Ahh. Amazon rank high. Apartment mostly set up and feels like home. Makin’ art again. Lookin’ good. Feelin’…y’know, pretty good. Meds have got me nicely mellowed. I hardly ever need the anti-anxiety, except during PMS. (Sure, I sleep ten or eleven hours a day when I can, but my waking hours are productive as hell, so I’ll take the trade-off.) Social life at acceptable levels to keep from going into art-hermitude. Several video games in the queue. Career opportunities on horizon.
Still not getting laid. The chemical castration effects of Effexor unfortunately seem to have gone the way of the hunger-suppression…i.e. still present, but not nearly as noticeable as they were at first.
Oh, well. Can’t have everything. Life is otherwise good. Some day I’ll look back on this and snicker.
And that was fine, except the book kinda sucked, and I realized I had no interest in it whatsoever, but I wasn’t about to give up a perfectly good bath five minutes in.
So, desperate for some way to amuse myself, I shaved a part of my anatomy that doesn’t usually get shaved.
Look, I was REALLY bored. Flicking water at the cat was only fun for the first minute and a half, and then he left the room. The bottle of shaving gel was RIGHT THERE. The book had devolved into someone whining about their suburban garden as metaphor for their broken marriage, and I wasn’t in the mood. And it’s not like you’ve never wondered. And nobody’s gonna be in a position to observe the effects any time soon, at the rate things are going (see above complaint) so I can do whatever stupid-ass thing I want to my anatomy, goddamnit.
Besides. It was for science!
Science therefore wishes to make the following observations.
1. Apparently the razor burn that one gets on the hinge of the thigh is significantly worse than what you get from shaving the pubic region. That makes sense, now that I think about it, I just never gave it any thought. That’s sort of a relief. Not an area you want to look like you’ve come down with chicken pox.
2. Aesthetically, I still don’t get it. I mean, sure, it’s amusing as a novelty, and of course one would wish things well groomed if one’s gonna spend a lot of time down there, but I don’t really see the appeal. Mind you, I wasn’t going to wield the razor anywhere really delicate, so I left the proverbial landing strip. Possibly when one is completely denuded there’s a sudden aesthetic critical mass, but I have my doubts.
Maybe it’s a guy thing.
3. Goddamn, those hairs grow back fast. Christ on a pogo stick. What a place to have five ‘o clock shadow! Obviously waxing is the only way to go–gotta beat those follicles into submission first, then presumably one can fight a holding action with a razor. I am suddenly a lot more sympathetic to male shavingwoes. Sensitive skin + wiry hair must = suck.
4. This itches way worse than my legs, and is much less socially acceptable to scratch in public.
5. Next time, bring a back-up book.
Tune in next week for another episode of “Ursula Does Something Weird Out Of Her Deranged Sense Of Curiosity!” (Mind you, I’m runnin’ out of things to try without getting into piercings, and the upper-ear piercing that went bad broke me of any interest in that. Hmm. Maybe I should take up experimental cooking. Of course with me, any cooking is experimental…)
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