I see London

I don't spend much money on myself.

I mean, sure, I have the same expenses as your average single woman (rent, gas, groceries, a spinster pack of batteries every couple of weeks), but I don't generally spend my money on fun things. Sure, I read a metric fuckton every month, but I never buy books and rarely buy magazines, opting instead to visit the library and pore over the latest trashy celebrity weeklies at Borders. And I see an assload of movies, but most of those are thanks to the wonders of G's Netflix subscription.

Well, yesterday was an exception. I had the day off from work, so I caught a matinee of Hard Candy. It's about a 14-year-old girl who hooks up with an older man she met on the internet, and it ain't romance she has on her mind...it's revenge. The audience was made up mostly of men sitting by themselves, and although it's unfair to assume such things, I kind of wondered if they were pedophiles/ephebophiles hoping to catch a glimpse of "underage" tail. (Ellen Page, the actress, was 17 years old at the time the movie was made, but she sure as hell could pass for much younger.) Therefore, I was gratified when certain events began to transpire in the movie and I heard creaking as the male patrons uneasily shifted in their seats.

That was fun.

Afterwards, I went to Cheesecake Factory for lunch because I'd heard that they started serving kobe beef hamburgers. I've always wanted to try kobe beef, which comes from cows that are fed corn and beer and then massaged to evenly distribute the fat. And damn if it wasn't a tasty and very juicy hamburger, but it wasn't the gustatory orgasm I'd been hoping for; I think perhaps you need to try it in steak form for the full effect.

(Side note: I don't know if somebody forgot to wash their hands before they handled my meat---uh huh huh huh---but an hour later, I was sitting in the library flipping through Entertainment Weekly and was wracked with horrible stomach pains. I had to run to the bathroom, where I took the most massive shit of my life. And just when I thought I could shit no more, MORE came out. Imagine squeezing a pastry bag to get every last bit of frosting out; that's what it felt like someone was doing to my intestines. Neat!)

Where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about how I very rarely spend money on myself.

Anyway, occasional excursions like yesterday aside, the one luxury I allow myself is a biweekly massage. I get them done at a local massage school, and since they're performed by interns, it only costs $30 (plus tip) for an hour-long full-body massage. It would take some seriously dire straits for me to give up my massages, I tell you what.

When I was getting ready to leave for my appointment tonight, I poked my head in K's room and said, "Hey, I've got my massage tonight and then I'm probably going to stop at Long's. Do you need anything?"

"Yeah, could you get me some Tylenol PM?"

"Sure," I said.

My massage was, as usual, sublime, and I practically floated back to my car afterwards. I opened the door, slid into the seat, and...

...uh...

SHIT.

I drove home and went upstairs. "Uh, K?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry, but I didn't stop at Long's. And here's why." I turned around, and she burst into hysterical laughter.





Guess it's time to go shopping for jeans.

Goddammit.