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Monday, January 26, 2004

Somebody sent me an E-mail saying that if I’m having trouble writing, I shouldn’t keep writing self-referential whinings about how I can’t write. Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll remember that next time I can’t write.

In the meantime, it said, I shouldn’t write about masturbation every single friggin’ post. This, I concede, is a legitimate criticism of how my writing is all about masturbation. So, if you are of this fellow’s persuasion, I suggest you use Word’s “find and replace” and replace every mention of “masturbation” to “bunnies.” There! Now I am no longer obsessed with diddling myself.

Okay, okay, seriously: I’m glad this guy was honest and wrote serious criticism to me, but the problem is, he sounds just like the Stupid Editor Guy in my head that keeps me from writing. So, in reverence to this fellow’s E-mail, now that I have written a self-referential whining on how I can’t write, I’m going to share with you (shocker!) a masturbation fantasy.

Well, no, I just laid down with a good friend in a giant bed of a tuna fish sandwich. You see, it wasn’t like I was having sex with her (really!) it was the intimacy that got me, as we laid down in the mayonnaise and the Giant Pony-tailed Guy proceeded to place the other slice on our bodies and eat us for lunch. (Our cute li’l feet stuck out from the center of the sandwich, of course.) I didn’t come to this—I didn’t feel like it (my head’s been hurting lately, I’ve got Adolescence Syndrome)—but it did make me feel kinda warm and/or fuzzy inside.

Shit, I need friends. Not for the purpose of sharing a giant tuna fish sandwich with, but, you know...

(edit: Yes, I did want to have sex with her, with our bodies intertwining in a fresh layer of tuna and mayonnaise, spreading it on each other with delight. There. I fucking said it.)
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