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.

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.

8:59P.M.

We had a nice time.  I cooked stuffed shells and we also had French bread and salad.  I made a cheesecake but forgot to give any to Henry.  I just had some, however, and it was quite good.  I wasn’t uncomfortable at all, it felt really nice.  He finally brought me my t-shirt – I’m a true fan now.  After we ate, we had sex, and then we cuddled.  It was nice and romantic.  His-uh-well, it wasn’t my imagination, it does go the wrong way.  But who cares, it doesn’t matter to me.  It still works.  And the rest of him has its merits too.  I asked him what purpose I serve for him.  He said, “You keep me sane.”  Oh god, where have I heard that before?  That’s just what I need.  Or actually not what I need ’cause I probably don’t need it but I want it.  So I asked what he likes about me.  He likes the way I think – that I’m so open minded.  And he likes it when I touch him.  I wanted to hear about my looks so I asked if he thought I was a dog.  He told me not to be stupid but sill didn’t give me any compliments though I did like the other ones.  Oh, and he told me that Blanca told him that Bill was scared at first too.  He’s afraid of missing out on his friends.  But I don’t think I ever let on that I wanted to monopolize his time and I said as much.  I told him I’d like to go out more and it doesn’t necessarily have to cost money.  why is it that I always to tell the person I’m having sex with that I love them?  Oh well he called to say good night and I asked what he meant about the sane thing.  I make him feel comfortable; he can be himself around me.  That’s so wonderful.  He does need me.  I forgot to ask him to call me his little girl.  I love his voice and his face.  He looks so cute when he smiles.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

There aren’t any hills anywhere around Chicago. When, well over a year ago, I told a friend I was planning to move to Chicago his response was that there weren’t any hills in the city.  Yes, that was true, but what did it matter if there were hills in the city to which I was to move?

Now that I’ve been in Chicago almost a year I have to admit that my friend had a point.  I didn’t know.  I lived in California my whole life and didn’t realize how un-flat it was.

I spent a few months at a time in Bangkok, a city that isn’t particularly hilly – its streets were canals for most of its history – but I don’t recall feeling as though it was “too” flat.  It could be that Bangkok wasn’t a walk-friendly city and/or that I wasn’t there long enough in a stretch to really miss the hills.

I have been in Chicago long enough to really miss the hills.  It’s so fucking flat.  I walk Isis for miles and miles and miles without breaking a sweat or raising my heart rate much above its resting rate.  In San Francisco we’d take a short walks that were both hilly and satisfyingly blood pumping.

I’ve had dreams about hills.  I’ve gone up to the Signature Lounge in the John Hancock Center more than necessary just to be able to feel like I’m on a very tall, very urban hill.  I get excited to walk on footbridges and overpasses because they are slightly above sea level.

No, I will not be taking any trips to hilly places in the Midwest.  I’m not that into experiencing nature; I did plenty of that when I was a kid.  I like my nature in the form of urban parks where I can let Isis off leash so she can frolic.  A hilly park would be lovely, but I’m not going to get it in Chicago.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

The Viking texted me that he had something for my sweet tooth.  My sweet tooth tends to rear its ugly head well after dinner, but before bed.  It’s the time I had dessert when I was a kid and it’s when I tend to crave sweet things.

Sometimes fruit will satisfy it, and when there’s nothing sugary sweet in the house I have to settle for fruit.  I love fruit and fruit is, you know, healthy and shit, so that’s not such a bad thing, but sometimes I want something fucking rich and sugary and not at all healthy.

That night he came home with three very sweet, very moist, very rich cupcakes.  They were so rich we didn’t finish them that night, and I knew they were too tasty for me to try to pretend that they were healthy.  I was pretty satisfied, but the cupcakes were not all the Viking had planned for that weekend.

Before he came home with the cupcakes on Friday he let me know that on Saturday I would be required to be freshly showered and naked but for a blindfold by 7pm.

I had no idea what he was planning.  He had teased on Friday that he had invited five big black guys over to have their way with me, but I knew the Viking didn’t know five guys he could or would invite over for such things; I had no clue if the Viking knew any black guys.

Besides, I think the Viking knew my thing about the “big black guy” bullshit and wouldn’t have planned such a party.  Not all black guys have big cocks.  Not all black guys are big dudes.  The objectification of black men as “bulls” and “studs” is lame, and not sexy to me.  Sure, there are some black guys – as there are white guys and brown guys and all the other color guys – I find hot, but I don’t find them so because of the color of their skin.

I did begin to worry that the Viking had invited someone or someones over though.  He knows I wouldn’t mind entertaining a small group of guys … in any ways I could.  However, our place was not ready for company; I need to be able to prepare for guests, something the Viking knows.

So I was pretty sure I wasn’t to entertain a gang for a bang, but the Viking was most definitely planning something.  He said that while I was showering and donning the blindfold that he’d be out “for supplies.”  What kind of supplies, I had no fucking idea.

I like surprises, and the Viking knows it.  I was having fun guessing and he was having fun deflecting my guesses.  I didn’t want to know; I wanted whatever it was to be a surprise.  He could have told me where my surprise was hidden – if it was a thing that could be hidden – and I still would have waited for him to spring it on me because a lot of the fun of surprises is the reveal.

On Saturday, per usual, we got up early – for me – and made our way to Lincoln Park for the Green City Market where we picked up our share of goods from “our” farm.  I know winter’s coming (No, that’s not just for you “Game of Thrones” fans.) but I’ve really enjoyed the local produce this spring and summer.  We’re supposed to enjoy it into the fall.  I’m trying not to think about the winter when anything local will be things that can be “put up,” like winter squash and root vegetables.  The thought of root cellars is still fucking foreign to me.

After we figured out that everyone else brought their dogs – whether well behaved or not – to the farmers market we started bringing Isis – who is very well behaved.  It was nice to give all of us (except for poor Joaquin) an outing where we all felt like we got something – Isis, new smells and a literal roll in the grass, and us, produce to eat during the week.

Isis, however, absolutely hates rain.  She doesn’t like the feeling of the wet hitting her skin, something that happens with anything more than the lightest mist of a drizzle.  Further, she fears, to the point of hiding in the guest room, thunder.  Thunder (and lightning) often accompanies rain here in Chicago.  Summer thunder storms are common I’ve been told.  I’ve also been told that this year’s summer thunder storms were more plentiful than usual, something I’m not sure is true considering most people talk about whether only insofar as their short-term memory can access it.

That Saturday it looked like it could rain any second and we could hear thunder in the distance so we left Isis at home.  It wasn’t cold, but we were glad we brought our umbrellas so at least our heads could stay dry.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

In a wooded suburb.  Strange shit keeps happening.  I’m suspected and the only way to prove my innocence is to catch the culprit.

But it’s scary and dangerous.  [I woke up with my heart racing and felt very scared.  For a little while I tried not to go back to sleep so I wouldn't go into that dream again.]

__________

Expedition in snow and ice.  At base there’s a fat woman living alone.  If I complete a task she’ll be able to leave.

The task involves making my way through an ice cave from bottom left to top right.  Repeatedly I note that I’m wearing the wrong shoes – a kind of brogue – for the task at hand.  Every time I fall I have to go back to the beginning.

There is a hole, the bottom of which drops out on an irregular basis, down which items fall.  If I can grab them before the bottom dorps out I can keep them.

The items are mind and include a pair of shoes – I lose one of a heeled Mary Jane.

Still snow and ice but another room where there are people in various states of dying and starving.

I end up negotiating for some of the healthier people’s escape; others know they’re gonna die and their very skinny and weak.

With the task done, I’m back with the fat woman whom I tell she can now leave.  Seems she might have been taking care of Isis.

I look down and see Joaquin dipping his paw into a pitcher of tea the woman had made and put on the floor.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 3)."]

He was not only manhandling me, someone who had consented to it, but he was being mean to his dogs.  He argued that taking them out every 12 hours was sufficient.  I’ve seen a dog after an 8-hour day of being inside really, really need to go to the bathroom; 12 hours was ridiculous unless they were dehydrated.  I told him that unless he took his dogs out I was leaving.

He was incredulous.  I wasn’t kidding.  Even if a guy is slapping me around I have to know he’s a nice guy.  I think he thought I’d change my mind.  I did not.  I’m stubborn.

Then, as if it was his idea, he told me to get the fuck out.  He told me he’d give me $50 for a cab.  Stupidly, I refused his money and asked that he just point me in a direction where I’d be able to catch a cab easily.  I was used to San Francisco, where it can be very difficult to catch a cab in most parts of town; Chicago has plenty of cabs.

I might have been crying at that point.  The plight of his dogs – especially the old one – had gotten to me.  There’s a reason I don’t have fun outings to animal shelters, or any outings at all to animal shelters.

I was able to get a cab right in front of his building.  No, he didn’t bother making sure.  I told the cab driver my address and began to sob.  The cab driver kept wanting to know if I was ok.  In that horrible, high-pitched crying voice that all women have, I tried to assure him that I was find.

I texted the Viking that I was on my way home and not in the best shape.  By the time the cab pulled up in front of our building the Viking was outside with Isis waiting for me.

The cab driver told me I didn’t have to pay.  I said I wanted to pay but that I only had $4.  I gave him the $4 but had forgotten about my emergency $20.  My emergency $20 is in secret spot and with me at all times.  The Viking made me begin carrying it when I started meeting people in Chicago if I got into situations just like the one I was in – having to take a cab to get home and away from an asshole.

Ladies, if you want to get out of paying your cab driver, might I suggest crying like a little girl.  That was not a serious suggestion.  Actually, I wish I had gotten the cabbie’s name so I could pay him properly and tip him accordingly.

The Viking took me inside and listened to my version of the story through my sobs.  He’s comforted me a few times when I’ve been a crying mess, and he’s always been perfect with a hand gently rubbing my back and a soothing voice.

I felt especially bad that my date had gone so poorly because his date went well.  At the time that was all I could hear, that his date went well.  I was happy for him, but at the moment I was really busy feeling sorry for myself.

The next day I felt like an idiot.  But also glad that I had left when I did because who knows what could have happened with a guy who had so much trouble turning off his “dom.”

I checked my OkCupid messages and had not one, but two from him.  The first:

Look. I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. You might have a different opinion how I treat them, but I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. I take care if take care of my pets. Fuck you and anyone else if they think I dhttp://www.okcupid.com/messages?readmsg=true&threadid=12555606849807570162&folder=1#sendon’t take care of my own. I do my own.

That URL in the middle there was to our OkCupid message exchange; I have no idea why it’s there other than that he was definitely drunk when he sent it, about 20 minutes after I left his place.  Clearly I had hit a nerve.  If anyone accused me of abusing my pets, I would laugh because I know I don’t, whereas this guy got defensive, kicked what was sure to be a great lay out of his house, and then sent this message.  Sadly, I fear his dogs got the worst end of the deal since in his mind he probably felt like they cock-blocked him.

The second message, sent a full hour later, “Congrats on you being a lawyer. It means very little to me.”  I don’t know why he thought of that after stewing in his juices for an hour.  By that time I wasn’t thinking about him, I was sleeping.

The only reason I thought about him at all was so I could write this.  And now I’m done.  Good riddance.

The woman I was supposed to meet ended up having to babysit her over-drunk friend.  We both had kind of shitty nights.  We’re supposed to meet eventually.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Even erotic photos and photos I see on Instagram I like the ones that are good photos first, and interesting subjects second.

This one I don’t actually find all that erotic.  Why did I pick it?  Because I blindly picked it out of my photo file.  This one won.

This photo I like because of the repeating vertical lines cut by whatever the fuck is behind them on the left and the riding crop (?) the woman is holding.

The highlight, of course, is the woman’s crazy fucking back muscles.  Yes, of course it’s occurred to me that she may not be biologically XX, but that doesn’t matter because that is a crazy fucking back.  Crazy sexy.

I like this photo a lot, though it can be assumed that any photo I post here is one that I like a lot.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I get a lot of messages from OkCupid letting me know that one of the nine pictured people has rated me highly.  The photo arrays tend to show people of similar ages and similar gender.  I’m sure the statistics-heavy folks at OkCupid have figured out how to group people “properly.”

However, every once in a while one of the nine photos will not give me a clue as to the person’s age, gender, looks, or personality.  They’re just not helpful.  The following I have gathered from several of the “you’ve been chosen” emails I’ve received recently.

I know this guy thinks wearing a kilt is appropriate for formal events.  I suppose that does say something about his personality.  Also, he has bad hair and possibly a double chin.  Is he pregnant?  Because he appears to be feeling the baby kick.

This guy has a tattoo he seems to think is cool.  He’s wrong.  And these days so, so many people have have tattoos that tattoos aren’t all that interesting.  They’re certainly not original.

This one is a favorite of mine.  What I can tell about this guy is that he knows which bathroom to enter.  Otherwise I don’t know what the fuck is going on with this dude.  Hell, I don’t even know that he’s a dude.

I care for cars only slightly more than I care for sports.  And only because I occasionally need them to get around.  I hate, HATE, hate yellow cars.  Until my death – or my Alzheimer’s induced dementia – I will not understand why anyone thinks yellow sports cars are … sporty.  They just look stupid.  Looking under the hood of a car is the equivalent of looking at a guy’s balls and I have no interest in looking at the balls of the guy who posted this as his profile picture.

Yeah, I know this is Jack Black.  And I like him in some things.  But this image is from Nacho Libre, a movie I’ve not seen, but have heard is really shitty so I’m not clamoring to do so.  How the fuck am I supposed to figure out whether I’m attracted to a person based on this photo?

This guy keeps wanting my email address so he can send me a photo.  I keep not sending it to him.  He keeps being one of those guys who thinks that because I’ve had sex with others that I’ll have sex with him.  Still don’t want to meet him.

I don’t even know what the fuck to think of this.  Does it mean the person likes modern art?  Or that s/he is a moron?  Or both?  I don’t care, and I don’t care to find out.

Am I supposed to think this guy likes the outdoors?  Otherwise I’m not sure what I should be getting out of this profile pic.  I don’t care enough to know.

Wow.  A truck.  This just makes me think of those scenes out of Flirting with Disaster, one of my favorite movies ever.  Back in 7th and 8th grade we lived across the street from a truck driver who paid his kids to clean his cab.  And he got fined for not stopping at those ubiquitous truck scales.

I don’t even know what that cord/string is.  The guy has feet.  The guy also has something in his left pocket.  Something squarish.  He also has something in the crotch area that looks somewhat pointy.  But what the fuck is that cord?

Am I supposed to assume the person who wrote the profile is in the center of this photo?  Or on the left?  Or perhaps the right?  I guess I should think that the person who posted this as his/her profile picture is open minded and open sexually.  Instead, I think the person is just a new age hippie idiot.

What the fuck?!  Is creepy animation supposed to be sexy?  Well, it’s not to me.  I suppose this profile pic will weed out the weak.  Call me weak because I have absolutely no interest.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

June 6 is DJ’s birthday.  June 6 is exactly one week after May 30, my birthday.

I met DJ when I was eight.  She was one of many “lovers” my mother brought into my life between the time my mother and father divorced, when I was four, and when I moved out of her home, when I was 11.

DJ is 12 years older than me, and 15 years younger than my mother.  My mother was 35 and fucking a 20 year old.  My mom was a cougar before the term came into fashion.

DJ and I have stayed in touch on and off – mostly on – since I was eight.  I lived with her right after I graduated from high school.  She’s lived in Arizona for nearly 20 years but we talk on the phone and we’re Facebook friends.

For her birthday this year I got her a vibrating rubber duckie.  She’s a big kid who has all sorts of toys, and she’s an adult who likes sex, so the gift will satisfy both sides of her.  As a Gemini, of course she has two sides.  All us Geminis do.

I talked to DJ to wish her a happy birthday.  She was so happy to have made it to 50.  Most people lament getting older.  Not DJ, who is thrilled to have made it that far.

I’m very lucky to have her in my life.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.