I believe in “pressure cleaning” my clothes. It’s a highly scientific method that works on the molecular level.

I pile all my dirty clothes up on the floor, and the weight of the clothes on top of the pile slowly pushes the assorted dirt and odors from the clothes below into…um, the floor? Maybe into outer space. Either way, gravity effectively cleanses my clothes, without harmful detergents, or more importantly, the need for me to drag my hungover ass down to the washing machine in the basement.

Pressure cleaning also uses the Theory of Relativity (I told you it was scientific). Eventually, the clothes underneath the pile are relatively cleaner than the ones on top. Then they go on top of the pile, and the cycle begins anew. It’s quite beautiful, really.

Anyway, this explains why I got to work tonight and realized that there was…something…on my jeans. The jeans were last worn a few days ago, which means they were at the bottom of the cleaning pile long enough that they smelled okay (I checked), but not long enough for the pressure to remove the…something (I thought I checked, but I was half asleep and not as vigilant in my search for “things” as I might have been).

I know what the something is. I know how it got there. I know who put it there. It’s barely noticible, but not something most people have on their pants at work. And I should be horribly disgusted at the whole idea, but in a twisted way I’m finding it amusing.

I can tell you this though: The shirt I wore that same night is gonna be at the bottom of the pile for quite some time.

The Management hereby announces the penalties for the following statements:

“Deep down, you’re not that tough.” “You only act all hard-bitten to keep people from getting close to you.” “I know that underneath it all you’re a softy.”

Penalty: I stab you in the eye with a fork

“Jesus, you really don’t have any feelings at all, do you?” “You just hate romance and love and anything nice.” “You’re not interested in a normal relationship.”

Penalty: Either a nut-slap or a titty twister, depending on gender.

It’s like this, kids: Yes, that crusty exterior is for real, and no, I’m not just moments away from melting into a little puddle of emotion. I don’t like talking about my feelings. I am a cynical bitch.

But I’m not completely heartless, and like pretty much everybody else in the world I would like to have someone who enjoys being with me on a regular (and periodically naked) basis. But I have different standards and “non-traditional” ways of traversing the horrible train wreck that human relationships can be.

Think of it this way…I’m not a an ice princess, frozen straight through. Nor am I a cherry cordial, with some sickenly sweet gooey center.

I’m nougat, okay? Firm, but flexible. A hard candy coating, and underneath that…Nougat.

Just…Nougat.

Now I want a candy bar.

Some friends and I recently discussed things you do when no one is around to hear/see you.

I never realized how insane my “alone time activities” are.

Of course, my primary solo act is drinking. It may seem sad, but for me, drinking alone is one of the best things I do. If I stay at home with a bottle of gin, I a) save money and b) save face. The only thing I have to worry about is when I start drunk calling people (usually in an attempt to get them to come over and have sex with me). But as long as I hide my phone before I start boozing, I’m good to go.

Oddly, I don’t think of that as strange. But the other things I do when I’m alone…

Like most women, I spend a lot of time in front of the mirror. Practice the pouts and doe-eyed come-hither looks. Yes fellas, women rehearse that shit. It takes a surprising amount of work to perfect that “I’m just an innocent little girl with a slow, sleepy smile and a startlingly sexy glint in her eyes…don’t you wanna buy me a drink?” look.

Other mirror activities include the “Why don’t I pull all my hair up like…This?” the “Blow my stomach out real far to see what I’d look like pregnant,” followed by the “Suck in my gut ’till it almost looks like I have a six pack,” and the “I don’t need a boob job, do I?”

Do guys do this? Just wondering. Anyway, the mirror stuff’s pretty typical for a chick.

But I also dance in my bed. Note: I’m not dancing on my bed, ala 1980′s teen sex romp film. I’m laying down, trying to sleep, listening to music, and I’ll start some weird horizontal twitching. Though if a really good song comes on, I’ll jump up and bounce around in the dark until the song ends or I stub my toe on a pile of shoes.

I like to read Dorothy Parker aloud in a dry, cigarette and scotch soaked voice. I like to act out the “movies in my head”. These can be previously produced movies that I insert myself into, but most of the time, it’s movies that haven’t been made and never will be. I’m usually a hardbitten mercenary swordswoman, a hardbitten spaceship pilot, or a hardbitten killer-for-hire. Sometimes I have magical powers. Sometimes I’m a princess.

I talk to myself (I do this when I’m not alone, as well). I talk to people I know that aren’t actually there, in scenarios that are highly unlikely to ever occur.

When it rains, I run outside and spin around trying to catch raindrops on my tongue.

I pose for artistic and stylish photographs, even though I don’t own a camera. I apply perfume and sniff my wrists. I yell at the television. I pretend I’m in music videos. I imagine meeting somebody famous and having them fall in love with me.

I imagine meeting somebody who’s not famous and having them fall in love with me.

That’s the sort of thing I do when I’m all alone.

But for the most part, I just drink.

Oh, and watch porn.