05-13-00
The other day, I actually admitted to a friend of mine that, "The only reason I spend this much time grooming or cleaning (the house) is the possibility of sexual relations. I'm entirely ruled by my privates." Of course, I was being entirely too honest. I ritually primp and preen and do the dishes and vacuum to make a good impression. I don't have anyone to make the impression upon, but it's the phenomenon that drives me to wear sexy undergarments when I go out to bars.
What if, as astronomically unlikely as it is, I meet some super cool Mr. Right, and we end up back at my place, giving each other rugburn as we suck face and grope each other? Do I want him to be put off by the holes in my Scooby Doo panties, or would the odious aroma emanating from the kitchen be enough to put a damper on the evening? If he was lucky enough, in the unclean world, he could end up needing stitches and a tetanus shot from the exacto knife I left on the sofa from bookbinding. It's for the safety and welfare of others that I must make myself more desirable. Plus there's the whole "I worship Martha Stewart yet live in a filth-encrusted pigsty and I can't let anyone ever really see that" factor to consider. Except I just admitted it to you all. Man, I'm stupid.
