I’m really glad I went because I got to drool over Tom Cruise. I don’t care what kind of twisted life he leads over at the Church of Scientology with all those other wack jobs, he’s still hot at fifty-something and does his own stunts! When we sat in our seats I made sure to put my arm on the armrest of the empty seat next to me to establish my dominance in case someone came and sat down. The seats in the theater were the best part though; they reclined and the footrest came up. I was praying I wouldn’t inadvertently take a nap as I sat/lay in my chair. I didn’t have to worry, the movie was pure action-packed from the moment it started.
When I realized I had to go pee halfway through, I was fraught with the decision to either hold it, or miss a few minutes of the movie. I decided not to take any chances, made a run for the bathroom and gave myself 90 seconds to get back to my seat before I would self-destruct. That’s a Mission Impossible reference for those of you who’ve never seen the movie franchise or television series, which would be ludicrous.
Hmm, I wonder how much Tom Cruise charges per hour?