Sometimes I feel like enjoying bands like The Veronicas will somehow buy me hipster street-cred which secretly exacerbates my interest for said band, even though I wish a fiery, fiery death upon any self-or-otherwise-identified hipster. So figure that one out, Freud.

I’ve been reading a lot of Augusten Burroughs lately, which always tends to put me in this hybrid elated-yet-self-deprecating kind of mood. My ex-boyfriend called me today to alert me that I’d left what he considered a significant portion of my book collection in his apartment. Despite our relationship fizzling over six weeks ago, he just now felt the need to let me know. I don’t know. He says he kept meaning to call, and then the more and more he waited, the more awkward he thought it would be. I can’t deny I’ve ever been in that position, but I was driving myself mad thinking I’d lost my copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology or Pride and Prejudice or my collection of short stories from Annie Proulx. All things I tried, in vain, to get him to read. He was never a literary one, my former flame.  I shouldn’t say that. He had his own peculiar brand of taste in literature. This is a man whose bookshelf is simultaneously occupied with e.e. cummings, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and 100 Best Fart Jokes, 2003 Edition.

So it was a fairly major wave of relief that washed over me when he told me he had all of those things, along with my personally-annotated copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife. Somehow, my unpenned copy just seems…inferior. I like reading my own notes. Some of them are crass, like, “How hung is Henry?” Come to think of it, most of my notes are probably that crass. Oh, well. Our entire conversation was awkward and punctuated with uncomfortable silences. I quite literally had to chomp on my inner cheek to keep from blurting out how I longed for his touch, to keep from asking if he was still reading, started watching, if he thought about me, if it was okay to still talk to his sister, whom I adore, if his hand was feeling alright after the break, if he’d found anyone else, if he was looking. I had to chomp to keep from asking, to keep from sobbing, I think.

The whole encounter added an unpleasant element to my day; I don’t like to dwell on him when I don’t have to. And now I can’t stop. Coupled with the discovery of this fantasic song by The Veronicas, “Untouched” I’m in a downer place. Which sucks.

A lot.

So, the warmer weather is here, yay and all that bullshit. God, I hate this part of the year. Allergies! Dogs running around shitting everywhere! Sticky children running around shitting everywhere! Ugh. There should be leash laws for children… I just don’t care for warm weather. Mosquitoes come out from wherever they’ve been hiding to bite the shit out of me, the birds come back and shit on my car, the humidity suffocates me, and the allergies tend to render me useless six out the week’s seven days. I fucking hate it. Seriously, Seattle is calling my name. I can hear it. What was my point? Oh, yeah, I’m getting there.

So, summer is quickly creeping up on us here in my part of Illinois, and along with all the annoying shit that accompanies it, it also means that the number of cute boys showing off their hot legs is growing exponentially! YAY! Okay, so I’m not like a fetishist or anything; I don’t enjoy being tied up or smacked or anything excessively wild. Though, I do have an ex that liked to be a called a dirty worthless slut. I don’t know, I’m not down for degradation during intimate moments. I get that ad nauseum in my real like, okay? But yeah, I’m not really into  anything, which might make me boring, but I don’t care. The only real, like, odd-ish (hehe Oddish) thing that gets me going is Men’s legs. I don’t know. They just like …. really do it for me. Thighs not so much, but calves are like the sexiest part of a man, hands down. Not feet, though. Feet are gross.

But yeah, I am totes down for legs. I am having like THE hardest time finding suitable pictures on the internet that aren’t like, guys shoving each other up the ass, but hopefully you know what I’m talking bout. Great legs are hairy, but not wild. Thick, but not tree stumps. Slender, but not poultry-esque. ZOMG Seriously, men’s legs are the best part of being gay.

And, I always like shock people when I reply “legs” to their, “What do you notice first about a man?” question; Because clearly, anything other than eyes is just sinful. Ugh. Whatever.

(Google images is a dangerous, dangerous thing)