Thursday, October 06, 2005

Fuck the cabinets.

And fuck the water dripping from my bathroom ceiling, fuck the subject GREs, and fuck the fact that the CDC's Influenza lab just synthesized the deadly strain responsible for the big flu epidemic in 1918 FROM SCRATCH. I just got my right foot massaged by a 35 year old British man.

What do I do NOW?!

I mean, he said my feet seem to be in pretty good shape, but he's not a podiatrist-- he's just BRITISH. He was disappointed that there weren't any cracks and pops. To me, that sounds like something a MURDERER would be disappointed by.

He's going to murder me.

I suppose I asked for it. I offered the man wine, he interacted with my cat in a gentle and harmless way, and we were having a pleasant conversation about MASSAGES. Then, in his British accent, he asks: "might I be so bold as to ask if I could mass-age your foot?"

Oh dear sweet god of Hellfire and Brimstone, what was I supposed to say? No? Get off my porch? Keep away from my rough and calloused footpads, you Limey?

Of course not. I stuck my foot in the man's hand, sipped my wine, sat in my dirty white plastic deck chair and got my foot mass-aged like the Queen of Atlanta. And now I feel slightly creepy. Let's be honest-- I just moved to Georgia to work in a smallpox lab, I've had to urinate in my bathtub twice because there is a severe leak directly over my toilet, and now I have a British man touching my feet.

And then he invited me upstairs for hot chocolate.

I guess I'm painting a weirder picture than I necessarily need to, or than it necessarily is, but it's all so very new.

However, he did say his favorite animal is the cougar...

2 comments:

Livinia said...

So did you go?

Mackenzie said...

oh my, you have quite the following with your story missy...

how will you break the new to Livinia that the British man is not the man for you? I'll do it.

Livinia, darling, unfortunately this fellow got progressively creepier as the encounters progressed. And so our dear friend had to stop pursuing and responding to the gentleman's pursuits. I find it quite disappointing, but we must trust that little voice in our heads or that feeling in our hearts.

And to you, my future Dr. Webb, fuck the cabinets indeed, but do not fuck the Brit.