Does Size Matter?

Most of the time--no. Sometimes--yes.

I'm not Ms. Been Around a Million and One Times but I've been with enough men to have developed an answer to this question based on experience. There is a whole range of size and shape when it comes to men; almost all fall somewhere in the, say, 5 to 8 inch range with average . . . girth. So most of the time, size does not matter. Give or take a couple of inches, it all feels about the same when you get right down to it. It matters much more what you do with what you have.

But there are extremes. I have come across two examples of the teeny, tiny extreme. In the first case, I am embarrassed now at the way I acted then. I was only 18 and when I realized that a guy's schlong could be the size of my pinkie (I'm not exaggerating here) when standing at attention. I was so shocked that I promptly removed my hand from his pants and ended our little session.

The second time, I knew ahead of time that what was going to be revealed to me would be on the small side. He actually told me over dinner. Yeah, and I still slept with him. Why? He was my first after the Big X, and I was determined to get the obstacle of sleeping with someone new out of the way. When we got back to the hotel (we were both on a vacation in Seattle), I was shocked again at the insignificance of his one-eyed trouser snake but was still determined to go through with things.

Here is what I discovered: 1. There is such a thing as so small you can't even feel it. 2. A guy can make up for this fact. Without going into complete x-rated description, let's just say that this guy gave me beard burn on my vajayjay that was well worth getting. Best oral I had ever had. He most definitely compensated. Lesson: Yes, there is such a thing as too small but give the guy a chance. It might still be worth it.

What about the other end of the scale? Large to the extreme? Yup, had that. It's quite something. A guy whose blue-veined custard-chucker is so large that it's like losing your virginity all over again. Remember that? It takes a bit of work to make things fit right. It's almost painful at first. But then once they do fit right, it's still just eye-popping with every thrust. I can't describe the feeling. Just . . . wow. You can still feel it hours later. (Okay, days.)

Girls, if you ever have the chance, take it.

Having said that, the average Captain Slappy, giggle stick, guided muscle, Hardy Boy, heat seeking missle, inseminator, Jack the Ripper, knee knocker, meat popsicle, notary public, one-eyed wonder weasel, purple-headed warrior, Rumple Foreskin, tallywhacker, tonsil tickler, trouser lizard, Vlad the Impaler, W.A.D. (which I will not spell out the meaning of here), warrior of love (and so many more that really are too dirty to print here)--really is just super and I'd take it any day.

Size doesn't matter . . . mostly.

I'm a Bottler

I'm a bottler. I bottle things up. I try to let most things roll off my back but the things that don't, I bottle up. Everything's cool with me. Want to yell and scream at me for something that I have nothing to do with? That's okay. No problem. I know you didn't mean it. The online payroll system crashes at work and I'm not going to be able to pay the whole damn campaign on time now? Oh well, out of my control. I can deal with everyone getting mad. Want to make plans with me and then just never call and never apologize for not following through? It's okay, really. I know we are both busy.

Want to give my sister a strand of gorgeous, priceless pearls for her birthday when I get a check for $25, Grandmonster? Want to casually mention that you gave me a strand years ago that belonged to my great-grandmother that you don't think is worth much of anything if it's even real? Want to talk about how you had Stacy's restrung (but didn't change the clasp since that shows the name of the famous designer who made them) and bought her a gorgeous set of earrings to match as well? Have her put it on and see how it looks in front of Kristy (who never received any pearls, real or fake) and me? Want us to ooh and ah, even? It's okay, really. I understand. I don't take it personally.

Then I'm at a stupid summer planning committee meeting for school. There is a contentious issue which has everyone's nerves a bit raw to begin with. I feel like I'm being personally called out by Ryan, and after hearing what he is saying, end up agreeing with him but I just don't feel like he's listening to what I'm saying. Even though I'm agreeing with him over and over, he won't stop arguing his point. Finally I get mad.

Finally I get mad. At Ryan, at a yelling coworker, at the payroll administration company, at the guy that pushed payroll off onto me even though I already do two--count them TWO-- full-time jobs for the campaign, at the friend who blew me off, at the Grandmonster, at Stacy for being everyone's favorite, at my mom for spending over half the week with Stacy every week (during the only time I have off to actually be around her no less), at my asshole brother and sister-in-law for generally making everyone's lives hell, at my entire fucking family for guilting me into living home for six more months . . . at so much more . . .

But Ryan is the one in front of me. And Ryan is the one I lose it on. I started screaming at him and clapping my hands like a mad woman, and then when he yells back I nearly cried. It was all I could do for the remaining excruciating half hour of the meeting to remain seated at the table and not let a tear slip down my cheek. Blink, blink, open my eyes wide so they evaporate. Breathe deep. Swallow.

Now I'm home crying and letting the remaining contents of the bottle pour out. Gotta empty it out nice and good so that I have someplace to store all this shit for the next month or so.

I'm a bottler.

Better Off Dead

So I'm realizing that when at the start of my last post I said "2 good things" that you all might not have realized that I meant it as in 2 good things to write about, not 2 good things about my life. Because neither are good. Clearly, the root canal was not good.

The other good thing to write about that is not in reality good? The reason I'm going to hell? I know someone that I think would be better off dead. I'm not exaggerating; I'm not being melodramatic. This man spreads hatred like a virus through everyone he knows. He would be better off dead and the rest of the world would be better off if he were dead.

Mostly, the rest of the world is my concern. He has partially ruined my life (no, it's not the Big X; even though I still give him caps, he didn't have the power to ruin my life). He has ruined completely one other person's life, and has partially ruined at least three other people's lives besides my own.

How do you completely ruin someone's life? You must be a black hole for all good and rational thought. You must radiate messiness, fight, darkness. You must suck someone into the complete and utter ruin you have made of your very own life and act like quicksand, or like tar, and force them to stay there, to become so entrenched in your own evil life that they give up any good part of their soul and ultimately decide to become just like you. Yes, this person whose life was ruined by him had some level of choice in the matter. It can't be entirely contributed to him that this other person's life was ruined; eventually they stopped fighting their way out of the black hole.

The others? The ones like me? Who have been partially ruined? We fight and sometimes break free of the horrid mess; I did. But then I looked back and saw these others who maybe didn't have the fight in them to get away, these others who still have a chance at breaking free, of not having a completely ruined life. I want to help them. They each are not breaking free for their own reasons.

Person #1: Is too young to be able to break free. Cannot even admit how horrible this man is just yet. May, by the time this person is ready to see it, be too late. May have their life already ruined beyond repair.

Person #2: Loves him too much. Why? I don't fucking know, that's for sure. But can't bring themself to shut the door on him, and as long as it's open, he will creep in like carbon monoxide in the night while you sleep and smother the life out of you.

Person #3: Recognizes him for what he is; hates him so much for it that the hate continues to ruin their life. Won't let go, won't shut that door, because the hate is too much. This person does not understand how, after all that I've been put through, I have let go of the hate. (I was put through worse, through the most of anyone who knows him.) The door can't be closed until the hate is let go.

Because I love these three people very much and want to save them, I have opened the door again and am forced to deal with him. But even if we all make it out alive, we will be permanently damaged. If we wore our emotional damage like physical, #2 and #3 would have repulsive gashes swerving across their faces. #1? The damage is not complete yet. #1 would still be oozing puss and blood.

Me? I have a scar. It's big. I am able to hide it well though.

There is no one he touches that makes it away without at least a bruise. He should die. This is evil of me to think, I know. I should probably go to hell.

But everyone would be better off if he would just die.

Share My Root Canal Hell

I want to write about something else right now but I need to come back to it because there are 2 good things I want to tell you about right now. So I'll come back to why I'm going to hell.

So I went to the dentist yesterday about my sore tooth. A little history about my life with the dentist: 1. I am part British--the part that is attached to my teeth. As a child I had multiple cavities and even had to have teeth removed. I have never liked the dentist. I know no one did but I had special reasons. One emotionally abused me by telling me I salivated more than any other patient he had ever had. (Later I realized this could be turned into an asset with my especially close male friends.)

Also as I've previously mentioned, novacaine doesn't work properly on me. Only, since my whole life it never has, I always thought that was just the way it was . . . Imagine my joy at finding out (in my mid-twenties) that some people just don't react to lydocaine? The dentist said we'd do carbocaine, which is stronger.

Nope. Doesn't work either. Sometimes it works a little. Sometimes it dulls things. I told the dentist it didn't work the first time so he stopped, gave me another excruciating shot with the ginormously long and SCARY-LOOKING needle. Still didn't work. He sighed, stopped again. Shot again. Still didn't work.

He asked again if it was working. I made an affirmative grunting noise. It was a lie. At this point, I decided that despite the pain of actual drilling, if I could just shut up about the pain again like I had all my life I could be out of the damn chair much sooner and not be loaded up with novacaine that wasn't even working. Hence, I most often feel everything when the dentist does a procedure.

A root canal? What does that feel like? Well, first there's the drilling. The very beginning of drilling doesn't bother much at all. Once he gets past the enamel is when it starts to really hurt. Just look up at the ceiling. Trace the crevices in the tiles with your eyes. DO NOT tense your hands on the arms of the chair or he'll know it hurts, stop, and bring out the needle again, as if that will help. Once he pops off enough of the tooth to reach the raw, exposed nerve, the real fun begins.

He pulls out this itsy bitsy file/screw crossbreed. This is to be inserted into the prong parts of your tooth, where the nerves live. He shoves it into the tangle of pulpy nerve, not realizing, of course, that you are feeling the whole horrid thing. He pushes it in good and deep and then proceeds to rip the nerves right out of the roots. He files and screws, screws and files. The pain is nearly excruciating. Blink a lot to keep tears from forming. Trace the crevices in the ceiling again.

He stops, looks into the tooth with his little mirror. Nope, missed some nerve. Gotta really screw that file in good and tight this time!

Finally, he is done with ripping nerves out; next he finds pins that are the right length to fill the hollow roots and keep the tooth stable. He tries out a few different sizes, putting them into the now nerve-free root. Yay, you might think. No more pain! Well, you would be wrong. He inserts the pins into the root and they go down deep enough to connect with the nerves that are running through your jaw. Take that, jaw nerves! How do you like getting stabbed with a little needle over and over? Not so much, huh?

So when it was done, I came home and decided to spend the rest of the day high on vicodin. This is why I actually began this post several days ago and actually only got as far as the ellipses; when I first started this post I ended up passing out in a drug-induced stupor. I had to come back and finish the rest when the trauma had passed enough to recount the incident.

I Heart Henry Lee

I called the dentist today. I'm going to see him tomorrow. He wanted to see me at 7:30 tonight but I just couldn't. I had to attend a work event.

Highlight of the day: I got to meet Dr. Henry Lee, famed forensic scientist formerly of the O.J. trial, currently of the CourtTV show, "From the Files of Dr. Henry Lee.". No one seems as thrilled with that as I am. Don't know why. It was better than meeting Kiki and Ted Kennedy Jr. to me, though they were nice too. I especially liked Ted III, who is about 3 1/2 feet tall right now. Presidential material, that one. I'm telling you.

As much as I like my job, I'm actually looking forward to this root canal so I can have some forced time off from work (because given the choice I'd work 12-16 hours a day--and have been--instead of go home early). If there is something more to be done for the campaign I want to stay and get it done. Trouble is, it never ends and I never catch up.

Truth? I've actually turned down the opportunity for sex to spend more time working lately.

Even though I'm loving work I'm beginning to realize my priorities might have become just ever so slightly out of whack lately.