Jul 11 2012
My life is dusty and lacks sexytimes. Oh, and it has power tools. Which would go well with sexytimes and weird construction worker fantasies, IF I WAS HAVING SEX. Which I’m not.
We are in the new house! Whoo hoo!
Well, in… as in we are busy ripping out carpet, sanding back floorboards, repainting walls, repairing ceilings, and cleaning cleaning cleaning.
Not that I am doing much of that at the moment, thankfully. The amount of dust we have created is astronomical, and it turns me into something reminiscent of Darth Vader. Wheeze… Wheeze… Explode planet… Wheeze.
Of course, no one likes Vader, so I have been banned from the house until all the dusty work is done. Fine by me – it means I can spend some time working on uni, working on selling more linen, and cleaning the house we currently live in.
(actual version of events: more time to sit on Facebook, sit on Twitter, pretend to work on uni, and read lots of trashy novels before I go back to work next week).
To be fair, though, my asthma has made life pretty lame at the moment – although I am not helping at the moment in the new house, I do need to go in there occasionally and make sure all is going well. However, these 5 minute visits mean that I end up walking home with a red puffy face, accompanied by a wheezy sound. I haven’t actually had something that would pass as normal breathing for quite a while. It’s very exhausting.
To change the subject, and make you all uncomfortable – it seems that we are stuck in a rut again. Not sure whether he’s too tired, or I’m too tired, or neither of us can be bothered, but I think I am coming close to having the worst sex life in all existence. Probably something to do with the Vader noises (apparently most guys aren’t turned on by this. I think this just shows that most guys are wrong). I’ve even stopped taking the pill because I couldn’t justify the expense, the hassle, and the weight gain for the whole once a month I might get laid. Condoms are easier, cheaper, and I don’t end up with the whole ‘why is the wet spot on my side of the bed again’ issue! Or, as things have actually been, the whole ‘we’ll just assume we won’t get pregnant’ approach. I figure that I have told him, so it’s not like I am surprising him with the whole ‘bam, I’m pregnant, bahahahaha!’ thing. If he doesn’t bother getting condoms, that’s his fault (I’m such a fucking mature adult, right?) At any rate, we have a house, we have an appropriate car, and we have discussed the possibility of a baby at some point (although arguments and stress may have occurred around the idea of ‘when’ exactly… I, if I ever do end up spawning, would prefer to do so for the first time at least before I am 30… and I’ll be 27 in a couple months, so it’s starting to get towards that ‘we should really be trying’ time).
But, that’s all irrelevant, since a prerequisite for being pregnant is getting laid. I know all the ‘it only takes once’ stuff (teenagers who might be reading this – it can only take once! Especially if that once is at the worst possible time in your life – usually when none of your life plans involve having a baby.) But, really, I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen to us. Not at the moment, anyway. Which certainly isn’t a bad thing – although the weird and wonderful happening would not be bad either: Star Wars did prove one thing conclusively – Vader spawn aren’t all that bad, y’know.
But yeah. New house. Dust. Vader breathing. Lack of PIV time. Very slight chance of bun-in-oven-ness, which could result in lots of comedic shenanigans.
Sense. This post made none.