Heal my arse

Sitting slumped on the couch looking at a book titled: ‘You Can Heal Your Life’. Oh yeah? Then how come I haven’t even managed a shave since Thursday week when she moved her washing machine out? Not that shaving and washing machines have much in common, although both are obviously concerned with hygiene, speaking of which I haven’t done any washing since then either.

Note to self: must buy a washing machine, or more underwear, and considering that even a basic Whirlpool costs at least $500 and that underpants are a buck a pair at Bi Lo I could just buy enough jocks to last well into next year and still come out ahead, although the thought of washing several hundred pairs of underpants at the laundromat all at once mid next year, does not appeal, nor does the idea of storing what may well amount to several dozen kilos of moldering undies over that period. Come to think of it where would I even store the clean ones? I haven’t got a wardrobe anymore (That was the first thing she’d taken. There was no way she was going to store her things in plastic bags. ) and so I’d more than likely keep them in the plastic bags in which I bring them home, that is unless I can score a few cardboard boxes from the greengrocer.

Unless I buy a wardrobe.

Although not buying a wardrobe would save another couple of hundred bucks which means that I could buy more underwear, perhaps enough to last for up to two years without having to do a wash, mind you that does compound the soiled undies storage problem quite a bit, although if I factor in the saving on laundry detergent, I’m still ahead. One slight problem however would be explaining the enormous stacks of plastic bags/boxes full of either clean or soiled underwear should Gillian come back, or hope against hope, I should actually manage to bring another girl home.

Girls just don’t understand these things and no amount of explaining about how much financial sense the situation makes would compensate either for the stench (which is sure to be mighty once I get a good six months into the project, which, for ease of communication, shall henceforth be known as Project Underpants)...

Double wow.I just Googled Project Underpants and there's actually a site with that name. Can't believe it. Some Charity underpant thing that's actually been happening at teh same time as my underpant (soiled) collection has been building - spooky.

...or for the mind boggling sight of several hundred pairs of underpants in various states of decay. Unless of course I was to spend the money I’d saved on the woman in question (ignoring for the moment the obvious problem that such an act of generosity would render the whole project meaningless) in the form of a gift, a washing machine perhaps - redundant of course in Gillian’s case as she already has one, hence the need for Project Underpants in the first place - and perhaps to grand a gift to bestow upon any other potential girl I might bring home.

Not that she’d be a potential girl in any way other than she’d be a potential girlfriend: in all other ways she’d be a fully-realised girl.

Mmmmmm, “fully realised,” doesn’t that sound sexy to you or is it just me? Soft focus film of a bouncy, bubbly girl gamboling in a meadow, like in this old Cadbury Flake ad* happy, smiling and willing to do just about anything for a bite of your chocolate bar…

…Paris Hilton, or Vanessa Hudgens, or any other nude celebrity…

… such as Pamela Anderson…

…not that I’m a Pamela Anderson fan, I’m not, well I wasn’t when I was in a relationship anyway. Like every other well adjusted able-to-commit-male I was appalled by her brazenly, inflated, and augmented sexuality, but now that I’m single, well to hell with that. I’m on the Net all night like all the other single guys looking for free porn, dodgy nude celeb videos and the like, as thankfully, the computer is mine, unlike almost everything else in this apartment, or rather formerly in this apartment. At least the new emptiness, which is now this apartment, gives me plenty of space to work on Project Underpants, all of which I’m sure to need if I’m going to store all those jocks – let’s say between 500 and 600 pairs.

You see that’s where men and women are different.

Forget this Marsand Venus stuff. The difference between men and women is that if a man walked into a woman’s apartment, on a first date, and saw that she had several hundred pairs of underpants he’d think, woohoo let’s party, unless of course they were all Bonds Cottontails, in which case he might be a little underwhelmed, but still not perturbed enough to do anything that might cause the woman in question, fully-realised or otherwise, to ask him to leave, whereas a woman confronted by my stash of undies, no matter how sexy they might be, would run screaming out of my apartment, with me following her, yelling, “Was it something I said?”.

And then all the neighbours would come out to see what’s going on and as I’m standing there in the corridor they’d take a look in through the open front door and see all those boxes and bags full of undies stacked neatly, labelled in date order, used on the left, unused on the right, and suddenly that nice couple who had Gillian and I over for dinner before the break up would be looking embarrassed and, if the truth be told, a little scared, and I’d know I’d never be tasting that cheeky little Rutherglen red, he promised to drop round, and as the other neighbours were shielding their kids I’d turn, crushed and condemned, and make my way back in to Project Underpants, and then the next morning there’d be a book in my letter box titled You Can Heal Your Life and I’d think, oh yeah? Then how come I haven’t even had a shave since last Thursday? And I’d open it and there’d be a note inside and it’d be from Gillian, saying that she’s really worried about me and that maybe I needed help, and I’d know right there and then that that book could tell me nothing, and that if I was ever going to avoid that fateful trip to Bi Lo I’d have to throw it away and work it out for myself.

* I found that ad while I was looking for this one, which is hilarious. For soem reason I remember this being raunchy, when in actual fact it's just very silly.