I don't know what it is...but there's something in the summer air that makes me man-crazy. Normally, I'm quite content with the one I have. To the point that I (really, truly, no lying) don't even check out other men. Strange, right? But during the summer, I get a hankering for complete raunchiness. NO, that doesn't mean a big, farting oaf. I'm talking against-the-wall, out-of-breath, trying-to-catch-up, but OMG OMG OMG. Not sweet...no romance.
Now, to my credit, my obsessions so far this summer have been something that I could talk about in the moment. Whereas, last summer's man can only be discussed now...with a year between me and that whole weirdness. It was Roger Daltrey. From The Who.
Something about his old ass at Live 8 kept me burning all summer-long. Now...this summer, there's no one man I can pin it on. It's making me a little disgusted with myself. Every ambiguous-looking male singer from every new band. Every smarmy, smug frat boy that passes my way. Every man in a Polo shirt that smells good. Every guy at work...the more redneck, the better. GAG! But it's true. I'm making them all miserable at work by taking out my frustrations on them. Made simple by the fact that I'm the boss. Poor guys.
Pray for me, y'all...I'm a loose cannon.
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