I've decided to limit my working out to as late as possible, i.e., just before the gym closes. It fucking kills me and leaves me useless for anything else. That advice "they" give, not to exercise before bedtime because it'll energize you too much to sleep, well, that's crap in my case.
Last night I started reading Pedro Paramo by Juan Rulfo and I'm really liking it. It's a very thin book so I'll prolly finish it today. Its genre is magical realism in Latin America and it's told in a lovely non-linear fashion with beautifully spare prose. What artistry! One I admire greatly. I used to think that writing is easy, but now I see that it requires years of experience, I guess like anything worth doing.
Several months ago I was yelled at by the pet adoption agency for having the kittens on the raw diet, so I switched them to Felidae, a food made with human-grade ingredients and not available in the usual places (grocery or pet stores). Here it's sold in a hoity-toity local chain that I guess is a Home Depot for rich folks. I drove all the way over there last night, only to find they close at six-fucking-thirty! Being out of cat food, I then went to the grocery and got them some raw ingredients with which to make their dinner. They went to town on it too. It contained: ground lamb, ground pork, ground turkey, pureed chicken livers, goat's milk, eggs, pet vitamin powder, salmon oil, water and diatomaceous earth. The DE is to clear out parasites, but I've since read that it doesn't work on tapeworms because the head of the tapeworm is imbedded in the intestine (fucking nasty). Anyway, it was gratifying to see them eat it so eagerly, especially Peep, who I think is too skinny.
Well, Newman has come mewing so I'd better tend to their needs. They need food, water and their litter box cleaned. I just clipped Newman's nails.
Missy cracks me up. She's got some odd, endearing little traits, like the way she tilts her head sometimes. Also, she sits on the little sheepskin I have and starts kneading it with her paws, purring madly with her eyes rolling back in her head.
Eduard was making a six-figure salary before he abandoned his career aspirations in pursuit of a continual state of inebriation. In fact, when he and I started going out (a stupid term if I ever heard one because we never went out unless it was to a bar), he'd gotten a job where reportedly he was earning $80 an hour. However, I don't think that he even lasted two weeks. He'd rather mooch off people or work as a waiter in a sports bar. Anyway, whatever. I bring this up because he said something to me once that struck me as off. He mentioned enjoying going to expensive, five-star restaurants because he liked being waited on with that level of service. The way he said the word "service," with relish, hauteur, and a slight hiss, gave me pause.
Another time we were talking about BDSM paraphernalia and he was telling me about the "bottom" wearing a dog collar with the leash held by the "top." In public. He seemed to be all into the idea. "Fuck that!" I said. "What I do in the bedroom is nobody else's business" [except yours, dear reader--fortunately for you there's not much going on in there right now].
I'm mentioning these incidents because it becomes apparent that Eduard had more of a "dominance" thing going than strictly in the bedroom. Glad I'm out of it. Glad, glad, glad, glad, glad, glad, glad.
I just hope that when/if I meet someone, he'll be sexually adventurous.
posted by Newpeep, N.D. (neurotic depressive) @ 1:05 PM
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