Thankful Thank-Yous (A Day Late)

Happy Black Friday!

I’m usually late for everything, and this thankfulness-list is no exception. So: I am thankful for all the usual things (friends, family, a roof over my head, and all the rest of it), but here are some of the random things I am thankful for:

Sushi (thank you, Japan, for making something so scrumptious), the inventor of Skor (toffee + chocolate + my face = mouthgasam…seriously, it’s simple math), hair brushes (without them, I would have a white-girl afro), whoever pioneered using your mouth for things other than kissing (smart dude), kissing (I mean, you can never go wrong with the classics), the sun for not having a supernova-level bitch fit and eating up Earth (keep up the good work, Mr. Golden Sun), all the turkeys who escaped being eaten yesterday (may you live to gobble for many more seasons), all the people who were lucky enough to eat turkey yesterday (YAY not starving!), people who pick up other people’s books when they drop them (you are nice), friends who tell you when you have something in your teeth (because it’s a lot nicer to know about it than walk around looking icky), the creator of fishtail braids (they make me feel even more Irish than usual), and the book that tells me how to make paper cranes (folding them has gotten me through so many boring minutes).

Basically: thank you, World, for having so much interesting and amazing stuff. And thank you, People, for being so nice and strange and wonderful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Getting C-Blocked by Sickness

I am sick.

My family doesn’t believe in doctors, mostly on account of the fact that they cost money and we used to be really poor and now we’re average mid-level poor. And I don’t really believe in doctors either, because two years ago, I had to do a walk-in at a hospital because I was a.) seeping pus from my eyes (SEXY), b.) coughing up blood (not bloody mucus, blood. ALSO SEXY), c.) having like seven nosebleeds a day (WHAT’S SEXIER THAN THAT?), and d.) was basically just really fucking sick. Sounds awful, right? I mean, I never went to med school, but I’m pretty sure those aren’t the symptoms of good health. Long story short, he prescribed me allergy medicine. Soooo. Not really feeling the MDs.

But I’ve had a rattling, gravel in a blender-meets-Fran Drescher cough for over two weeks, not to mention a runny nose and a headache. And still, I’m like, fuck the doctor, whatever, I’ll ride it out. (Preferably with an adorable little pug to keep me company, like Marie/Kirsten here.)

BUT NOW MY SICKNESS IS COCKBLOCKING ME. And that, my friends, is unacceptable.

I’m just gonna do what I do best and overshare: I was trying to give a classy bathroom beej the other day (it was the Guy’s bathroom, not one at, like, TGI Friday’s, so don’t overreact) and I had to keep stopping to come up for air. It was like scuba-diving, but with dick. Seriously, though, nothing makes me feel worse than when the Guy is saying, “Don’t stop,” and I have to be all, “Holla, holla, breath break.” BUZZKILLINGTON.

Then shit got really real when me and the Guy were in the moment (e.g., getting some) and I started coughing so hard we had to stop.

NOnononoNOnoNO. No.

I want THAT, not a box full of tissues. I think I’m a pretty easygoing person, but once you get between me and my getting mine, well, nyet. But, alas, I’m still sick. So I guess I’m going to curl up with my teddy bear and just cross my fingers that I at least dream something hot.

Oh, yeah, and Happy Turkey Day–all you betches better be thankful you’re still healthy enough to fuck.

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.)