Dirty Lips.

Andrew tells me that I have to stop talking like a sailor at work.

I can hear a piece of advice a million times over. I can consider it, fondle it, embrace it and lick it, but never actually act on it. I think this is a fatal flaw of being female, we seem to never listen when we absolutely need to.

My vocabulary at work is strinkingly vulgar. I'm sure that most men have been completely dumbfounded by the girl with the pig tales talking about how she enjoys swallowing cum or how she refuses to have children to keep her pussy tight.
But I don't randomly spill all of this quality information to these thirty plus men in some pathetic sarah-slutty way. I'm usually talking to a friend, a GIRLfriend and we have a laugh betwixt the insanely monotone toy isles.

Either way, this sort of conversation has caused me great discomfort. Men have teased me in the middle of our morning stretches with comments such as, "Anna, don't bend over. You're waking up George." or "Anna, I'll give you a ride to work tomorrow. Do you know how to drive a double stick shift?"
I would normally spring back with some sort of equally disgusting commentary about writing mail to their penis' because their massive bellies get in the way of their masturbation agendas, but for some reason, the words never come.

These men wear track pants and walk around the isles, pushing brooms talking about thong panty liners and how their wives' stopped putting out fifteen years ago. They're greasy and sweaty and most are so morbidly obese they have to sit down after twenty minutes of work to catch their breath.

feel bad for them.

I. Am. Fucked.

So, thus far my potty mouth hasn't gotten me into any trouble. Sort of.

I did have lunch with the hard-working nice guy last week.We went to the tiny cafe and laughed and giggled about stupid people at work and the hopeful fall of the Wal Mart empire. He even walked me home after, which I thought was very sweet as I live very far away.
That day was nice and I wouldn't have changed it for anything because he DID act like a gentleman and DIDN'T try to get his hands up my skirt.

But then the obligatory sexual conversation factored into our random phone calls and the man became a complete horndog. Comments like, "I want to smear pudding on your pussy and lick it off." bounced out of the receiver and the eventual requests of friendly kisses floated through the midnight radio during our shifts.

The final straw was drawn when he asked if I would help him stop smoking by watching him jerk off. I suppose another addiction, (as he put it) would ultimately help him stop another.
I guess I'm just an inconsiderate bitch.

But now that I've read JIB's post about the LIAC witches, perhaps I can direct him to some women who may be able to support his needs? Or perhaps I should just start listening to my boyfriend more, and stop talking like a sailor.

Buffalo.

I shuttered at the socio-economic-pizza-hut-buffet-syndrom. I was asked out by yet another thirty-four-year-old. I spoke to a British man. My boyfriend of exactly one year, confessed his love for me.

And it all happened in Buffalo.

Well. Sort of.

It is very obvious that it is very easy to fall in love with me. In the span of my four month employment at Wal Mart, three men have tried to get into my pants. Unfortunately, I've managed to unexpectedly view the contents of one set of trousers. Gross.

The new thirty-four-year-old is the epitome of a good man. He's quiet and simple and works hard for his family.
He broke it off with his long-time, mother of one girlfriend last Friday and since has been making borderline flirtatious advances to yours truely. Between the compliments and the not-so-sarcastic moving in requests, I've managed to see a very lonely and confused man with no one to talk to.
I feel for him. I know what it's like to have no idea what to do next, and I want to be there in whatever way I can. JIB thinks he's a rapist and that I should kick him in the nuts. My boyfriend thinks he's been using the oldest lines in the book to make me blush. I think I'm naive and want to spend time with a man who has no one to spend time with.

I doubt he'll do anything that the man with the stunning blue eyes would - I'm sure he'll be the perfect gentleman.

Either way. I'm going to lunch with him tomorrow, in town, to a very posh cafe, directly under the public eye. I plan to clarify his position in regards to myself. I'm sure he just wants a friend to be with after going through an emotional divorce and that all my male friends are full of shit.

And if they're not. At least it will be something to write about.

I spent the rest of my day dilly-dallying on the phone with a very expressive British man that kept randomly saying, "You love it." and "strawberries." Strange?

Soon after my boyfriend arrived and we had a brief romp amidst my already tangled bed sheets.
We spent the evening stunned by the display of "reach-or-starve drama" by the lower classes of the American social structure and shopping for panties and other random belongings at Victoria Secret. He bought me an album. I gave him a blowjob. It was an excellent anniversary.

As he prepared to leave for his two hour drive home, I debated vocally telling him that I loved him. It would have been the first time I said it to his face. I finally found the courage and he smiled contently and cooed that he loved me too.

My bottom lip quivered.
My eyes filled with salty liquid.
I squeaked out, "really?"
He nodded.

I pranced back in the house to spend another hour and a half listening to my new album and to cry randomly like a demented fourteen-year-old retard swooning over her boy-toy crush.

I felt something I never had before. An overwhelming understanding that Andrew made me a better person and that I wanted to be better because of him. But of course, I'm being a bint and going to lunch with a man two days after the man I loved confessed his love for me.

I thought once that my four year relationship bestowed in me all the wisdom I would ever need to love again. Now I realise how utterly stupid someone has to be to make such an unfounded and egocentric conclusion.

And of course...

It all happened in Buffalo.

Jolene.

There is a girl at work who's in an awful, fucking mess.

She's been dating a complete jackoff for the past four years of her life... That really is all she has.

She decided recently that she didn't want to persue a higher education. So she dropped out of college, enrolled in a night class for office admin. and is now working night shifts at Wal Mart to support her boyfriend, while he goes to school two days a week - She's going to be his secretary when he opens his own medical office.
Mind that the boyfriend doesn't do anything else. He just goes to school, two days a week.

In the beginning I was a little put off by her impeccable tales of her dazzling relationship with Mike. He was a glorious man, with stunning eyes, a great personality and a promising future. He was, "a catch."

Then she recounted how he didn't call her for the first two weeks of their relationship, when he was home from school. She thought he was still at school. Quality fellow.
Then there were the bits about his ex girlfriend that made her feel sick, and made me roll my eyes.

Eventually the list ended with, "We don't have a sex life. He doesn't want to fuck me."

Strange I thought. Young Adults in their twenties, not fucking? They lived together, they were in love. Nimble, able bodies, but no fuck. Weird.

Mike never wanted to do anything about it, but she desperately did. It was obvious by his graying hair, that at the ripe age of twenty-five he had a serious testosterone problem. But he never went to the doctor.

They fought constantly.

Eventually, over Christmas Mike had a fling with his ex girlfriend, prompting my co-worker to leave him for four solid days of reflection.
She's decided that it is in fact the ex's fault and wrote her a long letter outlining how this unknown woman ruined her life because everything that Mike did, was her dream as well.
She's also decided to continue living with him. In separate rooms. Until they figure it out.

Good luck with that one champ.

My co-worker has nothing.

No education.
No career.
No friends.
And no love.