When I have a cold, I tend not to feel so hot. I do not mean that "I tend not to feel so good" or that "I tend not to feel very warm". I mean that "I tend not to feel so hot-as-in-sexy, hott-with-a-double-T, rowrrrrrrr.

I am assuming that this is normal, my lack of libido. My lack of interest in dressing up in tight shirts and a push-up bra is also probably normal.

(As an aside, I have to tell you that I wore a bra of complex construction on Friday night, and when I took off my jacket, both Curly and Starcat openly stared at my breasts protruding under my tight black sweater. Just then, the waitress came by, looked at my chest, and said "Nice guns". Ever since, I keep wanting to tell people that I have nice guns, because, you know, that's awesome to be told you have nice guns. (Shut up. If someone can compliment my hair or my eyes, then they compliment my guns. Sheesh.)).

By the way, I have nice guns.

So, I am not feeling terribly sexy, what with the slight fever and the cement block inside my skull and the red eyes and the huge new zit and the mouthbreathing and the cold sore on my upper lip, which is now measuring a whole eight millimetres across (that's one-third of an inch for those on the imperial system).

Not that's it's so important to feel sexy all the time, because I would personally find that tiring and somewhat annoying, like a rash, but at times when it is nearly impossible to feel sexy, I notice how not sexy I feel, and then I end up feeling so far from it that I could fling rocks at sexy with a catapult and not even come close to hitting it.

Today, I did extra work to undermine my ability to feel sexy, because I am such an overachiever.

The first thing I put on to unsexify myself this morning was gussetless underwear. I say "gussetless", because "crotchless" would mislead you into thinking kinky rather than much-too-old-to-be-an-effective-barrier-between-my-crotch-and-my-outer-clothing. This was an accident borne of dressing in the dark without my glasses on at 6:30 am when I was unable to see that they were riddled with holes and that the elastic was completely let go.

The second thing I put on were my socks. These were no ordinary socks, mind you, but extra long black thigh-highs. Again, I don't want to mislead you. This particular pair is reserved for those days when I have neglected to do the laundry and matching pairs are scarce, because I bought these ten years ago from a bargain bin, and they are now grey and stretched out and thinning at the heels.

If I were an über-sunny, full-glassed, serotonin-laiden freak of biology, I might tell you that I was some souped up vixen in matching black thigh-highs and crotchless panties, but her I am not. I am me, and I know the reality of my slouching, grey socks that are two feet too long and my wilted underwear that have been worn beyond their original usefulness.

So, today, I am not sexy. I am not sexy a lot of days, but today, I am Super Not Sexy. Snot, cold sores, bloated, high on cold drugs (sooooo unlike roofies), and decked out in the best underclothes dumpster diving would have to offer.

I am such a sex kitten. Any takers? No?

I thought trashy and drug-addled never went out of fashion.

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"Underwear" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Oh, Dear, I Was Not Going to Spend Any More Time Mooning About Here Than I Already Have, But Hey, It's My Prerogative, and There Is an Outside Chance That You Have Free Will