I Love Yoga

I love love love it. I’ve been doing it for about five years, I guess, maybe a little longer? It makes me feel all stretchy and happy and relaxed, like a cat in the sun. Meow. Also, it makes me feel sexy. Yo-ga! Yo-ga! Yo-ga! (Super lame pun.  But just go with it.)

Fake New Year’s Resolutions

I have never really been one for New Year’s Resolutions. Mostly because I know I won’t stick to them, especially if they’re about exercise (Running. Is. So. Boring. And I used to do track, but seriously, that’s why I was a sprinter. If I could just run a 200 and call it a day, maybe I’d work out). And it seems kinda bleak and depressing to kick off the new year by ruining all the grand plans I had for it during Week One.

So instead, I don’t make any resolutions. In the spirit of 2011, though, here are some potential ones that I wish I could actually do, although that’ll never happen so I’m not even going to try (I’m a real champ):

1. Stop finding Kanye West attractive. Just stop. (Normally, I hate hate double-hate loathe cocky guys, especially ones with diamonds for bottom teeth. But Kayne West is just the exception that proves the rule. Although I may have accidentally stumbled across some semi-nude pictures of him and he has a monster bush, so that might help me stop thinking he’s sexy.)
2. Stop procrastinating EVERYTHING. Fuck it, I’ll just do that in 2012 (see what I did there?!?!?).
3. Learn to do a cartwheel. I feel like if I could do cartwheels I would just do them everywhere I went, yelling, “WHEEEEE!” while I pinwheeled around everyone in circles. A good idea? No. But totally boss? Yes.

Yum. I can still say that since it's only 2010.

 

Well, that’s three. That is a lot of fake resolutioning I did there.

Seriously, though, what are you sitting around reading this blog for? Go buy something sparkly (and I don’t mean coke with glitter in it, revelers) and start mixing up fifty kegs of Jungle Juice. Stop thinking, start drinking! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!

 

 

Homey Home

Being home has many Amazing Good Things, like real food and a bed with a million blankets on it. But home also lacks three pivotal aspects of my life: sexy time, alcohol, and 420 friendliness.

That being said, though, my bed is soooo comfy right now.

A List of Things

I write a lot about specific topics, and even though I manage to put in a lot of random rambling, sometimes I want the whole post to be me tipping over my head and pouring out my brain. So, here is a list of random thoughts from the scrambledy noggin of me, Wild Hearts.

1. I am very lucky. I have been extra-extra happy lately, and I am super thankful. Is that corny as all get-out? Yes. (Also, was saying “corny as all get-out” corny? Yeah. But if I keep asking that it’s just gonna be an infinite circle of corniness and no one wants that.) But is it true? Also yes.
2. I love everything made out of potatoes. Mmm.
3. Sometimes, I take things too personally, or get bitchy over something stupid. I’m working on it, and so far, so good. (You catch more rabbits with honey. I don’t know if that’s true, but the point here is that honey is good and I really don’t want to catch any flies. And bunnies and honey are cute!)
4. I feel 9,000 times sexier in a garter belt and thigh-highs. It is my Instant Sexy.
5. I am superstitious. Some things I believe in: knocking on wood, salt being protective, almost any folk tale, and not messing around with mirrors. (Black cats, however, I love.)
6. I will do abso-fucking-lutely anything to bounce on a trampoline.
7. I think it would be really cool to have black hair for a day (I’m blonde). But just a day.
8. My favorite kind of people are carefree and fun and funny and wild and spontaneous, but who can also be the best serious conversation you’ve ever had. I’m lucky enough to know a few.
9. I wear a lot of blush because I like to always look like I’ve just been laughing. (Not like a tranny, I promise.)
10. Pickles. SO GOOD.
11. I have an intense, burning hatred for nostalgia. And for living in the past. It’s good to have good memories, but that’s all they are. Make new better ones instead.
12. When I see cute dogs I want to kidnap them. Especially Great Pyrenees.
13. I don’t trust people who don’t like the water.
14. One of my favorite things in the whole-wide world is when you look at them and you can tell what they’re thinking through their eyes. (Unless it’s something bad, like, “I hate her stupid face.” And then you can just slap on a pair of sunglasses, thankyouverymuch.)
15. I am really excellent at telling people how I feel about them if they say it first. I could date someone for five billion years but I will never, ever, ever say, “I love you,” before they do unless it’s an accident. But if they say it, no problemo.
16. I like giving head.
17. Drinks with sour mix in them are delicious. Are you drinking one right now? No? Then you should be.
18. I can’t wait for my hair to get longer.
19. This number is my birth-day!

That is a lot of random thoughts, but there you have it.

See? Instant Sexy, just add legs.

 

Have a Miraculous Christmas

Guess what, Internet? It’s two days before Chrimbo! If you don’t celebrate that holiday, well, then, I don’t know how many days it is until yours, but have a good December 25th anyway!

As a present to myself, I want a new bra.

This bra, to be precise, although probably without all the Swarovski crystals because that will set you back a cool $250. The regular version is “only” $50. See, somehow, I have never bought a Victoria’s Secret bra. I own a bunch of clothes from them, and a drawerful of underwear (I am wearing a VS dress and VS cheekies right now, since I know you were wondering), but I am a cheapo and I can’t bring myself to pay that much for a g.d. ta-ta holder.

But. This, my friends, is not just any bra. This is the Victoria’s Secret Miracle Push-Up Bra, which promises to make you go up two sizes. And I’m pretty sure it’s true, because I have seen Miss Candice Swanepoel sans bra (I’m not a perv; blame Google) and she looks decidedly like a B (as Wikipedia says she is). Long story short, that bra works.

Firstly, that picture reminded me I need to paint my nails. But anyway. I am also a B, although I really can’t image myself having that level of cleavage, but then I got to thinking…isn’t that kind of false advertising? Imagine if you were fooling around with a guy and grabbing what you thought was a super-impressive boner, only to find out that it was like a flashlight or something. When I take off my bra, I don’t want the reaction to be disappointment. Au contraire, I would prefer a happy kid-on-Christmas (hey! That’s soon!) face. So if I walk around with a super-stacked looking chest and then take my clothes off, it’ll be like my ta-tas deflated. And that is definitely not miraculous.

So, fuck it. I will probably just keep buying eighty-seven pounds of underwear and wearing Aerie bras, since they keep the girls a normal size and aren’t sneaky little tricksters.

I’m sorry, I just had to put another Victoria’s Secret picture in here, because it looks so Christmassy and adorable. Also, I want her hair.

Happy Holidays, Internet!

Hit Me

According to the fine folks at Wikipedia, masochism is gaining pleasure from pain. Which is a simple enough concept; I’m no rocket scientist, but I can pretty much grasp that. But what I am confused about is where you draw the line.

See, I have a thing. A spanking thing.

And I don’t know if that makes me, like, a masochist. I don’t know what it is, but it really turns me on. I had an ex who I literally begged to spank me, and after giving it the old college try, he was like, “Look, I’m sorry, but I just can’t bring myself to hit you.” Okay, bud, there is a difference between woman-beating and sexy sexy spanking. (I mean, I’m not holding it against him–if you’re not into it, you’re not into it–but there is a reason he’s my ex.) I guess I was supposed to find that comment sweet, but instead I was just jonesing.

So that got me to thinking, am I into S & M without even knowing it? I mean, I don’t want to get choked or stabbed or branded or anything weird, but I think a teeny-weeny little bit of pain is sexy. Like getting spanked, obviously, or having your hair pulled, or a guy biting your lip when he kisses you. My Guy is excellent at all of these things, and unlike some people, he likes doing them, which makes it all even sexier.

Literally typing this right now is making me horny (sorry, Internet, but unless you’re a new visitor you should know I’m a filthy oversharing freak). So I guess either I’m a masochist, or I have some weird getting-spanked fetish, or I’m just a weirdo?

What I do know is that it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m getting some. So hit me!

 

Talons

One of my friends told me that her boyfriend loves when she has long nails. Apparently he thinks they’re sexy, and he likes getting his back scratched, and he loves the sound they make when she drags them across a chalkboard. (Okay, maybe not the last part.)

I was like, “Okay, to each their own,” and went about my merry way, thinking about rainbows and kittens and world domination. But then I was out to lunch and some randos were along, and one of the boys was enthusiastically asking his girlfriend, “Do you wear long nails? Have you ever had long nails?” I had a trippy acid flashback to the first nail-oriented combo, and so I realized that girls with long nails is kind of a Thing (for certain boys, at least), like red hair or thongs.

Listen. There are two things I will never grow out for a boy, and my nails are one of them. Why? Well, let me tell you.

1. I don’t like having talons. I have had acrylics a few times, out of sheer boredom, and I hate them. Hate. Hate hate double hate loathe. I feel like a retarded pterodactyl when I try to pick things up. The only good thing about them is the great noise they make when you tap your fingers like a bitchy receptionist.
2. My science teacher in high school told me about how all these people at a party got salmonella from “a tiny bit of poop” in their dinner. You wanna know how that got there? It was under one of the chef-lady’s talons. POO FINGERS ARE NOT SEXY. (Although, what the fuck? Maybe don’t finger your [disgustingly dirty] asshole before you serve dinner to a bunch of people, you sick filthy freak.)
3. I don’t like how they look. I think short nails are cuter and prettier and I won’t scratch my eyes out when I put in my contacts, which is always a bonus.
4. How do you give a handie with those bad boys on? It’s not like I normally involve my fingernails in that action, but I feel like it’s kind of unavoidable when  said fingernails are an inch long. You know what’s not sexy? Getting shanked in the dick.
5. How do you give yourself some attention, more importantly? I am not looking to accidentally rape myself, thankyouverymuch.

See that? That right there is the nail-length I like. Plus, I also dip my nails in heavy-grade gold glitter (that is not sarcasm, but God’s honest truth, because your nails feel soooo cool after you do it).

So. If long nails are anyone’s thing, that is peachy keen for them. But don’t scratch me with those claws.

Coyotes and Angelina Jolie

Finals are in the process of frying my brain into a puddle of pink goo. Which will then leak out my ears very attractively, and probably ruin whatever shirt I’m wearing. But it’s okay, because my puddle-brain will be too addled to notice such things.

Long story short, I do not have the mental capacity to write with my normal brilliance and awesomeness. It’s a shame that the noggin that brought the internet such prolific posts is temporary out of commission, but…okay, fine, I’m going to write about the same random shit that I always do. Except that today I reserve the right to make absolutely no sense and ramble on even more than usual. Buckle your seat-belts; it’s about to get brain dead.

So. Two things that I love are coyotes and Angelina Jolie. What do those two things have to do with each other, you ask? Nothing.

This is a coyote who still has his summer fur in early winter. That is reason number one to love them–they change their clothes, just like adorable fuzzy little people. Also, they’re smart, and beautiful, and I feel like they’re just thinking interesting things while they’re bouncing around. Like, “Ooh, look, those humans are scaa-aared! Bitch, please. I’m going to Jack’s going-away party so he can scurry on over to California and east some good food. I don’t want your fat ass.” Or maybe, “I wonder why the sky is blue?” Or, “I am so much hotter than a wolf. Why is the phrase ‘wolf-whistle’? Have they seen me? Obviously it should be ‘coyote-whistle.’” Even if they would bite my face off I still want one for a pet. (Or a fox. But I’d rather have a coyote. Especially that one.)

This is Angelia Jolie. She’s not a coyote, as far as I know.

However, she is a really good actress (watch Girl, Interrupted. Just watch it. I dare you. And now I dared you, so if you don’t, you’re a chicken) and also really nice. She adopted like a kajillion babies and she works with the UN and she helps people, and also she was asked how she spends the money she makes yearly and she said, “Save one-third, live on one-third and give away one-third.” Even if you’re richie rich, giving away 33.3% of your income is super nice.

Plus, she does a great cat-eye. And I give mad props to anyone who wears the cat-eye, ’cause I love it.

And:

Brad Pitt. I know all these people think she stole him from Jenny Aniston, but come on. If you had to pick between the two of them, who would you choose? Besides, it obviously wasn’t meant to be with the Goldilocks couple, since the Jolie-Pitt duo has been together for a while. So. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, haters.

Seriously, this post makes no sense. But it has two solid things in it (coyotes! Angelina Jolie!) so maybe it only kind of sucks, instead of really really sucking?

No, it’s horrible. I’m sorry. If you made it all the way to the bottom of this post, you deserve a prize. So here it is…a hug from me, to the Internet! (This is the part where you wrap your arms around yourself. Enjoy.)

Shoe Porn

I just came.

Really Real Sex

HBO has taught me many things. Mainly, that Real Sex is the best show ever invented. Real Sex, in turn, has educated me to the horrors of the free world. Seriously, that show will scar you. And also teach you about things you never knew existed, like hippie sex communes and radio-show hosts who fuck while on the air. If you have a strong stomach and a dirty mind, it is a solid entertainment choice, although there is a LOT (and I mean a lot) of bush and floppy old-people skin.

The weirdest thing I ever saw on that show, though, was this thing about a woman in porn who had sex with, like, four guys at once. I’m not talking double-anal, double-vaginal either (for those of you still innocent in the ways of the world, prepare to get ruined–SPOILER ALERT: your youth–that means two dicks per lady-opening). Nope, this adventurous lass could somehow have up to four dicks inside her vagina AT ONCE.

"What will I do with all these men? Oh, fuck them, I guess...simultaneously!"

 

I am willing to take a lot at face value. Like, I’m not going to ask how she built up to that level of dick-taking, or why the fuck people find Holland-Tunnel-vag appealing. But I am so curious about the logistics.

Like, how do they stand? Is it like a sex flower, where they all face different directions? How don’t their legs overlap? And do they all just go at their own pace, willy-nilly, with their dicks just going bumpity-bump-bump against each other? Or do they all try and keep the same rhythm? And then if they do all go at the same pace, who is keeping time? Does that mean one of the porn stars has to be a former drum major and shouts out, “Ah-one! Ah-two! Ah-three! Ah-four!” so they can all go insies-outsies simultaneously?

Pretty much the only thing I do know is that I never, ever, ever want to see that. Ever.