Growing up, you have this notion that adulthood is going to be a glamourous affair, rife with tinkling cocktails and sweeping city views from the windows of your penthouse apartment.  Well, maybe you didn’t envision this future, but sometimes I did.  I never would have foreseen an adulthood that found me lying naked on my bed in a tiny, sweltering apartment, furiously rubbing my own back with a vibrator.  Not a massager, a full on phallic vibrator.  There is not a shred of dignity in it, though of course the thought of maintaining a modicum of self-respect in this life has long since been chucked to the side of the long long road.

I have been felled by a painful backache, you see, which I attribute to poor sitting posture, elevated workplace stress, and a lack of husband to work out my knots and fetch of my orange juice.  When there is no man in a life, where else is there to turn but to a vibrator? It actually worked pretty well, for what it’s worth.

January has historically been a somewhat dismal month in the life of me.  The streak of doleful Januarys dates back to the turn of the century.  This one is surprising in its ease and simplicity, but I guess ease and simplicity can be a pleasant side effect of rarely leaving the house.  I deserve the quiet, after a December which saw me romantically entangled with a man who inexplicably found it appropriate to send a one line email which read, “I just sat on my balls.”

It is no head scratcher I am not eager to date, now is it?