Craigslist Genius

Craigslist can be a creepy fucking place. I mean, everyone’s soliciting sex and trying to sell their 400-strong collection of homemade glass dildos and not-so-secretively looking for illegal immigrants to work in their pizza shop. It is just a bizarre corner of the Internet.

But sometimes, it’s awesome. I have no idea what part of Craigslist this was posted on, or who said it, and I don’t care, because it’s pure genius. Some rando wrote a post called Just Fucking Fuck Me, Already, and it is glorious.

Basically, it is some lady giving a heads-up to dudes about what women want in bed. And she is spot-on. I could sum it up with “stop trying to be all nice and sensitive and just give a lady a good pounding,” but then you would miss the hilarious nuance (like “It’s OK for you to make noise. Otherwise, we feel like we are fucking a ninja. Unless you actually are a ninja, and have sneaked into our rooms with vibrating nanuchaku and zippered black pajamas, please, please make some noise.”). So go read it.

Side note: while I totally, 110% agree with all of her advice, she says, “Most women like to be fucked, and fucked well.” In my own experience, that’s not totes magoats true; I know a ton of girls who waaayyy prefer the kind of slow, sensual, romantic shit that is my kryptonite (as in, generally not my thing, not as in, “Ooh it’s so great it just kills me!”). So I can kind of see some poor dude being like, “Okay, lady!” and then getting charged with rape. Awwk-ward. But then he can just write a “Missed Connections” seeking “Girls who won’t press rape charges” and it’ll all be fine. Right? Right.

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Cosmo Advice Gone Horribly Wrong

Let me start by saying I am a big fan of Cosmo. I mean, it’s a good magazine. It’s dirty, it has lots of pretty pictures, and they usually have at least one column that makes me laugh (um, I’m looking at you, Lucky, the worst women’s magazine ever created).

But their sex advice can be fucking dangerous.

First of all, why do they talk about using your teeth so much? Like, I don’t care if you say, “Very, very, very gently run the edge of your teeth down his shaft,” because however gently you do it, the guy is going to scream, “HOLY FUCK STOP GRATING MY DICK; IT’S NOT A CARROT, YOU FREAK!” And that’s not going to get you a second date. But somehow, every time I open up a Cosmo, there is at least one tip about “nibbling his balls” or biting something any normal guy wouldn’t want bitten. You know what’s going to happen, Cosmo? Some little fifteen-year-old who’s never given head is going to read that, ruin her boyfriend’s junk, and be scarred for life (just like the guy’s dick).

And then some of it is just downright weird. Jamie’s stellar sex advice is “Make two fists around my shaft and twist them in opposite directions as fast as you can.” Really, Jamie? You like getting Indian burns on your dick? I mean, maybe, but I’m 99.9% sure half the “Sex Tips From Guys!” were written by a bunch of drunk frat guys giggling, “Do you really think they’re going to print this stuff? I mean, holy fuck, who wants a girl to punch them in the sack?” And then sluts everywhere are ball-tapping their boyfriends.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for trying new things. But when the “new things” include scattering marbles on the bed before you get it on (seriously), I’m just not game (you know what I don’t want to go to the doctor for? Having a marble stuck in my vajangles).

So, before girls everywhere are chomping down on penises and forcing their boyfriends to drown themselves during sex, Cosmo should do themselves a favor and have a real, normal dude veto their more psycho sex tips. Or, you know, hire someone who’s not retarded to proofread them first (NO GUY WANTS TEETH ON HIS DICK, PEOPLE).

DIY (Unless You Hang-Glide)

I’m not sure if I’ve ever written about this before, but I have never gotten a manicure. Or a pedicure. Never ever ever. Even for prom, I did my own nails, and at a friend’s wedding recently I was frantically sticking on Lee Press-On Nails (because I’m just that classy) in the car on the way there.

Not only that, but I can count the amount of times I’ve gotten my hair professionally done on one finger (read: once–also for prom), and I would be surprised if I’ve gotten my hair cut at a salon more than ten times. Which is admittedly really weird. Especially coming from me, a Girl Who Loves Prettiness and Clothes and All That Stuff.

Somehow, though, I have just become the do-it-yourselfer of beauty. I cut my own bangs (and pretty much just let the rest of my hair flow free and wild like a majestic lion’s mane) and I paint my own nails. I highlighted my hair by myself for the first time when I was thirteen, and I haven’t looked back since. And I am pretty great at doing my own makeup.

So, what is my point? I don’t have one. Except that I was thinking it was weird I’ve never had a manicure. But given my extensive hobbies (playing the Wii, scraping my nails on a chalkboard, getting into fisticuffs on the regular, hang-gliding) I know I’d just chip my nail polish in four seconds anyway, and then I would be out $20 and have chipped nails.

I’m White on Rice

It’s officially summertime for me. Which means a lot of great things, like eating watermelon and riding my bike and playing tennis and finally getting to swim in water instead of chlorine. But one the best things about summer is that I will no longer look like Casper the Friendly Tool Ghost.

I mean, I really need to spell this out for you, Internet. You’re probably thinking, “Yeah, every white person is pale in the winter, shut up.” In which case you’re kind of harshing my mellow, but it’s fine, I’ll forgive you. Anyway. That might be true, but I am paler than all of them. I practically glow in the dark. I am so white that a polar bear in a snowstorm looks Brasilian in comparison.

So, I like to be tan. And now that there is sunshine in the world again, people will stop trying to put carrots on my nose because they think I’m a snowman. What a relief!

Honey, Shut Up

Life has some awkward conversations. Like the, “Oh, when’s the baby due?” chat with the fat girl. Or the let’s-talk-about-my-suicide-attempt talk (what are you supposed to say to that? “Better luck next time?”).

But tops on that list has to be men reading you poetry. Maybe that doesn’t count as a conversation, because they’re just blathering on for a zillion years and you’re just sitting there with glazey eyes, but it’s my blog and I do what I want so nah nah nah.

I mean, seriously. In the movies they make it all romantic and the guy is staring at his beloved and holding her hand, and there’s sweeping music in the background, and OH MY GOD IT’S THE SWEETEST THING EVER MOM WHEN WILL BOYS READ ME POETRY? No, but for real, every effing preteen girl I’ve ever met swans around longing for a boyfriend to sing to her or send her eighty-seven pages of love letters in flowy cursive.

But as anyone who’s ever had a guy read them poetry knows, it is awkward as fuck.

What are you supposed to DO while they’re moaning on about your “ocean eyes” and “legs that trail on like a sentence”? I mean, I like a compliment as much as the next girl, but you could just be like, “You have great eyes,” or, “The way your legs look in that dress makes me want to have sexual intercourse with you.” You know, the normal stuff. And then a normal, confident adult can respond, “Gee, thanks.” But you can’t do that when someone’s reading you poetry, because it seems pretty dick and flippant (dickkant?). For example, if the dude says, “So till the judgment that your self arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes,” and you’re all, “Sweet, thanks,” you’re being dickkant.

"I don't know why she didn't like my poem; I modeled it on Conor Oberst's songwriting style."

So what do you do?!? You can’t smile a lot, because then it’s like you’re laughing at them, which you probably are since they’re reading you shitty poetry. And you can’t frown, because then you seem like you hate the shitty poetry, which you do. And you can’t say anything, because they’re too busy yammering away. So your only real options are a.) Tell them to shut up because you don’t really like poetry and people reading poems about your face is super awk, b.) Run away, or c.) Stand there like a goon with a half-smile half-frown.

Guess what? All of those options suck. So, I propose option d.) Invent a time machine, hop in that sucker, and go back to Billy Shakespeare’s house and sock him in the face.

Wrong again, Billy!

I’m Wearing Vintage Nylon Stockings Right Now

I like wearing fancy lingerie under regular clothes. It makes me feel sexy and old-fashioned. Especially in comparison to everyone else; today, people are pretty slobbish (is that a word? No, but go with it). Maybe there were lots of slobby girls back in the ’30s and ’40s too, but whenever I see pictures they all have perfect pin-curled hair and red lipstick and high-heeled shoes. So either the photographers were too busy drooling over the dressed-up hotties to take photos of the sloppy plain girls, or–my theory–everyone was fancy and great and there were no slobs.

I mean, I understand that everyone has a different sense of style. And that some ladies are just not into lingerie. I heard of these people called “tom-boys” which are, I guess, girls who don’t like being girly? (Isn’t that crazy?) No, but seriously, I understand. Ish. Since I am not one of those people at all and would wear a garter belt everywhere if that was a less-weird thing to do. (Damn it, tom-boys. If it weren’t for you I could wear a negligee and house slippers to I-Hop and no one would care.)

It kind of makes me want to go back in time and see if all the pretty girls (on a Saturday night…dun dun nuun. No? Don’t know that song? You should probably get out of these parenthesis then) actually were dressed up all the time, or if they were lazy fucks just like people are now. Even Marilyn Monroe probably slouched around in boxers and a giant Notre Dame hoodie.

Look, I've seen pictures of you when you were just Norma Jean, MM. Don't look at me like that.

Now that I’m typing all this, though, I guess it is pretty stellar that when I did eat five bags of Doritos (don’t judge me! Have you had the pizza-flavored ones? THEY TASTE JUST LIKE PIZZA; IT’S KIND OF AMAZING, and also, how do they get all that pizza flavor in a tiny chip?!? OF COURSE I ate seventeen five bags) I can wear pajama pants and a sweatshirt and nobody gives an EFF-YOU-SEE-KAY.

Long story short, um, wear whatever you want, and Happy Mother’s Day, or something? I don’t really know where I was going with any of this. Please buy me corsets.

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