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.)

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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.

A Heartfelt Drunk Letter to Santa

So I just watched the Glee Christmas episode and it definitely put me in the holiday spirit. Mostly because it was about Santa, and I love Santa. But then it reminded me that I have to go Christmas shopping, and that killed my deck-the-halls buzz.

I. HATE. CHRISTMAS. SHOPPING. I mean, I’m not a dick. I love buying people presents, and I love shopping, and I love Christmas. It should add up to a full-on orgasmic mall experience. I even love stores around the holidays, because they have twinkly window displays and the mall has a big tall tree and a chubby mall Santa.

But. Buying some people gifts is SO HARD. Take my dad, for instance. His interests include Boring Things and Other Boring Things. And he has all the equipment necessary to take part in said Boring Things. What am I supposed to get him? A pencil holder made out of a soup can? A hand print turned into a reindeer? I wish I hadn’t used all those brilliant ideas back in my youth, because now I’m fucked.

I mean, I am easy to shop for. I like almost everything. You would almost have to try to find a gift that I wouldn’t like. And even if you managed (say, by purchasing a life-sized Hitler doll that can raise its arm and sing holiday songs) I would still pretend I liked it, so it wouldn’t matter anyway. But it seems like everyone I know has such weird specific interests, and I have such a tiny amount of money, and it is just basic math:

(No $$$) * (Friends w/ Specific Interests) * (Family w/ Specific Interests) * (# of Gifts) = FUCKED

If only everyone I knew was super jonesing for things I am good at making. Like origami cranes, and bad jokes. At least with guys it’s easy, because you just dress up as Super Slutty Santa and do things to them that you’d do to a candy cane. (Unless you’re a freak who bites candy canes, and then you are in trouble, because not only will that be a really shitty gift but you will also scar them for life as far as the holidays are concerned.) Although I actually don’t go that gift route with guys, because unless you’re a frigid bitch that’s the same kind of thing they’re getting on a regular, except that you’re dressed as Santa. So fuck, there is yet another present I need to buy.

I’m just going to drown my tears in a vat of heavily spiked eggnog and write Santa a heartfelt drunk letter asking him to buy all my presents for me. Cheers!

Celebrity Elevator Shenanigans

I love Scarlett Johansson. She is my favorite actress. And I feel like if we got stuck in an elevator together, she wouldn’t be all I’m-so-famous-and-you’re-not. I think she would whip out a notebook and suggest that we play hangman. And all her words would be totally awesome.

Or maybe she would be a total road whore. Either way, she’s still my favorite actress.

My mother (incorrectly) thinks I look like her, as did my ex and some randos. Wrong? Definitely. But a compliment? Also definitely.

My favorite actress used to be Julia Roberts, back in the nineties when she still did things. Things that aren’t called Eat Pray Love and Walk Around Various Lands Boringly for Two Hours. (I haven’t even watched that, but still.) But my litmus test for whether or not I really like a celebrity is the aforementioned elevator thing. You know what Julia Roberts would do if we got stuck in an elevator together? Beat me into the corner with her Birkin, yell, “Stay!” and then call her people to come get her out. (That would still be awesome. How many people can say that Julia Roberts hit them with a purse?)

I also love Robert Downey Jr. A LOT. He can do no wrong in my book. If we were stuck in an elevator, we would have an earnest discussion about the meaning of life, and ultimately conclude that it is to eat as much falafel as possible. (I’ve never had falafel. RDJ teaches me so much.)

And Marky Mark Wahlberg. I never really cared about him either way, and then I saw this picture.

You know what Marky Mark and I would do in an elevator? We would…we would…play checkers. (He has a wife, dicks.) No, I think he would rap for me. And then we would get in a rap battle. And then the fireman would save us, but we would be too busy rap-battling to notice. And then I would be a famous rapper, and I would rip out my teeth and replace them with rubies just to one-up Kanye. (In case you weren’t aware of this little gem [HAHAHA see what I did there?] he tore out his bottom teeth and had diamond teeth surgically implanted. WHAT A BOSS.)

Or maybe, with all these people, we would just stand there in awkward elevator silence until the firemen came.

Deep Doodles

I made a doodle about how Accounting makes me feel. In case you can’t tell, it’s on the back of a library receipt.

The snakes represent the way Accounting chokes my will to live, and the worms represent the squiggly feeling I get in my stomach before an Accounting test. The claws represent the way it tears apart my soul. (It’s really deep, for a doodle.)

I hope the Internet enjoyed its first dose of Original Wild Hearts Artwork (now in fun flavors, like Elephant’s-Foot Taffy and Champagne Pavement!).

All Guys Watch Porn

You know when you’re little, and you’re reading a storybook about a princess who gets swept off her feet by some handsome prince? And of course he’s perfect and he tells her she’s beautiful even when her princess hair is all tangled and he never forgets the anniversary of their kingdoms joining and he makes her scrambled dragon eggs every morning? (No? Obviously I read better fairy-tales than you.)

Yeah, well, Prince Charming totally has a stash of raunchy Serving Wench porn for those long lonely nights when his princess is busy weaving flowers together or whatever princesses do. Seriously. Serving Sluts 9. Joe White and the Seven Whores. Maybe even Goldicocks. (Obviously Prince Charming is really into fairy-tale-themed porn.)

Seriously, though, I have just learned that all guys watch porn. All of them. I mean, I figured a lot of them did, but I was like, “Hey, I’m a girl, and I know girls who watch porn, but I don’t, so….” Yeah, no. Apparently it’s even been scientifically proven. I stumbled across this little gem of knowledge while talking to the Guy, who said nonchalantly, “Yeah, no, all guys do it.” So I asked my friends, who agreed, mostly saying stuff like, “Yeah, my boyfriend does.”

Hrrrrnnnghhhh. I know a girl who dumped her boyfriend because he watched porn, and she considered it “visual cheating” or something. My policy is, if I’m dating someone who’s into porn, whatever. That’s their bag, and as long as they don’t start daydreaming about Tits McGee instead of me and, like, writing her fan letters, I’m good. Rubbing one out ’cause of boredom or as part of the daily routine, fine; actually emotionally getting into it or wanting to do anything more than watch Miss McGee on screen, go ahead, keep fucking yourself, because I won’t.

Besides, I might not be a porn star, but who cares, as long as I have sex like one.

Besides, I think most guys would rather see their girl doing a Happy Lingerie Dance for them than any random on-screen slut, so as long as their porn shit stays on the computer and far (far, far, far) away from love and life, then I say, fuck it. (HAHAHA see what I did there?)

(Although, for the ladies who are into it–I’m not, but to each their own–I am totes not judging if you watch porn with your guy. Seriously.

Sluts.)

Oh, don’t make that face, you know I love you!

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