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When the Urge Strikes

When the Urge Strikes

While I of course do miss my heroic handsome housemates when they’re gone, it’s fun doing things like listen to my deranged music at upsetting volumes while sauntering around the place to wholly enjoy and mentally praise its relentlessly immaculate boyfree state and, when the urge strikes, (this is often), vacuuming the floors and the stairs joy-filled, shameless and naked. Also too I gobble with impunity all the dismal gruesome latest in gossip and celebrities.

Once I found myself staring with dead feverish eyes for some thankfully brief moment at a behind-the-scenes photo shoot video of some big-breasted blonde contorting herself into absurd nearly up-side-down positions and all the while maintaining a presence and air that was as unconscious and relaxed as it was deliberately sexy. I topped this private time-wasting surfing and viewing session by appraising random editorials of the models for Victoria’s Secret. Another night too, I spent some time openly admiring Kim Kardashian’s buxom rear. Especially in certain dresses, girlfriend’s got a beautiful rear.

Normally with others here, I have to be very much on my toes. Be capable of closing all such gravely incriminating browser tabs with lightning immediacy, should Dylan or anyone else suddenly materialize, appear without warning, standing in judgment and gazing levelly at my computer screen for God knows how long from a position of silence and power behind me. Getting busted in such gruesome fashion always sucks and deeply. Heavy-hearted and terrible, those moments. Difficult to bounce back from, act like that shit just never happened, keep the expression scholarly, the face at all costs straight. Goddamnit, don’t you judge me, I swear I’m doing important work. There is no God but God and Muhammad is his prophet.

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