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2005-07-13 When you have neither the desire nor the energy to write an entry about getting so drunk at your cousin’s wedding that you started speaking in numbers*, and you don’t have it in you to post that long entry about your regenerative hymen**, you know it’s time to take a break. So a break was took. Tooken. A break was tooken. *“Not-a-finger, I think you’ve had enough to drink.” **As my longtime readers know, I lost my technical virginity to a swimming pool. Not in a swimming pool, to a swimming pool. However, my virginity did not want to be lost, and has been following me around ever since like an orphan. An orphan who is cruelly murdered with a wang every three to six days, to extend the metaphor. (Note to self: it is not always necessary to extend the metaphor.) If I had been given a say in the matter, I would have chosen a more sensible superpower. I would have picked The Ability to Read People’s Thoughts—Underwater!, or The Ability to Know When Someone Is Masturbating to the Thought of Me Wearing Hot Pants and Rollerskates. (Nicholson Baker, call me! Or rather, don’t. You are a heavily bearded pervert, and I must insist that our relationship remain on the page.) So, while I wasn’t speaking to you, the Professor and I moved to New Hampshire. He found a “job” at a local “newspaper”. Rather, “he” found a “job” at a local “newspaper”. Newspapers are adorable. They work so hard, only to find that Wonkette scooped their story about President Bush falling off his bike three whole days ago. I like New Hampshire. I like its unnecessarily aggressive license plates—Live Free or Die!—and its green mountains. It was high time to move away from Ohio, although you can bet your mother’s vagina that I’ll be there for the grand opening of the Answers in Genesis Creation(ism) Museum. P.S.! In my guestbook, Smoog expresses understandable concern that the Professor and I only engage in wang-murther every 3-6 days. Her concern is compounded by the fact that the Professor and I are only fifteen years old, and really, it's all downhill from there. I realize now that my anecdote needs to be placed in its appropriate context, namely: During the course of my relationship with the Professor, there have been occasions when the stars conspired against our attempts to freak each other with love and tenderness. There was travel, there was illness, there was sheer lack of time. Whenever things returned to normal, and we were again able to freak each other with love and tenderness (or dangerous acrobatics [on my part] and incomprehensible pillow talk [on his part; “put your finger in my toe” is a noteworthy example], depending on blood alcohol levels), I was nagged by the distinct feeling that I had just been deflowered. For the first time. A recent incident of debilitating injury, followed by a rather long period of drug-induced immobility, has confirmed my suspicions: I regenerate my hymen every three to six days.
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