Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 42

Sure, an odyssey of the self sounds exciting, but mine mostly looks like a braless bitch lying around watching Esther Hicks channel Law of Attraction gold on YouTube. Oh, I do stuff. Phone stuff. Computer stuff. Kitchen stuff. TV stuff. Even Bonus Room stuff (riding a stationary bike at glacial speeds while listening to tarot readings and watching Daisy contort herself to get her scratch on against the woolly wall-to-wall carpet). If I'm feelin' really spicy, I do phone stuff in the basement on a huge bean bag with Daisy cuddled up next to me. That's the only time Daisy likes phone stuff.

I accidentally posted a resume on an online career site while trying to apply for a job and did this without actually making a password, and the posting is attracting super sketch job offers, and I can't delete it without a password that does not exist because I logged in through my Google account. This is a classic Pisces IT debacle. We can always find new ways to make technology make no sense. No, I don't want minimum wage late shift and weekend 3 month contract work at a hospital heavy on gunshot wounds. In fact, said hospital should be ashamed of passing off such a piecemeal gig as employment. I don't want a call center job you're trying to trick me into with a rushed Zoom interview tomorrow, just me and your uber ethical CEO. I am not a prime choice for assembly line work. You would know this if you read my resume you said you read. Quit pretending I applied for your dubious, unfillable position. I'm Phi Beta Kappa, chump. No, that ain't a sorority of blonds with big tits. Although we do have a few.

Speaking of blonds with big tits, I might move to Minnesota and get in a domestic partnership with a lady friend I will never have sex with. Don't get me wrong. Ramoana's hot as fuck. But we both have an unfortunate dick predisposition. We like dick. And we tend to date dicks. Hence our mutual singlehood. Ramoana said she'd make me breakfast for the rest of my life. I love breakfast; possibly even more than dick. She would follow through on her promises, too. Unlike a number of people with dicks whom I've ended up loving, Ramoana's not a liar. Plus, she tries. She will do her part to build domestic bliss and a killer Denver omelet.

Over the phone, Ramoana and I, we dreamt aloud the features we wanted in our theoretical home, which was not like either of us, because historically we are dirty hippies with socialist tendencies unmoved by items requiring capital. A balcony for Ramoana's cat. A moat-like yard barrier allowing my Great Dane to roam and poop securely, if not in secret. Danes were bred to guard royals in their bed chambers. (Daisy's doing it right now, sacked out on our bed framed for a canopy, fully convinced I am her goddess-princess and her job). A fireplace with a mantel for Ramoana's Romanesque sexy lady lamp and my macrame trees. Gas stove. Bosch dishwasher. I've never had a house with a dishwasher. Satan liked me to wash dishes by hand nightly, dirty plates not approved to linger 'til morning, me scrubbing and rinsing as I digested the repetitive meal he served because I could not be trusted with a task so important as dinner. I want to have the kitchen trash and recycling bins that hide behind cupboards and roll, baby, roll. We fancy a stainless double door fridge. A deep bathtub. A rain shower with a glass door, never again expected to nakedly cope with a rank shower curtain. A patio for entertaining. And a hot tub, obvi.

Why shouldn't we have all this and more, a couple of sweet gals like us? Not only are we able to earn our own keep, but I can make biting social commentary and perform breathy slam poetry while Ramoana writes sheet music and probably rumbas. We make it our business to be passable at unpopular pursuits. It's one of many delicious quirks that make us worth knowing. I would not be surprised if Ramoana owns a piccolo and plays it fur her cat when the fussy pussy can't sleep.

When I visited Minneapolis right before Satan left me, I was welcomed as the royal Daisy guards at bedtime. It seemed wherever I walked and appeared, people stared and smiled and mouthed "Hi." Dudes who were on the phone with someone else mouthed "Hi." Dudes driving their car past me on the street mouthed "Hi." A lady in the park stopped to tell me how much she liked my hair but didn't want to interrupt the waterfall video I was shooting. Feeling her feeling me, I turned around and botched my own video, and we giggled about it. I felt every inch a Scandinavian Priestess come home, my loyal subjects so happy I finally turned up where I belonged. Two nights in a row with two different bartenders, I tried to buy a drink at my hotel bar and they wouldn't take my money. I imagined this was what it felt like to be rich--everyone looking at you and wanting your attention and you don't have to pay for anything. But I did pay. When I got home.

There may be some wee obstacles on the way to the union of Ramoana and me. Her furniture is the free kind that needs to be bonfire food. Mine is in a storage unit in Michigan. It's winter. I don't have a job in Minneapolis. But you know, I could. Like Jesse "The Body" Ventura, the good people of Minnesota want me to rule.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness