i'm an emotionless dominatrix
Why the hell do my friends seem to get the idea that I'm a merciless dominatrix that incessantly abuses Pat for the purpose of feeding my ungodly fetishes? Granted, I did pilfer his belt as we were walking down a sidewalk adjacent to a busy street, but hey, I didn't fit it around his neck and use it as a makeshift leash to yank him along. And, as Padhraig suggested, Pat would call me "sexy bitch momma" upon request, but that's simply for the purpose of humoring each other, not because I've violently forced him into submission.
Last week Nick had carelessly left his notebook sitting on his desktop while he mingled with other classmates, so I flipped through the pages casually looking for any interesting tidbits that could be used in the event of blackmail. Nick's notebook proved to be a vast abundance of nothing, as it was brimming with math assignments and doodles. However, on the cardboard backing of his notebook, there were a few phone numbers listed next to their corresponding owners. Slyly glancing over my shoulder to see if Nick would be returning to his desk soon, I drew a pen from my backpack hastily and scrawled "the epitome of hotness" under the premature list, along with Pat's phone number.
Today at lunch Nick continued informing me of his experiences with attempting to explain my relationship with Pat to others. I'd rather he not broadcast the details of our relationship, even if it's only to a select few. It's exasperating to constantly have our relationship mocked because it's temporarily long-distance, or to have its validity questioned because of our age difference or my youth and inexperience. I was especially cautious in deciding who I would tell based on whether or not I felt they could respect my decision. I've heard from my peers as well as adults that I should wait before making such a commitment and date other guys in my own grade level. However, guys in my own grade level hold me at the same level as they do unthawed chicken scarred with freezer burn and well-past its expiration date. Much like Ripe Tomato, people often tell me to smile. They say that, you see, but then when I do make it a point to smile often for no particular reason, they become frightened because they assume I'm visualizing beating everyone in the room into a bloody pulp with the aid of a folding chair. They think that, while it pains me to visit pet stores because I desperately wish I could purchase every animal in the store and spoil all of them with unconditional love and attention, and it pains me even considering that one of them may not find a home and have to live the rest of its life in a chilly cage while young children attempt to poke it or feed it lollipops with pocket lint stuck to the sides.
What the hell was I originally talking about?
Oh, right. So yeah, word on the street goes that Nancy thinks my relationship with Pat is "cute," and chirped that she hoped to be invited to the wedding. I love the churning of disgust that bubbles in my stomach when people don't take me seriously (I don't think I could ever slather that statement with enough sarcasm).
Come April 26th when Pat journeys to the Festival of Nations with me (it was scheduled as a field trip for Japanese class, so I'm dragging him along with me since he'll be staying at my house for four days or so), hopefully I can introduce him to a few people to show them that Pat isn't water-retaining, a pusher of illegal substances, or a Diablo fan.
Anyway, I have to dart outside and down to the park to take some pictures for photography, so hopefully this roll will actually turn out so I can improve last quarter's grade.
Toodles.