Chicken (Bawk, Bawk, Bawk!)

Hey, you! You walk around all day like you are a normal, stable person and maybe even own a car and a blazer, but guess what? You are hiding some totally lame secret fear. And if you’re not careful, it might crawl out from underneath your bed and eat you. Think about that while you drive around in your blazer, Mr./Mrs. “Well-Adjusted”!

Hmm, I’m not really sure where I was going with that. My introduction kind of ran away with me. But this post is about Things That Scare You! Or, you know, Things That Scare Me, because you’re not writing this post (but you can totally write 18 comments about how you sleep with a nightlight and a teddy bear and a knife because you’re afraid of the Boogeyman, if you’re so inclined).

I am scared of barking, snarling dogs. I love dogs, but I have an atypically high number of friends with horrible facial scars from doggies biting them (okay, only 2 scarface friends, but still). You can’t come back from that shit.

I am also afraid of people who follow me, because as gorgeous as I am, I am afraid they’re going to pull something terrible out of their pants and try to put it inside me, such as a knife (see what I did there?).

I am afraid of clowns. When I was little, I was at a carnival thing inside a big circus tent, and we were sitting high up in the back. I was grooving on all the trapeze artists and the big fat elephants, and then I turned around the way you always do when you can feel someone looking at you, and who was there? A clown. A tall, scary, unsmiling clown, staring me dead in the eyes. You can’t come back from that shit either.

This post is pretty boring. I am boring myself just writing it. But I haven’t posted anything in a few days and I know my sexual little readers will just DIE without some new material. So, here you go. Hopefully something interesting will flit into my brain and then I can entertain you all instead of talking about my bad childhood clown experiences.

Things I Hate, Part Hatey-Two

Sometimes I hate things. These are some of the things I currently hate.

Not tigers. I love tigers.

1.) People who call women “females.” A girl cat is called a female cat, a bitch is a female dog (or your mother), and a chinchilla with lady parts (ew) is a female chinchilla. A female human is called a woman, or a girl, or any-fucking-thing you want besides female. It sounds weird, and kind of degrading considering the only other time it’s used is for animals. This fellow, Mr. Treat Women Right of Twitter fame, posted a tweet that said, “#Females have a bad habbit of holding on too long, #Men have a bad habbit of letting go too easily.” Dear Mr. Treat Women Right: First of all, I don’t know what a “habbit” is, and second of all, tweeting “females” and then “men” instead of “women” and then “men” is retarded. Would you say, “I’d like a peanut butter and preserves sandwich” or “Bread and margarine”? Well, you probably would, because you’re a weird freak who reads Cosmo, turns the advice section into mushy tweets, and then probably gives STDs to one of your 314,116 followers.

2.) The ridiculous, overgeneralizing, sappy, feel-bad-for-me quotes on Tumblr. SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. I am not really sure when teenage girls are going to realize that 100% of people–even other teenage girls–would rather be around happy people than miserable people, but for the sake of my brain, I hope that time comes soon. I would just unfollow every single Tumblr who posts that shit, but then I would offend a lot of friends and also be following no one.

3.) Stare-ers. Put your eyes back in your head or else I will do it for you using something spiky. I absolutely loathe being stared at. I know that I am a ridiculously sexy, gorgeous person, but when people look at me for longer than, say, ten seconds, their eyes have worn out their welcome. The world is a large and glorious place with much more interesting things than me to look at. This weird girl who looked like the Michelin Man stared at me for so long her head kind of turned around like an owl’s. I hope it got stuck that way and now she has to spin in a circle to do her full creeper stare.

4.) Not coming during sex. This only happens in circumstances where being interrupted or cockblocked is involved, because the Boy knows how to do his job, but I firmly believe there is a lady version of blue balls. Blue boobs, maybe? It makes me feel like a tingly pent-up bomb. (Except diffusing me is a lot more fun…ooer.)

5.) Feeling like a dick because I hate things other people like. I don’t like feeling like a ranty neurotic nitpicky weirdo. So now I double-hate all the things I hate!

I still love you, though, my faithful delicious readers. If I could I would send you all bonbons for Christmas, although I have never have bonbons, because they sound delightfully French and fancy, and those are two good adjectives.


Stop Getting Teardrops on Your Guitars

Why is so much music depressing? “It’s your gradual descent into a life you never meant/It’s the slow fade of love,” are the inspirational words pumping out of my speakers right now (thanks for the sunny message, Rilo Kiley!). I mean, to be fair, it is my music, but Genius picked it, not me.

Seriously, though, 99.99(99999)% of the music I listen to seems to be sad. And I am a happy person. I am also kind of like a sponge, in that I soak up water and people use me to wash their dishes. No, just kidding, I’m a washcloth. (What I really meant is that I basically conform to the mood of whatever is around me, automatically, by accident. Not other people–fuck y’all, I’m still gonna be happy no matter what–but sad movies and music equal sad Wild Hearts.)

Maybe I am just a freak, and this doesn’t happen to anyone else. But if it does, then why can’t more music be happy? And I know what everyone is going to say:

  1. “People are expressing themselves through music, and people are sad.” Guess what, get the fuck over yourself. Your boyfriend dumped you and instead of moving on and sleeping with his hot friend, you wrote a four-page poem about it. That’s even more depressing than your lyrics.
  2. “There is plenty of happy music, and you’re just not listening to it!” Okay, sometimes, I want to listen to the kind of music I like (read: fun, interesting indie-ish music, like Basia Bulat and Minus the Bear, rather than radio tunes, which are also good but not exactly hanging-out jams por moi). And I’m not saying indie artists (what does that even MEAN?) don’t have happy songs, ’cause they totally do. But they are usually sandwiched between 973 depressing songs.

So. Being the proactive person I am, I didn’t just blather all this to complain. Oh, no. (Plus, I figure, some sick freaks–probably the same sorts of people who save their toenail clippings and watch A Walk to Remember with a straight face–actually like sad music, and I don’t want to hate on them. Much.) See, I came up with a solution.

How to Make Indie Music Artists Happy So They Write a Little More Happy Music (Ideally at Least 50% Happy On Each CD, Because Come On)

— Give them all puppies. Literally no one is sad around a puppy. If you just invented a time machine only to realize it can only go back to Holocaust-era Germany and never come back, and your life’s work is wasted on time-traveling-trips to Hitlerville, a puppy will cheer you up.

–Give them sex. FUN sex! Connor Oberst (I probably spelled his name wrong; I usually do, but I’m not going to Google it because I don’t care) is a sad motherfucker and he gets it in with every bright-eyed (ha!) girl who comes around. Clearly, they all suck in bed, or Connor (Conner? Konner? NGJSNG?) might stop writing slush about hot knives (although I do love that song). So maybe give them either a really good time, or pay someone to hop on that with pizazz and lots of smiling.

–Win the lottery and buy out an amusement park for the day; take them there. (If you don’t win the lotto, the lines and screaming children and annoying people saying, “I CAN GUESS YOUR AGE REALLY I CAN I SWEAR I CAN DO IT YOU’RE 15 RIGHT OH NO I WAS WRONG HAVE A GIANT FROG” will just depress them even more. Maybe that’s what happened with Pink Floyd.)

That’s all I’ve got. I didn’t really think it through, because I was pretty sure the puppy thing would work right out the gate. Or you could just listen to all the depressing stuff and pretend that it’s happy instead, like that girl who can’t take a hint and takes, “We need a break,” to mean, “He wants to take a break so he can go engagement-ring shopping in secret!” He never means that, honey. Go write a song about it, maybe?

Eat Me

Okay, so I used to have a bit of an issue with food. Nothing cray-cray full-on anorexic, but it would go a little something like this: eat only dinners (small ones) all week, then eat a bunch of junk one day, feel horrible about myself, and resume not eating much until the next week when all seven days’ worth of hunger built up again. Besides the days when I ate nothing, my proudest day was eating only a serving-size of Triscuits (which is 4, in case you’re curious).

That was a while ago, about seven years, to be exact (holy fuckadoodledoo, I feel old). It wasn’t super horrible, I guess, as far as eating issues go–I lost my period and prided myself on staying in the double-digits of the weight range, which was not so great because I was (and am) tall, but I never grew lanugo or started cutting myself or wearing tiny fisherman’s sweaters. And after a while I just stopped doing it, because hey, I was hungry.

But at the risk of being a little over-dramatic, it has fucked up my relationship with food ever since. (Also, I hate that phrase, even though I just used it. “Relationship”? The only people who have “relationships” with food are fat, because the rest of us have real-life people for that. But you get the idea.)  Even though I started eating normally again, I still hated myself for every single thing I put in my mouth (that sounds ridiculously emo, I know. Fuck you guys, go eat something) and felt guilty after every meal. But that shitty side effect (mostly) went away.

But the past couple of weeks, I feel like I just got sucked back into a tube of oh-fuckkery, as far as eating is concerned. I’ve been working out every morning and stuff, which is good, but now I’m also geeking on calories and whatnot. SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TRY TO BE HEALTHY?

In all honesty, though, this is no buneo. It’s even more fucked up because I don’t want to go back to that, but in some horrible way I do; it’s like an old friend. If you’re nodding in agreement, you are also fucked up.

This isn’t normally the type of thing I post on here, but it’s my blog, and if blogs weren’t made for posting dramatic self-absorbed accounts of personal weirdness, then what are they for?!? Okay, fine, fine, I’ll post something about sex after this.

The 90s Are Back…With (Scrunchie) Vengeance

So, something horrifying is happening: I’m witnessing the first so-old-it’s-new-again fashion revival of my lifetime.

You know what I mean. Stuff from the 80s has come back in style (read: neon colors, those weird jackets everybody seemed to wear back then, cocaine), and stuff from the 70s (stacked bangle bracelets, resort wear, platform shoes), and obviously a lot of stuff from before then is just classic and will always look good (a hat tip to you, Brigitte Bardot).

And if you’re thinking, well, fuck you, I don’t see anyone walking around wearing neon jackets and platform shoes, you either need to make more fashionable friends or crack a magazine. Also, obviously, the stuff that’s in style now isn’t straight-up out-of-the-80s-can; it’s just stuff that’s clearly influenced by those wacky decades past. Case and point.

Kreayshawn is one 80s-ass bitch.

But all of that stuff is before I was born, for the most part, so I was like, phew! I won’t have to see people walking around in overalls and weird floral prints with giant scrunchies in their wet-styled hair! The 90s won’t come back in style for a looooong time!

I was wrong.

The above picture is from Miu Miu’s Fall/Winter 2011 campaign, and it doesn’t really get more 90s than that. Strong-ass eyebrows, an unflattering coral lipstick, a dress with embroidered flowers and a hint of veleteen-ness, frizz-waved hair, and of course, that quilted bag.

I mean, whatever, fashion is nothing if not cyclical, so I guess the 90s had to rear their ugly head sometime. And I am totally on board with crop-tops and high-waisted stuff. But I swear to Baby Jesus, if I see someone wearing butterfly clips, I’m going to personally rip every single one out of their head.

Down With Divas

Okay, so I recently found out about a horrible invention, and it’s called the DivaCup.

Now, before I get sued for slander or something, let me start by saying I’ve never tried it. But that’s basically like saying, “I don’t know if being eaten by three rabid alligators sucks, but I’ve never done it, so it’s not fair to say.” The DivaCup sounds like the most horrible thing since the Japanese Spider Crab, and that’s saying something.

For those of you who aren’t in the know about the DivaCup, it’s a cup for that-time-of-the-month usage. I’ll just spell it out for you: you stick it up your vag and it collects all the blood like a really horrifying glass of wine. YEAH.

I mean, there are so many things wrong with that I don’t even know where to begin. Like, first off, IT’S A CUP FILLED WITH BLOOD JUST CHILLING INSIDE YOU. But besides that, what if it falls out or something while you’re bopping around and people think you just got violently stabbed in the nether regions? What if when you’re changing it, you spill period blood (gag) all over yourself/your pants? And I’m assuming you have to clean that shit before you pop it back in, so how the fuck do you do that in a public restroom? Like, “Oh, hey, what’s up? You’re just washing your hands, huh? Yeah, I’m washing this cup that’s been shoved up my vajangles all day. Yuuup.”

Basically, it sounds like the worst idea ever. So, naturally, I Googled it to see if people who tried it were all like, “OMG it’s like being eaten by three rabid alligators!” But they weren’t. You know why? Because they were all weird hippie freaks.

Every testimonial (okay, the eight testimonials I read–fuck, I’m not a one-woman newspaper here) was like, “You are a huge piece of shit if you don’t use a DivaCup. Tampons and pads are so wasteful. Why don’t you just stab Mother Nature with a knife made out of child slave labor and nuclear waste? The glorious DivaCup is so environmentally friendly and we are amazing people for shoving it all up in our grills.” You should’ve heard what they said about people who use tampons with a plastic (rather than cardboard) applicator: “DIE EARTH-HATING SCUM!”

Okay, not in so many words. But that was seriously the general message. A lot of people tossed around words like “disgust” and “horrible” for people like me, who prefer the clean, sanitary, apparently environment-killing Playtex Sport tampons. Like, really? Next time I see you I’m going to punch you in the stomach so hard your stupid DivaCup comes popping out, dickhead. ‘Cause guess what? I don’t hate the earth because I don’t want to be a walking blood bank; some people are just not down with the idea of having a chalice of O-positive in their pants all day.

In conclusion: wear your DivaCups all day every day if that’s what you’re into, but don’t hate on everyone else, or they might just spray areosal cans into the sky just to spite you. (Also, if you’re a dude, I seriously apologize for this post. It just had to be done.)


Just Wanted to Let the Internet Know…

…That I don’t really care for the look of shaved balls.

THERE. I SAID IT. IT’S OUT THERE. Phew, what a relief!

No, seriously. Thanks to the lady-porn machine that is Tumblr, my eyes were assaulted by two (two!) pairs of hairless balls doing some nasty things. I was like, “Scroll down, scroll, ooh a kitten, scroll, haha memes, scroll, HOLYHAIRLESSBALLSACKSBATMAN!”

This was the cat's reaction to seeing so much naked freeballing.

This, of course, caused me to reflect on the many different forms of ball-scaping I have seen. Which is that all the balls I have encountered had some hair. Not, like, Jumangi hair (with one horrible notable exception that shall never be spoken of again…aside from in my 82-chapter tell-all book, In the Forest, The Mighty ForestOf Pubes!, coming soon!). But hair.

You know what hairless balls look like? Tumors. Or two naked mole rats in a very awkward place. Or a flesh-toned bottle-nose dolphin.

So now you know my long-awaited opinion on waxed balls. You’re welcome.

Beauty, Freedom, Truth, Love, & Weird Clothes

Secretly, I kind of consider myself a bohemian. Do I know what that even means? No. But according to Urban Dictionary (which is obviously reliable), it’s someone who is “above all [an] optimist” (and who “like[s] wearing a mixture of weird clothes”). Yeah, that sums me up.

On the real, though, I would never call myself a bohemian. Mostly because it sounds like a really pretentious excuse to smoke weed, and I don’t need any excuses, thankyouverymuch. But I saw Moulin Rouge, and listened to that whole spiel about the bohemian ideals of “beauty, freedom, truth, and love.” And I agree. Also, I enjoy absinthe, even though it tastes way more like licorice than my taste buds expected.

Seriously, though, what’s not to love about wearing feathers in your hair and lying in the sunshine and thinking happy things? What’s something better you could do with your time on earth? I have no idea what the meaning of life is. Probably, it’s like a giant dogfight and people in the sky are betting on us or something. So why spend your useless time being miserable? Instead, you should spend it in fringe-y scarves and moccasins, drinking strange green liquor with your friends and being stoked. It’s the bohemian way–take it from me.

In Your Face

I might officially be a kinky slut.

I mean that in the most positive way, of course. But I think there comes a point when you sort of reflect on all the sex stuff you’re into and then decide if you’re vanilla or chocolate-raspberry-swirl-with-crazy-ass-toppings. And that point came today about 0.03 seconds after I got a facial.

Please, I can't put a picture of that.

We’re not talking the spa kind, people. (Unless you go to a really weird spa. In which case, more power to you, but I feel like it’s my duty to point out that you could get paid for having someone come on your face instead of paying for it. But anyway.) The first thing that popped into my head wasn’t, “Ew,” or, “Not my face!” or, “I’m going to kill him!”; it was, “Mmmmm.”

I’m not saying that makes me a sick sexual deviant or anything, but I’m saying with confidence that I am the only girl I know in my age bracket who finds that sexy. I’d say that alone pretty much kicks me out of the vanilla category, although I’m not sure yet what flavor I am. (Taste me and tell me. Oooh, look, more sluttishness!) Seriously, though, I had a straight-up request for more sex on the blog, and I aim to please. So that was my dirty little sex thing of the day. Prrrrrrr.

In other news, if you’re sick of filthy mindless rambling, give me something to talk about.

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.

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