So I survived it, like a bad movie sequel.

That's right, kids. Penis Week was not quite over yet.

Does it ever seem to you like all your ex-boyfriends* (*or whatever that was) seem to rear their ugly heads, one after another, in the space of the same week - like zits when you're menstrual...?

Is this a function of an oddball lunar cycle - some weirdo cosmic debris, astropoo, or what?

It happens every so often. Fortunately not that often, but often enough to make me wonder what the hell I did to the universe to deserve such retribution. Did I take a giant dump and send it into space? Maybe.

During a previous unwarranted invasion, one even had the nerve to call me out of nowhere - I hadn't spoken to him in years - and say that he was about to leave town and "would like to get naked." Ugggh - excuse me, but why is that my problem? You had your chance. Now here's $50, go and buy yourself a blow job. *shudder*

Then this past week, I heard from all the exes except one. I think he really pissed someone off by messing with me 'cuz now he's in Iraq. Kidding. I hope not. Although he definitely needs to be kept away from women.

However, I was not only the un-proud recipient of nekkid photos from one ex, I had a near-booty call from another. It seems I had forgotten his birthday (YES! Finally! I was feeling quite smug with myself for that.)

Yeah, so it was his birthday. And like myself, some folks feel lower than pond scum around that time. And sure, yeah, they think that because it is their birthday, they need to get laid. Perfectly understandable.

He was having a party. So I tried begging off by saying that I'd gained around 50 lbs. since he last saw me, which is mostly true, but that didn't work. All he said was, "gee, honey, your boobs look HUGE!" Crap. I also tried not smelling so good. Maybe he can't smell, because he told my ride he could "leave the Mrs." Yikes.

But mostly I just felt sorry for him. Besides myself and the friend I invited along, no one, NO ONE was there who was in his life just a few years ago. Which kind of made me pity him a little, if you can really pity someone with 3 houses and 9 cars.

Well, as much as I could pity someone with multiple properties and no shortage of scantily clad tanorexic biker women, who has BLEACHED HIS HEAD in some sort of mid-life-crisisy fit...well, I did.

(Last time he bleached his head, I wanted to put a life-sized cardboard cutout of Colonel Sanders on his doorstep, ring the doorbell, and run away - but he still wouldn't get the hint.)

So I went, and calmly regarded the similarly bleached blonde - a cute little cow, kind of Mira-Sorvinoish but with a vaguely sad, donkey-faced expression (probably because she found me highly suspicious, which was right!) who was cutting his birthday cake I think she made from scratch, and ridiculously overdressed for a casual party - silky skirt, pantyhose, and spike heels with obligatory trashy ankle bracelet. She was as frilly and frothy and devoid of real substance as the cake. I thought to myself, a) hey, Self, I don't know if you've noticed this, but men in a mid-life crisis have no taste, and b) there but for the grace of God go I.

Well, there, but for the donkey face, and minus about 50 lbs.

Thank you, Jeebus*, for saving me from The Peroxide Head Man. Dude has a plan.

Hooray for closure!
Lub,
-Pisser

*Sorry, I'm Jewish.