Anyhoo, here I am, wide awake (mostly) and sober after another Drunken Monday. After I had imbibed at least 4 peachy-flavored rum drinks yesterday, my Rockstar finally got home. Normally, I would have jumped up in a drunken excitement and given him a giant booby squish in greeting, but I was busy shooting zombies. Sadly, I have discovered Resident Evil 5 is much too hard, even when it’s set on easy, as I couldn’t even make it past the first zombie annihalation mission. (To be clear, my Rockstar couldn’t either, so it wasn’t all me.)
I mixed him a lovely drink and we proceeded to kill zombies for a bit longer, until my Rockstar remembered he had posted pictures on Facebook of his dirt-bike riding experience the other day. We noticed his nephew had a video of his lovely customized Mustang, and we were both distracted by a pair of legs that were sitting in the background. Apparently my Rockstar was buzzed already, because he allowed my drunken self to post a comment stating that the next time a video is posted, it should focus more on the legs and less on the car. THAT got a few comments, let me tell you.
We then paged through Facebook, observing the many unflattering pictures people post of themselves and others. He informed me that if ever I post such hideous pictures of him, I will surely be murdered in my sleep. I agreed that that would be a justified response.
We then realized it was time to make shrimp scampi. He agreed to monitor my cooking, as half of the bottle of rum was gone at that point. This resulted in me dumping a bunch of butter, garlic, and lemon juice unmeasured into a pan with shrimp and letting him stir it occassionally. Having never had srimp scampi before, he assumed it came in an alfredo-like sauce, which made me giggle. So we decided to make Stove Top stuffing and an entire loaf of garlic bread. All the while, we were discussing the losses of our virginities- I had many questions after finding out he went flaccid the first time. Too, he was interested to hear of my reaction when I was denied the first time I tried to have sex. I feel that we have grown closer by sharing these stories.
Somehow, the conversation turned to the surprising fact that despite his being an Ass Man, he continuously ends up with women sporting large breasteses. He has realized that he must change his ways and become instead a Boob Man.
In the evening hours when I am at work, he has been entertaining himself by watching Gene Simmon’s Family Jewels on Netflix. Apparently he has been reaping wisdom from Gene, because when I pointed out the fact that we don’t do It as frequently as I would like, he said, “I’ll try to say it how Gene said it, because it was a nice way to put it- I’m not looking for anything else, and I don’t need anything more than you, but it’s alot easier to have sex with different women every single night than it is to have sex with the SAME woman every single night.” The point being, he wants no one else, but sex with me every single night would get old. (He has stated that 2 or 3 times a week is sufficient. Blah) Since he tried to sugar-coat it, I am not offended. However, I will ask you men- is Gene right?
We then gathered our dinners together on plates and sat down to watch my new favorite show, Two Broke Girls. Considering that my Rockstar is, at times, not a conversationalist, I was surprised when the mention of doggy anal glands on the show sparked an entire rant from him on the subject. After his 10 minute word rampage, he asked, “What do you think?” Honestly, I was floored that he had that much to say about anal glands in the first place, so I was rendered speechless. I simply shrugged and went back to eating my delicious shrimp scampi.
In my drunken state, I also managed to eat the ENTIRE loaf of garlic bread and still be hungry. I commented on the superior flavoring of the shrimp scampi, and my Rockstar agreed, but stated it was best if he oversees my cooking. I agreed.
It was a lovely Drunken Monday, though a few of our conversational subjects are not ones I care to revisit- mainly, anal glands.