I’m not sure where or where the fuck I decided I liked some of these photos.  Look, three naked chicks and their shoulder blades.  And spines.  There’s a rug that was probably made by small children.  Oooh, sexy.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

And why the fuck aren’t I writing?

The answer to both of those questions is, I don’t fucking know.  I haven’t felt all that inspired recently and I’ve no clue why.  I also haven’t felt like meeting new people or fucking anyone but the Viking.  The other day I realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had an orgasm.  Crazy, I know.  I used to masturbate to orgasm several times a day, dammit.

I do not think my sex drive is gone (especially after last night when I had a very, very nice orgasm indeed), but I do think I’m probably on a down swing in my cycle.  Not my menstrual cycle, because I never have any idea where I am in those, having not had a period for over two years, but my sex cycle.  I, like everyone who will admit it, go through sexual phases.  I’m in a phase where I like having sex but I don’t feel the need to pursue it voraciously.

I suppose that makes me boring, and so be it.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I can’t imagine when I picked this because I don’t feel like women should be put on display like that.  Or so obviously objectified.  Maybe I liked that the standing woman had bush.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Since I’m being political lately, I decided to join NARAL Pro-Choice America for Blog for Choice Day, January 22, 2012.  The date is important because it’s the anniversary of Roe v. Wade.

Right wing nut jobs – hello, Rick Santorum – think that court decision and all the hoopla since has been all about killing babies.  There is nothing a “pro-abortion” activist likes more than killing babies.  I know one of my favorite pastimes is watching piles of dead babies burn as worthless medical waste.  The scent of incinerating souls makes me feel a little high, which is how I know I’ll have a great time in hell.

I’d like to think that no one is truly “pro-abortion.”  I know I’m not.  In my perfect world abortions would not be necessary because everyone who got pregnant would want to be pregnant, and would be able to afford to raise the kid into a productive member of society and all that.  In my perfect world there would also be plenty of sexy sex, both potentially procreative and otherwise.  In my perfect world everyone who wanted fail-safe birth control would have access to it, thereby preventing any oopsie pregnancies.

Alas, the world is not perfect and sometimes the sperm swim towards eggs without asking if that’s what they should be doing.  And sometimes the sperm fertilizes the egg and that egg implants in a welcoming uterus.  Then that fertilized egg in its cozy home goes to work splitting and so on.  Zygote.  Fetus.  Birth.  Baby.  Which is all well and good if the goal is Baby.

If the goal is not Baby there are medical procedures called abortions.  No, I don’t think abortions are birth control.  I think birth control is birth control.  The goal, at least for me, is to make sure a fertilized egg does not find a cozy home in my uterus.

But I like knowing that if the precautions I have taken fail, that I have one more option to assure no Baby.  Because I’m way too old to change my selfish, lazy, alcoholic ways now.  Besides, my genes are shitty and I probably only have about 20 years of lucid thoughts left.

Due to my diligence with hormonal birth control I have never been pregnant.  There was a very short time when I was married that I considered trying to get pregnant but the timing never worked out with the finances or the maturity of the proposed father.  It was around then that I had to reassess whether, if I got pregnant through birth control failure, I would have an abortion.  For a short time the answer was no, but at all other times it’s been yes.

You see, us ladies have to ask ourselves, “What if?” every time.  Not every time we have sex (if we’re using reliable forms of birth control) but every time our life’s circumstances change.  Would I have a child now?  No fucking way.  If, by failure of my IUD I got pregnant, I’d march my ass to my local Planned Parenthood and talk to the folks there about terminating the unwanted, unplanned, and unaffordable pregnancy.

While I’ve never been pregnant, I’ve known plenty of women who have been.  Some had babies, some had abortions.  Some have done both.  Not one person I’ve ever talked to who had an abortion thought it was a pleasant experience or one they wanted to repeat.  One called the post-abortion communal recovery room the Room of Sadness.  Why would anyone want to hang out in a Room of Sadness?

That is why I am pro-choice.  It’s not because I like dead babies (though they can be funny), it’s because I don’t want to have to deal with any sort of Baby thoughts whatsoever, and because I never want to hang out in a Room of Sadness.  I choose to avoid Rooms of Sadness by choosing to use safe and effective – and legal – birth control.  Of course I’m not the only one.  There are lots of us out there.

Which brings me to the “mandate” of Blog for Choice Day: How will you help elect pro-choice candidates in 2012?  Fuck, I don’t know.

Yes, I’m lazy, but I’m not that lazy.  And I’m not apolitical.  When I lived in California it was easy because access to abortions is in the state constitution; NARAL gives the state an A+ in choice-related law.

Illinois, however, gets a B-, which means I have some work to do in my new home.  Seems both of Illinois’ US Senators – Richard Durbin and Mark Kirk – are pro-choice, as is the US Representative representing my district, Danny Davis.  Of course I know that those folks don’t have anything to do with state laws because I went to public school and learned all about that.

Illinois’ current governor, Pat Quinn is pro-choice, but who knows how long until he’s in prison.  (No, I’ve not heard anything, but going by past Illinois’ governors’ track records, I wouldn’t be surprised.)  My State Representative Ann Williams is pro-choice.  I had some trouble finding out whether Illinois State Senator John Cullerton was pro-choice, and had some doubts considering he’s Catholic.  Then I saw that “Illinois Review: crossroads of the conservative community” (Click at your peril because it made my skin crawl.) called Illinois a “pro-abortion” state and said Mr. Cullerton consistently “opposed protecting unborn humans” and I knew he was ok.  (Helping my opinion was that he voted for medical marijuana, same-sex civil unions, and stem-cell research.)

What I’ll do to elect pro-choice candidates in 2012 is … vote for the incumbents.  See, I am lazy.  And that may not be all I’ll do, but I’ll do at least that.  Before research for writing this, I had no clue what the voting records or choice-stances were held by the people purporting to represent me.  Hell, I didn’t know who represented me.  I know now.

Do you know who represents you?  Are you happy with their voting records on choice?

Still not convinced you need to do something?  Take a look at this easy-to-read infographic provided by NARAL Pro-Choice America:

I swear.  True story (that needs to change).

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

This could be a lot of fun.  I haven't seen a guy in tighty whities in I don't know how long, but on the right guy they could be sexy.  On the wrong guy they could be downright laughable.

There is something about rubbing a cock – or a pussy – through cloth that feels clandestine and dirty.  The most fun is continuing to rub the cock after he came so the material is wet and sticky.  If the guy has a lot of precome – leaky faucets are fun – then the whole handjob would be a nicely moist affair.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

The Viking and I have been living together for two years as of yesterday.  I didn’t post yesterday because my site was dark for SOPA/PIPA protest reasons.  We moved in much earlier in our relationship than would probably be advised, but it’s been working.  Working quite well.

We lived for nearly a year in San Francisco and now for just over a year in Chicago.  It’s all been pretty damn nice.

I get worried sometimes that things will go shitty but the Viking told me to stop being fatalistic.  Of course he’s right.

So it’s been two years of happy times, two years of great sex, two years of fun outings (restaurants and museums and such).  And two years of gooshy love stuff to which I wouldn’t subject you readers.  Suffice it to say that we say things to each other that, if said by another couple, would make me nauseous.

I’m really happy and I hope the Viking and I continue to be happy together.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve never tried to fist my ass and it’s likely that I never will.  And I suppose this chick’s not doing that either, but I hope that’s on it’s way, if she likes it.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

We walked.  And walked.  The Viking was carrying a box that was pretty heavy.  It contained our old “home theater system” that had recently  been replaced with a new, sleeker version.

A lot of people, the Viking included, would have put the old system – the amplifier base unit, five speakers, and a subwoofer – out with the trash.  Here in Chicago folks don’t pay (directly) for their trash to be collected so people put out a lot of stuff that should not end up in a landfill.  I got spoiled in San Francisco where not much ended up in the trash at all since the city also collected recycling and compost of all sorts.  Things like home theater systems could be taken to any number of electronics’ recycling days at various public schools since the state gave the school funds based on how much got donated.

It was to one of the schools that the Viking and I carted both the first TV, and last VCR, I ever owned.  The TV had been lent to me by my roommate, Gloria, when I moved out on my own when I was 17.  She felt sympathetic when she realized I would be living in a tiny studio apartment without a television.  It was a 13″ Montgomery Ward model with off white housing I eventually stickered with Dirt Magazine, Sunset Strip Tattoo Parlor (where I got five of my tattoos), and KROQ stickers.  I had lived with Gloria and D.J. for a few months beginning literally the day after I graduated from high school, but it was time for me to move on since I had a job and all.

Gloria had only lent me the tv so I endeavored to buy one for myself in a sort of layaway program since I didn’t yet have any credit.  Just when I was two payments from getting the new TV Gloria told me I could keep the Montgomery Ward version.  I got all my money back from the TV I never got and had the 13″ jobber as my primary television until I bought the Ex a 25″ TV around 2001 (probably because I felt guilty for having cheated on him so damn much).  We kept the smaller TV and put it in our bedroom.  Problem was, the Ex and I never lived in a place large enough for one TV to be tuned to one show and another tuned to a different show without the sounds competing with each other.

When I was finally free of the Ex and with the Viking I realized that there was no good reason to have a TV in the bedroom.  I had stopped watching TV there because usually I had better things to do, like sleep or fuck.  When I was married I had watched it a lot when I waited for the Ex to come home from his nights out, but I no longer had an interest in being the kind of person who waited up for someone who had no interest in spending time with me.

The VCR was a basic VCR without much history.  I don’t remember when we got it, but I remember when we stopped using it, when we got a TiVo.  It had been put in the TiVo box when I got the second generation of that device after I returned a phone to Circuit City.  Their very liberal return policy that allowed me to take back a broken phone I had had for over a year in exchange for a device with new television show recording technology (my only “early adopter” move ever) was probably one of the many reasons Circuit City went bankrupt.

It was a nice day that the Viking and I marched my old electronics up the street to the public elementary school on 22nd Street and Caesar Chavez.  Thinking about it now, there are few days in San Francisco that aren’t “nice.”  After we dropped off the VCR, and the tiny television, and a few other obsolete random electronic devices (I believe an answering machine was in the mix.) I felt good.  It felt good to be free of things that had been unnecessarily cluttering up my life, and knowing that they would be recycled properly.  I didn’t much give a shit that some public school would get much-needed funds, but that was one of the benefits of responsible disposal.

Knowing that old electronics can be disposed of properly so internal parts that are still useful can be recycled, and internal parts that are toxic don’t end up in landfill, I endeavored to find a place in Chicago where we could get rid of the 10-year-old system that emitted an obnoxiously distracting buzz from the front left speaker and no longer played discs of any sort.  It was too far gone to donate to a charity or give to someone.

A Google search led me to the City of Chicago’s website, which, while not too attractive, did provide me with the information I needed.  Not the information I wanted, but the information I needed.  I would have wanted to read that the city has a fleet of trucks peopled by knowledgeable “recycling specialists” who will come to any home within Chicago’s borders to pick up whatever needs to be discarded in a manner not fit for landfill.  Instead, I saw that the city has a recycling facility where anyone – not a business, despite Citizens United – is welcome to drop off items deemed appropriate, please see list of appropriate items.

The drop-off facility wasn’t too, too far away from our place.  We’d need to take a bus, but only one bus, and the walking at either end was just a few blocks.  If I had to do it alone I’d've taken a cab to the facility and a bus back, but the Viking said he’d help out.  Which he later regretted, I’m sure.

The box was just slightly too large for the Viking to be able to hold it comfortably.  Before we made it to the bus stop he had to lean the box against a wrought iron fence, a tree, a wall, a fire hydrant so he could readjust his grip.  There was only one box so I couldn’t do much more than wait for him while he readjusted again and again.  I was able to make his entrance onto the bus easier by tapping his Chicago Card, but otherwise I was just along for moral support.  Also, there is no way the Viking would have done it on his own.

Like I said, the Viking would have been happy to put everything out with the trash.  The only reason he was taking the trip to the recycling facility on Goose Island was because he knew it made me feel good knowing the thing was properly disposed of.  He doesn’t give a shit about the environment.  Frankly, I don’t know why I do considering when I die that will be it; I don’t have any kids that’ll inherit the shitty planet.  (Nope, I don’t give a shit about the future and I don’t care if your little snotty brats are supposed to be it.)

The 8 Halstead bus has been traveling on a detour for some time since the Halstead Street Bridge is undergoing repairs.  We knew this, and were happy that the detour actually took us closer to our destination than did the original route.  What we did not realize was that the detour had undergone another reroute as of December 23 so when the bus turned left, away from the recycling facility, rather than right, toward it, we were surprised.  We got off the bus and walked.

We walked.  And stopped so the Viking could readjust the box.  And stopped some more.  He was sweating.  Sometimes he’d hold the box on one shoulder, sometimes he’d hold it in front of him, but at no time did he have a comfortable grip on the box.  When we walked over the Chicago River he said he wanted to chuck the box over the bridge.

He was only partially kidding.  If I wasn’t with him he probably would have.  By the time we walked over the river the Viking’s back had begun to hurt and he had to stop to readjust even more often.  I kept telling him that I was sorry I couldn’t help and that he must really love me if he was going through all that.

On one of his many stops he opened the box and handed me the subwoofer to carry.  The subwoofer wasn’t that heavy but the Viking did seem to have a bit of an easier go of it after that.  It might aslo have been that he could see the light at the end of the tunnel since we were almost to our destination.

Chicago is a very industrial city.  And, surprisingly since the public transportation is so good, a very car-friendly city.  It is expected that people have cars.  A lot of people do, and they were driving on Goose Island that evening for some reason.  Lots of cars, hardly any pedestrians.  Except for that one guy who got in the Viking’s face despite the buffer of the big box he was carrying.  The trip was turning out to be extremely unpleasant for the Viking but he kept going.  Because he loves me.

We turned down the street with the recycling facility and suddenly we were out of sidewalk.  There was, of course, plenty of room for cars to park, drive, pollute, annoy, pester, endanger.

Finally we saw some temporary signs indicating where to pull in to the facility.  Pull in, in a car.  We walked from the street, up a long driveway, and turned before we saw a building that looked like it was the right place.  We walked in and happily deposited box ‘o home theater system and subwoofer.  The three guys who worked at the facility asked if we walked “all the way from the street;” I guess they thought we had parked on the street.  No, guys, we walked a lot farther than that – half a mile (yes, I did the math) from where we got off the bus.

Finally, I was free of the Sony Dream System!  I had bought the thing with my ex-husband and then replaced the amplifier with the exact same one some time after Jesus died.  Jesus had coincidentally had the self same home theater system which the Ex got when he died.  When the Ex and I were still getting along, we switched things around so we both ended up with working home theater systems and big-ass televisions.  Well, my TV was smaller than his, but I was perfectly happy with 42″ of high definition viewing pleasure.

The next day, and the day after that, the Viking said his arms were sore from carrying the box.  He wasn’t complaining, merely letting me know that his love for me is pretty fucking great.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Nine phone numbers.  They are:

323 829 6396

415 816 8728

520 260 8787

949 939 1676

213 321 9920

949 521 4014

310 920 2793

520 260 4080

949 842 5324

On New Year’s Day I received a text wishing me a “Happy New Year.”  What I knew was hat I hadn’t had any contact with anyone on the list except for one person with whom I’d gone to law school.  I responded with, “It’s been a while.  I guess my number was still in your phone.”  I thought it was sufficiently neutral when I really wanted to text, “We haven’t spoken since 2007.  Why fucking bother to wish me a happy anything?  You were one of the many friends I lost when I really, really needed friends.  Fuck you very much.”

Apparently this former friend knew how I felt despite my intended neutrality because she responded that I seemed “bitter,” “snippy,” and “mad.”  At one time she knew me quite well but it’s true that we’ve not communicated with each other in any way whatsoever since 2007, or possibly early 2008.

I fucking hate mass text messages because they are all complete bullshit.  Back on Thanksgiving I got a text message from my high school girlfriend and I responded that I had no interest in silly contrived mass messages.  She assured me she had meant to message me and then was nice enough to attempt a “conversation” that I know was nothing more than a way to assuage her guilt.

So I struck up a conversation with Happy New Year, thinking that maybe she just didn’t have an excuse to contact me in the four years of birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and fucking Arbor Days since we last spoke.  When we last spoke she did offer to “be a friend” if I wanted to talk, but I was in the midst of a depression that was so incredibly fucking boring that I didn’t want to subject any friends to it, so I didn’t.  I suppose it was my place to let her know that I was no longer depressed, but by that time it had been so long since we’d spoken that I didn’t bother.

One of the things that made it easy for me not to bother was that chances were decent that Happy New Year and my ex-husband were still friends.  Even though she went to law school with me, they got along quite well and he even had a crush on her.  I have no interest in knowing anything about him or him knowing anything about me, which has been easy since we no longer have any mutual friends.

Despite my misgivings, I assured Happy New Year that I wasn’t at all mad and asked how she was.  We had had two text exchanges within 15 minutes so I expected a relatively quick reply letting me know how she was.  I didn’t expect anything deep, just a, “Been good.  Have new job/kid/man, etc.  How’re you?”  I got nothing.  For three days.

Maybe I should have given her more time to respond, but I don’t have any reason or inclination to keep in touch with people just for the sake of keeping in touch with them.  That could be why I have very few friends I’ve known for very long.  I’m still in contact with the aforementioned high school girlfriend, and still in contact with a good friend I had when I lived in southern California, and talk to a few friends from law school, and am still close with my old secretary from my first job as a lawyer, but no one I can say is my best friend or for whom I’d “do anything.”  And that’s fine.  I understand that I may be a difficult person.

I responded, “I guess you don’t care to tell me.  Don’t ‘communicate’ w/me unless you actually want to, you know, communicate w/me.”  I don’t imagine I’ll ever get a response to that.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

They both look like they’re having a lot of fun.  Well they should.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.