Yesterday was a bit of a good news day. I went to the gym, and after my workout I got up on their special scale – this one measures body fat as well as your actual weight. It turns out that my body fat has gone down three percent, and while my weight has gone up, it’s been all muscle. *flex* Ooh yeah.

I also finally got my Furby yesterday. When I first got him working, he was still running off the same program the other owners had, so he spoke a fair bit of English. I had to check out the instruction manual to figure out how to reset him, but before I did that I was just playing with him and trying to remember stuff about Furbies, and I discovered that this guy appears to be allergic to my apartment – at least, he sneezed about five times while he was there, which I thought was pretty funny.

After I reset him, I learned that his name is Kah; the first thing a new Furby says when you turn it on (which sounds all wrong) is “Me (Name)”, and he said “Me Kah.” Meet Kah:

I spent last night catching up on past weeks’ episodes of Angel, and I even got to bed at a decent (well, semi-) decent hour, which was cool.

However, in my wanderings home from between the gym and my apartment, I managed to get a bit of a head of steam worked up about a trend I’ve noticed, and I kinda want to rant about it here. I also want a nap, but that one seems a bit less likely right now.

Anyhow, I’ve decided that I’m going to save any stories of my romantic and/or sexual escapades to share with my coworker friend, and possibly my trainer. At this point, they seem to be the only ones who don’t assume that any story that involves me and a boy results in naked escapades.

I find it absolutely tiresome that, with many of my friends, if I start the sentence, “I met this boy,” they start with the knowing laughter, or the comments along the lines of, “of course” and other “knowing” reactions. As I’ve been using for an example, the sentence could end “... and then he punched me in the face and stole my wallet,” but if you ask my friends, such a thing would never happen. The only way I know boys is as mobile penises that are there for me to ravage, or some such.

I was all prepared to go into another rant about how often I really do keep my pants zipped up or my hands to myself, but I just can’t be bothered to. What it all boils down to is this; if these people I call my friends don’t or can’t be bothered to understand just how I react to sexual situations, how sexual I actually am or even when I actually am having sex or not, then forget it. As it’s been said many times to me, I only share that information with people that I wish them to have; it may be that many of those people who treat me like that may find themselves without any kind of knowledge about what’s going on in my personal life.

Sure, I can and do take ribbing with the best of them. I expect it; after all, I certainly dole out enough of it. But there comes a time when I want to discuss something more seriously, and that’s the time I don’t really want to be ribbed – that’s the time that I don’t want people making me sound like the Queen Whore of Babylon if I say something about making out with a boy, for example. Hell, even if I’m talking about a time I having the sex, it’s not like it’s morally wrong for me to be so doing.

*sigh* This was a much better rant the first time around; I really need to start writing things down. :P Of course, writing with the PDA is slower than writing or typing things out on the fly, but I’m sure I’ll get faster.

Ah well. I'm going to get pampered later, which will be fun.

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