Tupperware

I have five empty Tupperware containers on my desk.

Well, most of them are actually made by Ziploc, but Tupperware is right up there with Jell-o and Kleenex.

Each of these containers at one point contained food, and they’re all sitting there unwashed. A couple of them have been sitting there for at least two months. Strangely, there’s no mold growing in any of them. I was hoping to create new life forms, because then I’d be a god.

Anyway, other than the dirty Tupperware, there doesn’t seem to be any disorder in my life lately. I spent most of last night’s therapy session narrating events that I’d already narrated to myself — there wasn’t really anything to sort through. It wasn’t until the last five minutes that I realized that deep down I want a boyfriend who’s just like my mom. Well, except male. And younger.

Things just seem… good. Not wing-flappingly wonderful. Not incredibly awful, or even bad. Just… pretty darn okay. And that’s great. Okay is great.

I’ve haven’t really felt like having sex lately. It’s not that I’ve lost interest in sexual pleasure — I still look at attractive guys, and despite the crumbling economy, my right hand has been gainfully employed (which, come to think of it (so to speak) is strange, considering I’m left-handed). But I haven’t felt a need to feel someone else’s bare skin against my own, or to lick and nibble on someone’s neck, or to explore the insides of someone’s mouth with my tongue. And I’m going to have to stop writing about this, or else I’m going to want to do it again.

I guess that lately, sex seems like more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t feel like having false intimacy. I don’t feel like exposing my body to someone. I don’t feel like quick awkward goodbyes. So I guess I’ve snapped myself closed, just like… just like… well, just like Tupperware.

Speaking of sex, apparently someone ended last night’s Blogmeet with some blog meat! I’m trying to use a combination of math and logic to figure out who the other guy was. Hmm… when I left the Phoenix, there were five bloggers remaining besides Michael. But it’s none of my business, so I think I’ll just let it go.

Anyway, here’s a photo of eight American bloggers, two British blouggers, and RJ’s hands in front of his face. Enjoy.