Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Elbow-deep in chestal cavity

Dude, way too many strange guys have been seeing my boobs while I've been sober. Something's not right here.


I can't have alcohol or caffeine or smoke for a full day before my surgery, to avoid risk of heart palpitations.


But seriously, it's becoming commonplace for a dude to lift my shirt without even asking my name beforehand nowadays. Sure, he's sticking electrodes to my skin and staring at a machine instead of my cute new bra, but I still want a drink before I flash the guy like it's Mardi Gras and he is the man with the beads to need.

And then tomorrow not only will my surgeon be rummaging around my breasticles, they'll have a visiting doctor, and the two of them together can stare pensively at nipples.

I need black duct-tape to censor myself. TONIGHT.


...ew. The next generation does NOT need to look at my nipples.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

All I've learned about gay sex and never had to ask

Because they'll just tell you. Like, outright. Or there are sites that goes into such technical detail it would turn a porn star dry. At this point, I feel I know more about the subject than people who have ACTUALLY had gay sex.

Why am I doing this? Gay erotica. BAD gay erotica. The internet is like one big porn library and typically I highly enjoy this fact... unless it's horrible gay pr0nness. I read it and and it SUCKS because I'm wincing and sex scenes should never make a person cringe unless that is the intention and 99% of the time it's obvious they were trying to make it sexy. So here are some goddamn rules, bitches.

1. Water is not a lubrication. I don't care how slippery it makes things, it is not an oil, and it actually dries the skin. This works for girls, too, because it actually takes away natural lubrication. It hurts, doesn't help. For that reason, I would use silicon-based lubrication (doesn't wash off easily) for shower scenes.

2. Your ass is not raring to go at all time. It needs to be stretched; a gay has told me that two fingers are usually enough unless the top is kinda big. The muscles in that area tighten up pretty quickly, too, which is why anal sex advocates aren't anally leaking everywhere. There are even kits you can buy to help with stretching. Someone's who's experienced can relax better but even they usually need a little preparation. Without it, there might be anal tearing (no fun) or even just small tears in the membrane (still no fun). Also, use lube. Lots of it. An anus is not a self-lubricating hole, like a vagina. It needs help. Precum ain't gonna cut it.

3. PROTECTION. I've actually gotten critiqued about using condoms in fiction. It's because I'm responsible... especially if the other person is an Unknown. My character doesn't know if they're clean or a walking back of AIDS so guess what? Rubber goes on! (Also: good for cleanup!)

4. Thought you were 'filled' by someone not wearing protection? I dunno if you've seen a guy come, but it's not like buckets. You might psychologically think you were 'getting filled' by someone, or you felt a splash, but more than likely you didn't feel anything. It's not that sensitive inside of you, which is good, if you think about what usually goes through there.

5. There is a prostate. It is about the size of a walnut and usually just as the tip of your finger if you went poking in there. It is sensitive. Some people have a 'trigger' prostate where they orgasm insanely fast if it is stimulated. It is located towards the front of the guy. It is not an inch up the ass. It is not a magic love button that makes everything better. It is a mass of sensitized tissue that secretes the fluids that comprise a lot of seminal ejaculation. Sorry girls, nothing there for you. But the anus itself is full of nerves and some women find that alone to be quite pleasurable. 'sides, orgasm is mostly mental anyway.

6. There are a shitton of gay stereotypes but let me tell you, they are wrong. You see the effeminate, long-haired waif with the stocky hulk and you should have NO IDEA who tops just by looking at the couple. Just putting that out there.

Now if you want to write the gays, that is all the information you need.


Thursday, December 3, 2009

My mouth hasn't hurt this bad since high school

Of course I start this shit off with a blowjob joke. It's funny.

Oh god oral surgery is like the suckiest thing EVER. Besides AIDS. And like a list of other things that suck worse.

But that day was pretty sucky in and of itself. I did the surgery and very distinctly heard the dentist tell his assistant that they were "going to go for broke. Do the best we can for her." Because apparently MY MOUTH FAILS. I just injured a gumline for a lower front tooth and the frenulum (little flap of skin that connects lip to gums) was just making it worse. So they nicked the sucker off and did a skin graft from the roof of my mouth to the tooth. They didn't mention stitches were involved but there you go. DENTISTS LIE.

And for that trouble I got ibuprofen and a gold star. A metaphorical one. He didn't give me an actual gold star.


Then when I was loopy and tried to drive home I nearly ran into a wall because once more, I performed the trick where I confuse brake and gas pedal. A bad idea in most situations, but my lysdexia is particularly nerve-wracking when coming down from the shock of seeing your blood everywhere.

Then two days later I ripped the graft off.



Basically I need to go in again later to redo the graft and it sucks and I gotta slap a bitch. So close to my other surgery. Hate.

Thus ends this edition of 'your life is better than mine'! Tune in next week when I get heart surgery, make a joke while under local anesthesia, and cause a surgeon to nick an artery. Headline: 'Girl killed by dead baby joke.'

Now let's make like a dead baby and hit the road.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

So much familial love it's just short of creepy

(The night before Thanksgiving)

Me: Can I help?

Mom: Make the pies.

Me: ...usually you tell me no.

Mom: It's instant pie crust, at least get that done. (hands me a roll of pie crust)


(Forty minutes later.)

Me: ...okay, the crusts I made are gimpy. Are pies still okay gimpy?

Mom: Like anybody cares. Recipes for the fillings are on the counter.

Me: Wait, why would you want me to cook more of the pie? I failed at AUTOMATIC PIE CRUST. All I had to do was unroll the bitch. I can't do round peg, round hole. I thought our eventual goal of these pies was to have people want to eat them.


Sister: (walks in) Nice gimpy pies, loser.


Mom: HEY.


Sister: I delegate myself to the task of supervising and testing for poison.

Me: I see your delegation and raise the task for me to also take a nap.

Mom: Okay, that's it, get the fuck out of my kitchen.

Monday, November 23, 2009

I'd swear I'm not a lush but I'd be lying

Painkillers don't work on me, not really. I ripped up (not totally off) a good portion of a toenail a week ago and have been hobbling around on it for a while, which really impeded dancing.

See where there is a conflict of interest?

And I still have to defend my ramen against my cat. I don't think 'ramen' is a good food preference for a cat. My cat likes everything, and I keep feeding him stuff for my own sick amusement. So far the only thing he DOESN'T like is Pepsi. I'm pretty sure that's not right. If there was a union for cats, he'd be kicked out of it.

And now it sounds like I only have ramen and Pepsi for sustenance. Oh no, it was my birthday, I have a shitton of free food to nom. Also more booze. A friend got me a bottle of rum for my birthday because SHE KNOWS ME. LIKE, KNOWS MY SOUL. And then people kept buying me drinks. I love my friends because they're enablers, purr.

God, every time I update this thing I'm drinking, smoking, or clubbing. My life is not the life of a rebel sans cause. I do shit like pay storage rent and get dental checkups and jump into my pants with both legs at the same time like everybody else. But clubbing is still amazingly fun, and if you can afford it, go for it.

I'm sorry, back to clubbing. We went to a club in the city and danced it up to top 40's and hiphop, although they repeated songs just like last year, goddamn go on iTunes and download some shit, people, you have three hours and there are more songs than that. I got good and tipsy, and at my high point my friend said something to me and I licked another friend on the mouth. I think that's what was pressing on my mind the whole night, not that I did something so odd and snag a friend and lick her on the mouth, but because now she won't think I'm a good kisser. Which I don't think you can judge with a drunk person anyway. Which was my logic at that time, and now, I'm like "Dude, I don't want to get in that friend's pants anyway, why am I worried she's judging my non-kissing?" and I think that maybe she'll tell prospective hotties that I'm a bad kisser, but she's still a friend even though I licked her mouth, so probably she'll just tell them I can lick my own nipples or something completely ridiculous.

I totally didn't throw up out of a car this year and it was fun even with Creepy Korean telling me to chug my drink and not taking "no," "no," "fuck no," "get the fuck away, asshole," "I will rip out that greasy rag you call a soul, wrap it around your dismembered kittenish testicles, set it on fire, and shove it down your throat if you don't back the fuck off" for an answer. Actually, a stranger came to my rescue, which was nice. I like it when guys feel chivalrous, it always means helping me or buying me things. I know how to change my own tire inside and out but I've never had to.

Yes, so, happy birthday to me. I'm cold, but I have a leftover bottle of rum to finish, and if that doesn't work to warm me up, I can just set fire to my alcohol-soaked liver. The flames will be beautiful.

Friday, November 13, 2009

I dance like I'm having a seizure, but less sexily

Last night I went dancing, specifically dressing up to go ballroom dancing. Which was like the nightmare where I'm continuously fucking up in front of an audience, and people are laughing and pointing, but this was WAY more boring. The moral of the story is, I can learn to samba, but the moment the instructor makes me be her follower and all my mostly-okay BS is exposed, and she has to stop the lesson to make me less of a fuckup but it doesn't work, then I'm dejected and sulk in a corner. I tried to be a good sport and I grinned and had a decent time, but no way was I letting all those old people touch me. Especially when I was so bad, and they were so good.

Someone in our group was like "lol this isn't your scene" and I was like "lol no, my scene is more like UNTZ UNTZ UNTZ" and somehow we ended up clubbing for reals. After they got 'tired' of it, I'm really freakin' hoping it wasn't because of me. I didn't want to be a buzzkill; I was just the only person there who had never taken ballroom dancing. I have rhythm and everything, I swear. I could have faked it but no way.

Anyway, we went downtown and found ourselves in a club where everybody else except the bartender was distinctly Not White. I like hip hop, and I can dance (fuck the title of this post, my hips don't lie), but the fact that we were there was the most entertaining thing ever apparently. I could practically hear whispers of 'This is better than BET!' floating around* as we hit the dance floor. But we were totally hot (I can say this cuz I have low self-esteem but I know good dancing and at least everybody else in my group was hot, and my bff and I ground so hard I'm halfway certain I'm preggers now by that girl). It's just that everybody was watching us and I'm pretty sure some were laughing (in impressed joy, probably). We were also in ballroom dancing clothes vs. clubbing clothes. We kinda cleared the floor. I didn't realize this until my heart started hurting (I skipped my heart meds last night and now expect to go through some fun withdrawal today) and we sat out, and then it was packed again. Oh maaaaaaan. Like Awkward turtle had millions of Awkward babies. (The rest of the night was less uncomfortable/fun and more boring. We went to another bar but bounced to go get Mexican food. A good decision on our part, indeed.)

So there are the unspoken rules of the club, usually limited to 'don't leave your drink on the bar' and 'have a signal for when a creeper is grinding into your ass so you can be rescued.' That's the basic shit, stuff you go over with newfies to clubs so they're not raped at any point. But there are a few rules that I've only learned through experience:

1. Get the hell out of a club before the lights come on. There's two reasons for that: one, you miss the mass of drunk that escapes at that point. Always nice to leave a few minutes early and not have to run bitches over to get out of the area. Two: you do not want to see the floor. You might be fooled into thinking it was clean when the only light was flashing from a strobe twenty feet overhead, but then the lights come on and you see the mass of empty cups, used condoms, and hypodermic needles. And then you automatically get every VD ever for just looking at it. And cancer. You also get cancer.

2. Not only do you not put your drink down, if your club is Sketchville, don't ever let it out of your sight. If you're a girl, take advantage of the fact that you look cute and helpless if you hold it two inches from your boobs with hunched shoulders. Because if you take that drink and just hold it out two feet in front of you, into a crowd of dancing people, it could come back with no less than seven different types of tranquilizers, rape drugs, and E/heroin combo's. Trust me, in good rave clubs you can OD by just inhaling deeply. Your alchie does not leave your immediate sight for longer than a blink.

3. You might laugh at the girls for going off to the bathrooms in groups, but if one of you has to go to the bathroom, you ALL GO. Unless the club is small, there must be a mass to the bathroom. Otherwise one of your party will pass out in a stall and get raped and end up stripping in a really horrible stripclub so her kid can go to school so don't do it.

4. Don't go in with white shoes. They will come out all sorts of fun colors. And stuff will splash on your feet. Unless you have an open wound and it was a cup of pure AIDS suck it up, it will wash off. If you don't want your shoes dirty, don't wear them around throngs of inebriated people. Although you do need shoes; see tip #1.

5. Tip the goddamn bartenders. Even if you get water. They work with your drunk ass for a living. And, if you're generous, you get lots more alchie in your next drink and sometimes you get free drinks. Especially if you yell at the top of your lungs about how cute the bartender is, which works even with gay ones, something I learned by drunken accident.

6. Don't bitch about people wanting to dance with you. Yeah, it's annoying when creepers rub up against you. But you came to a public place to dance, where people dance with everybody else. You probably dressed up. Your dancing is most likely sexy. Everything in your body language says you're here to get nookie. Trust me, I understand, I wouldn't go to a club for sex just like I wouldn't go to the AIDS clinic to share needles. But at the same time, these boobs were made to be showed off. Just politely decline, no need to get nasty or bite anybody's face off. Your friends will laugh with you later about creepers but silently they'll be calling you a douche canoe for the unnecessary reaction. Plus, if you pick fights with drunks, it doesn't matter how much of a girl you are. Shit could go down.

That's it for now. My experience is now your experience. You're welcome.

*if you were offended by that, might just spare yourself the trouble and never come here again.

If this post was censored it'd just be one long 'beep'

You know, I never used to hate Friday the thirteenth's. Mostly because I'm not a superstitious asshole. Not calling all superstitious people assholes, except I am, because superstition is stupid.

Especially that one. A number isn't gonna kill you, bitches. Suck it up. But we still fail to have thirteenth floors and room number skip the dreaded one-three, so apparently the world needs to invest in a backbone. Right after we fix the economy.

What REALLY pisses me off is that the number can ruin a perfectly good Friday. Back in the day it was an unlucky day (thus, FRIDAY the thirteenth) but right now it is the day where you're like fuck yeah, it's the weekend, and the afternoon is like more time off. It's an amazing day and thirteen just pissed all over it. Especially since back in high school I had to listen to all the fuckwads talk about how thirteen is actually their lucky number because of course nobody else has ever thought of that ever, whore.

I don't fall for superstition. I couldn't care less about walking under ladders unless they look old and someone's on them, I don't break mirrors cuz that shit is expensive and hard to clean up, and I've owned (and currently own) black cats, which have been the best cats I've owned. Mostly. On Friday 13th I couldn't care less, just went around my business. I usually wouldn't notice, though, until someone went "LOL IT'S FRIDAY THE 13TH." It was really just another day. Nothing bad happened to me on them, ever.

Today, actually, was alright. I talked with a boy who wasn't doing his work in the school project and got him to grow a pair for almost five minutes, some of the kids were pretty cool, last night I went clubbing and I only overslept a little this morning, and I just had a delicious popsicle. But it was a sucky day.

Mostly because this year, on a Friday the 13th, my dad died.

So quite frankly little Miss Bitch could just shut the fuck UP about being tired from being on the wrestling team and he can't plant flowers because that's GIRL'S work, his life is SO HARD. Jesus. If whining was electricity I'd be RICH.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

I have to race like a pisshorse

The title is just another charming phrase I picked up along the way. Drop it casually at formal balls and EVERYBODY will want into your chiffon gown. Or at least point you to a bathroom.

But for now, I'm stuck in the library, too lazy to relinquish my little computer booth and head across campus to find a bathroom, since I only know where one is, a fault of the school, I'm sure. Or at least I'm going to blame them.

Anyway, in class today, my teacher had gotten started on gender and sexuality. I didn't take notes, because even though he has a PhD in psychology, I still probably know more than him on this topic. (I already know more about embryology, as the fucker has no idea what a zona pellucida is.) He got started on transsexuals, then moved to masturbation. Addressing the class, he told us that most of us masturbate, and are too ashamed to admit it.

I masturbate. And I would admit that, in public. Mostly. Not in front of a huge class, so it's not like I volunteered that information. In a small group? I am a very innappropriate person around strangers, but I've learned they like the shock value. So admitting the fact that I've masturbated while driving, that's funny, and it does get you friends cuz "BITCH YOU CRAZY." But on the flip side, nobody has seen my dildo. Sad, because they know what it looks like: purple, and sort of like a nun. Like, the glans is the habit, and it has flowers that sort of make the shape of a string of rosary beads. I wish I was kidding.

I call it 'Divine Penetration.' (I desperately need a new one; an 'OhMiBod,' if at all possible.)

In regards to sexuality, my rearing with both restricted and free. My mother didn't exactly volunteer information, but she was the one to explain to me what a blowjob was. I don't think I ever got the sex talk but I don't think there wasn't a time I didn't know, it was just always known. Then I have friends all over the place who are dirty and nasty and from whom I learn everything that made up for it. And then there is the internet, and my mother comes in here too, not because she's on the internet beyond email but because she totally instilled in me a sense of curiosity. Which is kinda bad, in this case.

Then again, I didn't masturbate for the first time until one of my friends said, "If a girl says she doesn't masturbate.. she's lying." Until then, I hadn't. Was I missing out?


So I can remember my first orgasm ever. I have another friend who cannot, because she started very young. And yet other girls have yet to really experience an orgasm. 20% of all new brides will not have an orgasm their first year of marriage. This is sad. Something needs to be done.

I propose that Christopher Walken goes around to each female individually and assesses their sexual level of maturity. If they don't masturbate, he explains to them the error of their ways. If they have never climaxed ever, and many women don't orgasm until they're 24, he takes care of that problem personally. Bitches and hos get the slut smacked out of them.

I also volunteer Heath Ledger, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Matt Damon, and any other typical hot male celebrity. Walken was my first choice just because he's kind of a badass. In case you hadn't noticed.

(Upon asking a friend, they volunteered the name 'Rupert Grint.' I veto'd that, if only because his sex face would invariably the same nauseated expression that is his go-to emotion when acting. I like redheads as much as the next girl but. No.)

What you should take away from this, or what I took away from this when I reread that mass of pixelated mental vomit:

-masturbate furiously daily. No, you won't go blind. Much.
-the author needs an OhMiBod and it would be a fantastic birthday or Christmas present, but only for her. Think before you buy it for anybody else. Like, really really hard.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

I am Bad People

If having the sudden urge to smoke while swinging on your old elementary school campus makes you a bad person, I don't even want to know how to be a good person. Because seriously, swinging is awesome. Random urges to smoke are awesome. Combine the two?

Totes amazeballs.

My smoking habit, though, isn't really a smoking habit. I don't think you can call it a habit if I bought a pack in September, and here it is November, and I have 13 left. I bought it because it was literally the last day I could legally buy cloves in the US and because I had been jonesing for smoking. I had never smoked before in my life, but I was seriously dreaming about it, I wanted it so bad.

See: addictive personality. I can get addicted to something without any of the prerequisites, like... trying it.

Occasionally now, I have an urge to hold something between my fingers and suck on it (obligatory blowjob joke here) and for a bit I have been wanting to go embrace my inner child but not in a pedophilic way because ew. Swings, though. Yes.

I live around the corner from my old elementary school, so it's 10:30 at night and I'm like "whatever, any kids up to see me smoking are delinquents anyway, and it's not like I'd share my damn cloves when they're illegal to buy here" so I go and yonder hence. It's a nice night out and--

Holy shit fence. There is a huge, fatty fence around my school. Wtshit, childhood? Oh well... it's a fire hazard to lock the thing totally down, so I wander around the perimeter and bam, open door. Score one for me.

I'm walking both through the school and down memory lane, outside the buildings (It's an outdoor campus), being all happy and practically prancing and I vaguely see movement. Yes, my night vision sucks harder than the really old Godzilla movies, although those are hilarious to watch when you've had a few drinks in you. I can't remember which movie it was, but Godzilla totally blows Mothra. I was there, I saw it.

Anyway. Movement. Like an idiot, I decide to Scooby up and investigate. Sort of, I mainly just continue to head towards the swings when


I gtfo'd harder than I have ever gtfo'd in my life. It is on campus and chilling outside a building and about thirty feet away and then it's running and I'm running and to condense all my terror into a few words, I did not get sprayed but it TOTALLY exacerbated my condition.

I sang my way back out of campus because skunks do run away if they know you're coming, it's not like they WANT to ruin your life (they totally do). It was a pretty simple song, mostly comprised of "I am totally haaaaarmlessssss" and "please do not spray me in the faaaaace." My idyllic urge to swing had been squashed. But the pack of nicotine and cloves in my pocket still sang. (It wasn't as good as my song.)

So I hung out in the street to the side of the school, smoked, turned on a few porch lights with the power of making people concerned, and probably TOTALLY freaked out neighborhood watch. I mean, kid in black hoodie wandering outside your house? Sketchy, but... GO BACK TO BED, OLD PEOPLE WITH SUPER-HEARING. I DO NOT WANT TO STEAL YOUR SHIT. And just FYI, fuck littering, I totally didn't throw away my butt. See? I'm a good person. I don't litter or give kids cigs or smoke around other people. (Just outside of elementary schools.)

In any case, that was WAY more terror than a trip to a playground really needed. Which is probably why I should quit my horribly unhealthy smoking 'habit.'