It Turns On My Dentist to Step On Things

One day I was bored and I read every single page Wikipedia has about fetishes. Now all that information is knocking around in my head and I sometimes accidentally bust out with things like, “Did you know that some people have a ‘crush’ fetish and they like to watch people step on things?”

But now I decided I should have a fetish to spice up my interesting quotient. Except none of those things Wikipedia told me turn me on. At all. (Tentacles and getting strangled just aren’t my bag, weird.) But then I was with a Boy and he smoked a bong and, bam, fetish found. I have no idea why, but there is something so sexy about watching someone tilt their head back with their eyes closed all calm and relaxed and letting that smooth-looking smoke pour out of their mouth. Mmmmm. Or maybe it’s just because when I kiss him he tastes like delicious weed.

It kind of makes me wonder if anyone I know has a fetish. And I don’t mean something little and boring, like getting their hair pulled or something (because, let’s be real, everyone likes that). I mean something bizarre and Wiki-worthy. Like my Business professor or the dentist or my neighbor.

I guess if my professor is leaving class and a magazine called Whip-N’-Tickle Weekly falls out then the grand mystery will be solved.

Who Writes This Trash?

So if you’re going to be cracking open my diary, I guess you should probably know a few things about me.

I’m just-barely not a teenager anymore, but I hate the word “woman.” Fuck it being empowering. Ask anybody if “woman” or “girl” sounds prettier and unless they’re wearing Birkenstocks over unshaved legs, they’re gonna say “girl.”

Not that being pretty is everything. I love to read. Know why? Because BOOK LOVERS NEVER GO TO BED ALONE, that’s why. (All-time favorite? Fierce People, Dirk Whittenborn. Hands-down.)

I hate going out to dinner with my significant others.

I love sex. Probably too much. I think I’m more like a guy in that department. I think about it a lot. And talk about it a lot. In my opinion it’s the meaning of life, because: why does a species exist? To survive. How does a species survive? By propagating. How does a species propagate? Sex. (I know, I know. We’re not animals. But maybe I am one.)

I think that I come across a lot more opinionatedly in type than I am in real life. My policy is—you think whatever you want, I’ll think whatever I want. I think everyone is entitled to their opinion, and even if I don’t agree with it, I won’t argue with them. It’s their head-space, not mine.

I love ballet. I wish I could do it.

Instead, I do yoga.

I have recently discovered that I might be a chubby chaser.

I hate doing chores. Not just doing them, but the whole idea. The average lifespan of an American person is 78.4 years. That’s 41,207,040 minutes. We only get 41,207,040 to waste, and personally, I just don’t get spending a single one on mowing the lawn. Because the grass is gonna grow back no matter how many times you give it a haircut.

I know people are so much more than the sum of their parts, so you could read this a thousand times and never know me at all. But, either way, hello. (You’re sexy.)

Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken

This is the wildly inappropriate, odd, and probably boring online diary of a girl.