Textual Exhibitionism

LAST FIVE ENTRIES
The Sunday Suicide Ritual - 03.19.06
somnambulism: n, Jeremy on a Sunday night - 03.13.06
careful what you wish, you may regret it... - 03.05.06
somebody gona geta hurt real bad - 02.20.06
=NOT(rain V sleet V dark of night) - 01.31.06

tennisticular fortitude - (06.03.05)

Yesterday I hung out with Cindy and Sylvie after work (John had planned on joining us, but his job decided that his time would be better spent impaled on a stainless steel phallus). We tossed (frisbees, not salads), then headed to the Frog and Firkin for what we had called "drinks" when planning the excursion. Upon being seated and asked about our drink orders, my two lovely companions ordered a pint of dihydrogen monoxide each. If I had already been in the process of imbibing some form of liquid, I surely would have shown off my mad spit-take skillz. Here I was, prepared to get myself liquored up so that I may more easily be taken advantage of (that will have less dirty connotations in a minute, though I assure you this is purely coincidence), and they're ordering water. I suppose I should be grateful; they saved me $10 in booze.

A short while later, my bosses showed up. This was entirely my fault, since I knew they were going out for drinks and when Vizzle Scizzlers light up the town, we generally start -- and end a short time later -- at the Frog and Firkin. So they joined us. Fortunately, two of the three of my bosses were not at work today. Why is this fortunate, you ask, aside from the simple fact that two of my bosses weren't there? Well, it delays the teasing, you see. My single status, if not explicitly stated, is painfully obvious to all those around me, including my coworkers. Being seen with women at all, much less ones that managed to entirely avoid the Ugly Stick with which I was so liberally flayed, is something that they will jump on like so many children dressed in their Sunday best on a mud puddle the size of a Buick. This would be all fine and dandy if it wasn't for the simple fact that I'll turn the colour of delicious cherry pie when they start to give me the gears about it. It's not the being seen with women that's embarrassing (if it was, I'd just pack it up and head home), nor is it particularly embarrassing to be teased about being seen with them. The really humiliating thing is that I still fucking blush when it happens, which only makes it worse. I remember from Biology 12 that childbirth is one of the few positive feedback loops found in nature. I have just described another.

After setting myself up for some righteous facial vasal dilation in the near future, we headed to Queen Elizabeth Park, home of the pitch-and-putt course my boss and I played at (where I whipped him by 12 strokes in a mere 10 holes, which sounds way dirtier than it should) and something like 18 tennis courts. The three of us managed to take up no less than three of those courts, what with the small, fuzzy yellow spheres that humans generally refer to as "balls" flying every which way but Sunday. For those of you keeping score at home, this is where the girls had the advantage. They kicked my ass. Rightly so, considering that alone either of them is better than me. Combined, they are a force to be reckoned with, as evidenced by the number of balls that were on my side of the court. I'd like to believe that I've got a lot of balls, but I never thought that a sport like tennis would force me to interpret such a belief so literally.

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