I normally work from home. My set-up: cordless mouse, keyboard, and noise-cancelling headphones. I know headphones shouldn’t be a mandatory part of my kit, but I like them — they give my ears a lovely hug and cancel out all the street noise. Helps me not get distracted. Any noise outside and I’m on my feet, peering out the window, wondering what life looks like when you’re not chained to a fucking desk five days a MF week on endless Teams calls.
The Teams calls make me want to kill myself on the regular. I feign pathetic excuses for my camera not working. But now that I’m forced to show up in the office (twice a week), face-to-face meetings have become really difficult.
All I want to do is pick up my iPhone and play blocks while shamelessly mocking everyone else in the room through mime. When you’re face-to-face, mime tends to cause offence. My favourite is pretending my arms and two hands are talking to each other, like ostriches — causes the most eyebrow raises. Even under the table.
Soundtrack in my brain? Fuck You by Lily Allen. Head gently bobbing side to side in tune with the music.
Please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up.
In the scheme of life, does this really matter?
Do it. Don’t do it. Just make a fucking decision. It’s nearly 3pm!
Once or twice I’ll put my hand up to ask a question or clap in applause for someone’s birthday. The heart gesture is reserved for three colleagues. Using this amount of effort just erodes my soul. I feel I have brought instant shame to my ancestors. After the meeting, I stare at the wall to re-calibrate.
Anyway — I go through AAA batteries like chump change. Popping them like Pringles.
On a recent WFH day, I felt it was my 3PM wank time. I indulge in a 3PM workday wank two or three times a week. What? I like it. Although I am a lazy self-lover (and lover).
I grabbed my iPad, my noise-cancelling headphones, and my vibrator.
Flicked through Netflix. Found something appropriate. Fired up the vibrator.
It gave me everything it had — and then died.
Batteries. I needed batteries.
I opened it up, blew on the battery, and put it back in. I don’t know why I think that might work, but I give every battery a second chance. Still nothing. I looked — and it was a Kodak battery that fell.
Now, I don’t know if battery life is important to you, but it’s one of my biggest bugbears. So, depending on the quality, it can be an absolute bag of shit. These Kodak batteries had been in commission three months ago — at which point I’d lost my shit and insisted better-quality batteries be bought. Energizer.
I was a bit worried Duracell might rub out my clitoris — which, let’s be honest, might be on its way out anyway with the onslaught of menopause. It’s a thing — it’s called clitoral atrophy.
Reminder: Buy Black Cohosh.
Anyway, I had to change out the Kodak batteries every single day in my headphones.
Energizers? Once every two weeks.
Even my mouse had been upgraded to Energizers two months ago.
But my vibrator? It was still running off a lone, crusty Kodak battery.
I felt so sad for me.
My vibrator — my favourite battery-operated item — was not feeling the love.
Now, I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions, but I made a commitment to myself then and there.
More vibrator foreplay, for longer. No more wham-bam, thank-you-ma’am. Try all the settings, not just the one constant setting.
Tease yourself, girl!
Because I’m worth it.
Side note: need to do some research into clit suckers — heard them mentioned on Mormon Wives the other day.
If it’s good enough for those ladies, I’ll give it a go.If it’s good enough for those ladies, I’ll give it a go.
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