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Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Ohmanohmanohman. Well, y'see, I couldn't get to sleep, so I resorted to my favorite pasttime. Except, I was very annoyed that I couldn't come up with a fantasy (see, I had already masturbated this morning, to the dumbest fantasy ever, so I had trouble getting the juices flowing. but never mind). But, I happened upon me and my fellow porn-star comrades (yes, in this fantasy, I'm a porn star, and yes, I have comrades; this is my dream), shrunk onto a tabletop and wearing silly day-glo knit bikinis. We are, of course, waiting for Big Blonde High School Guy to come along and devirginize us (I think i was planning on him licking up our ickle bodies) but instead, this guy comes in, a very particular guy, leering at us with a magnifying glass.

He is Sherlock freakin' Holmes.

Now that Sherlock Holmes has snuck his way into my masturbation fantasies (yes, I came; how embarrassing), what's next? Wesley Clark? (Dear god no.) Peter Pan? (No no no.) Walter Cronkite? (Big no.) You know, I need to stop naming names, lest I reveal something embarrassing (and you know, there are things left...)

(edit: No! I don't find any of them sexy! I was just naming names! You know, the first ones I came up with! Aggghh!!)

So anyway, far away from Diddle-land, I have something to share with you. I have an adult mentor. You see, I may write like an arrogant politician, but I still feel myself in need of guidance; I also have something of a missing mother complex (not because I have a working mother, but because my mother and I have a somewhat fake relationship) where I latch onto every adult woman in sight, hoping that they'll be the ones to Show Me The Way. Sadly, this impairs my abilities to make friends; so I'm hoping that this woman (arranged through a local youth agency) will help me vent my feelings of missing guidance and allow me to move on with my life and relationships.

So anyway, nudity. I'm going to switch subjects abruptly because I really, really, really, really need to write about this. You see, I love to get naked. Now, that sounds stupid, but it's true. You see, I got one of those obnoxious porn spams once and it said, "Hi! I'm Lisa and I love to get naked!" and I was totally like, "Dude! We should be best friends!" for about a millisecond until I realized it was spam and deleted it. But anyway, that's beside the point. I... I wanna be naked, with my mentor, at my side, with me about seven years younger, clutching her leg, looking into the sunset and pondering what a big bright world is out there.

And she'll tell me, "Someday, Leticia. Be strong and you will live your dreams."

And I will say, "But, what if I fail, dearest mentor?"

And she will say, "Do not doubt yourself, Leticia. That is the first step to EEEP EEEP EEEP EEEP EEEP"

And then I will realize that she is actually my alarm clock, and I will punch her in the gut, sending my alarm clock flying across the room and exploding in a mess of a mechanical cuckoo carcass. And I will be happy that I silenced that fucking cuckoo once and for all, but I will be sad that my dream has been metaphorically shattered, and then I will bitch and moan about how this defining moment of my adolescence was ruined by school opening too early, against every study that says teenagers wake up too early in the morning for their health, and then I will complain about how our first class consists of doing nothing but eating cookies and watching Dante flirt with her darling fiancee, as visions of the two of them fucking the night away take up monstrous portions of my unwilling cranium like a heap of porn spam taking over my hard disk.

And then, I will go and play Jet Grind Radio on my Game Boy Advance, but I will smack into every freakin wall in the game, and Professor K will tell me, "Yo Leticia! Did you eat breakfast today? Because you've been splattering your poor character all over the pavement with no remorse! Not sure what connection that would have with lack of breakfast, but yo, you've been stinkin' up the--" Then, I would ignore the revolutionary prospects of interacting with a videogame character and punch him in the nose, watching his gelatin face wobble around and do the silly eyebrow thing that he always does. He would then suckerpunch me (through the GBA screen) into next Tuesday, at which point, I will discover it sucked as badly as last Tuesday.

Not only that, but next Tuesday will be a post-apocalyptic future where soda machines accept nothing less than oral sex, and public officials are elected by elaborate tournaments of Ping-Pong. You see, in this hideous post-apocolyptic future of next Tuesday, the giant global consciousness of Ping-Pong players has evolved into its own dimension, as the hideous Ping-Pong critters begin to invade out own dimension. Our entire culture is based around the game, and in order to get a date, you have to be good at Ping-Pong. Naturally, I will suck at the game, and be laughed out of the Ping-Pong bar by all the handsome men in my school and in my childhood. (Of course, this Ping-Pong bar is actually the cornerstone of a burgeoning galactic regime; three young boys stand to change the face of the Ping-Pong Dimension forever. But that's a story for next Tuesday. I mean, the one after.)

So, as revenge for my Ping-Pong sucktitude, they push me into a portal into the Ping-Pong dimension, in which I must fight for my life against hordes of critters manifested by the very act of humans playing Ping-Pong, unbeknownst to their feeble minds. But, the cute guy takes pity on me and sends me back to the real world, and instead, the punishment for losing is that I must be run through the Beer Machine that gradually turns me, as I shout and squirm inside that tight cylinder, into a bright green alcoholic drink that is proceeded to be drunken up by all the cute boys. Which, you know, isn't so bad. The End. (Coming soon to a theater near you.)

(And yes, Sherlock came complete with knit cap and pipe. Batteries sold seperately.)
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