It’s like my clothes have a mind of their own. I see a hot guy…next thing I know…my clothes are off.
A gift some might say….a curse…said by many, many more.
Now usually I’d totally say this brilliant feat is a gift (that I should cherish until my boobs start to sag), unless I’m on an interview…like I was last week.
The interview is going well, great I might say (it’s an unpaid internship, those bitches always love me). I’m getting the general tour of the media company. Which is pretty much my mecca, hot guys in skinny jeans and glasses and I’m pretty much jizzing all over the office (…don’t worry I brought napkins).
“I want you to meet…”
My jaw drops. I’m drooling. I’m motioning with my hand many dirty motions I would like to perform to his man junk.
I’m losing it. Smiling for no reason, smirking every time he does something quirky with his face. I’m pretty sure I winked at him too… I don’t want to talk about it.
I’m singing, yes, singing. Well okay, I’m techinally singing in my head. I’m singing a little jingle that I wrote a fortnight ago…a jingle that I’m pretty known for if I’m being honest with you…
“I want to have sex with you…I want to have sex with…sex with you I want to have…sex sex sex…yeah!”
I know. I know. No applause needed. I’ve been called the songbird of my generation. (Name that movie).
I can’t tell if it’s cause of his red slip on Vans, or the fact that he seems to have very…very… nimble fingers.
And then it happens.
My bra unhooks.
Pop!
He smiles.
My button down shirt starts unbuttoning.
Pop!
He laughs at my retarded joke.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
All this sexual tension happening in a matter of seconds, concealed neatly under my leather jacket.
Fuck. My leather jacket.
Do I looked flushed? Will they ask me to take my jacket off? Of course they will, my face is beet red from the heat/sexual fantasies/my lack of Taco Bell intake in the past 48 hours.
Look, really cool social media girl interviewing me, who is going to judge me immediately once you realize I’m naked under my jacket, I just wanted to have sex with the guy. Okay?! Is that okay with you, you judgemental whore, you?!?
What? My shirt? What the fuck is wrong with my shirt? Nothing! You whore. Yeah that’s right you’re the whore for keeping your shirt all neat and buttoned-up.
It’s opposite day, mother fucker. Suck on that…bitch.
Wait… no…don’t go…I’m really cool…I promise…I interned at Atlantic Records!!!! I only hooked up with one guy there…I’ll keep it in my pants…I swear to God!
Fine…whatever…this place is lame anyway…fuck you…I love you…
I start in January…that boy will be mine…my bra will make sure of it.
Gotta love those holidays...
The holidays always remind me of one thing…MRSA.
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “
…It wasn’t.
I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
When I showed my parents “it”, “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
“Well shit…this is not good.”
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
My parents thought I was 5 and thought ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
…It worked.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
…They didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”
“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”
…I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “
…It wasn’t.
I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
When I showed my parents “it”, “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
“Well shit…this is not good.”
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
My parents thought I was 5 and thought ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
…It worked.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
…They didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”
“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”
…I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…
Let's all say it together...I'm brilliant.
While perusing Urbandictionary.com, I quickly realized the web site is lacking on sexual terms for women. No, not things like Superman that hoe or angry pirate, I’m talking about phrases that are the equivalent to M.I.L.F.
Yeah, sure, we women have D.I.L.F. (Dad I’d Like to Fuck) and silver fox (old man with gray hair I’d like to fuck). But where’s the originality? Where is the underlying racism?
Seeing as I’m such a creative racist, I’ve taken the liberty to coin a few terms, which are all pretty much the same, but whatever they are still awesome. It’s time to be more organized with our sexual relations. And quite honestly, more racist.
1. B.G.I.F.
Now this one is my favorite and coined by my best friend and I. We all have that one Black Guy I’d Fuck. We’ve all seen him. We’ve all stared at him like a Mexican construction worker. He’s beautiful. He’s burly. And yes ladies, He’s black. He’s the Terrance Howard’s of the world. The Danny Glover’s. What? Don't judge (or I'll call you a racist) have you not seen Lethal Weapon 4?
2. J.I.L.F.
Again, same concept as B.G.I.F., different stereotype. Jew I’d Like to Fuck. Oh, John Stewart you beautiful, beautiful Jew. And Paul Rudd, your Judaism is just spectacular. And if any woman says they wouldn’t want to have a little S &M with these men, well then quite frankly, I don’t believe you like penises.
3. A.M.A.R.I.R.L.F
Now this one is pure genius: Any Man of Any Race I’d Really Like to Fuck. If you are ashamed of your racism, then this is the term for you! How is it racist, if you combined every race in one term? God. I love loopholes.
Each breed brings a different, I guess you could say, experience, in a woman’s sexual life. This is a scientific fact, mastered over thousands of years, by woman just like you. There is a caste system in the sexual realm. Know your role. Know your role.
Yeah, sure, we women have D.I.L.F. (Dad I’d Like to Fuck) and silver fox (old man with gray hair I’d like to fuck). But where’s the originality? Where is the underlying racism?
Seeing as I’m such a creative racist, I’ve taken the liberty to coin a few terms, which are all pretty much the same, but whatever they are still awesome. It’s time to be more organized with our sexual relations. And quite honestly, more racist.
1. B.G.I.F.
Now this one is my favorite and coined by my best friend and I. We all have that one Black Guy I’d Fuck. We’ve all seen him. We’ve all stared at him like a Mexican construction worker. He’s beautiful. He’s burly. And yes ladies, He’s black. He’s the Terrance Howard’s of the world. The Danny Glover’s. What? Don't judge (or I'll call you a racist) have you not seen Lethal Weapon 4?
2. J.I.L.F.
Again, same concept as B.G.I.F., different stereotype. Jew I’d Like to Fuck. Oh, John Stewart you beautiful, beautiful Jew. And Paul Rudd, your Judaism is just spectacular. And if any woman says they wouldn’t want to have a little S &M with these men, well then quite frankly, I don’t believe you like penises.
3. A.M.A.R.I.R.L.F
Now this one is pure genius: Any Man of Any Race I’d Really Like to Fuck. If you are ashamed of your racism, then this is the term for you! How is it racist, if you combined every race in one term? God. I love loopholes.
Each breed brings a different, I guess you could say, experience, in a woman’s sexual life. This is a scientific fact, mastered over thousands of years, by woman just like you. There is a caste system in the sexual realm. Know your role. Know your role.
You know it's true...
So I have another great guest blogger...and let me just say...I like the way she thinks. Straight from http://potter-den.blogspot.com/ I present to you Ms. Denise and her feelings about sex:
Why Premarital sex is a good idea:
I have so many reasons to back this up I don’t know where to begin… maybe I’ll start with the fact that the human life span is far far too long… thus we don’t want to get married when we’re twelve anymore but we still want to bone everything we see.
Modern science has made abstinence nearly impossible; I think I discovered my clitoris when I was two or three… all I remember was my mother telling me to keep my hands out of there, I remember her telling me that a lot. How can anyone expect people to keep it in their pants till they get married if our bodies are ready sometime around twelve years old (younger for me…) but people don’t get married till mid to late twenties? The fact that I waited to have sex till I was seventeen is more impressive than waiting till I’m twelve and getting married to my farm husband who expects me to pop out 15 kids and cook over a fire while darning his socks and never speaking lest I’ve been spoken too. All I’m saying that waiting till you were married wasn’t’ a big deal back in the day… they only lived till they were thirty or so to begin with, so marrying someone at ten or whatever meant you spent more than half your life with them, and waiting ten years is nothing. Nothing I tell you!
Now, we live till we’re 70, so… if we don’t get married till we’re 34 we’re still going to be spending half our lives with this one person. Who wants to wait thirty years to get their dick wet?
Or a P in the V…?
Or a V next to the V? I don’t discriminate here people.
All sex is good, and from what I hear lesbian sex is the best. I wish my door swung the other way sometimes; I’d be down for good sex, nice smells, and both people wanting to snuggle after. I do enjoy being the big spoon.
So, this I guess leads to my next point, why the heck can’t you get married if you’re gay? The only thing preventing this is people being discriminating ass holes, if we let them get married they could have all the gay sex they wanted under the protection of the sacrament of marriage and no one could say anything else. According to Slaughter House Five every baby has 7 parents anyways, and two of them age gay men. And we all know that Fiction is really the only place to get reliable scientific fact… oh wait, no, that’s from the Bible… Scientific fact comes from the Bible.
Please excuse me while I go do some Lutheran stuff so I can get into Heaven. Thank you.
I guess the next reason, and I know everyone says it, but why buy a car without test driving it first? You’re not going to marry a guy (or gal) if he can’t cook, right? Okay, well, yes, you probably still are. But, you can get around that. You can eat out (hahaha), you can get hot pockets and those pizzas that are supposed to be really good but aren’t, or you could even cook yourself (please, only as a last option). But what to you do if they are terrible in the sack? Eventually they get better or you get out. Amirite? If it wasn’t the case I’d still be having bad sex in my not-boyfriends basement while we watch reruns of Seinfeld and talk about calculus because I’ve been a nerd since birth, okay.
Sadly that’s not the case. Sadly I’m not having any sex. But, I’d rather have no sex than bad sex and so I’m here, waiting to find some guy on match dot com who I think is worthy of putting more than his face between my legs. Back to not feeling sorry for myself:
Cooking is pretty important though; so, if that is important and you test that out on each other from really early on in the relationship, why not sex? Why not something so fundamentally important for overall well being that there are doctors who devoted their entire career to it? Doctors. Career. Devote. Sex. Doctors. Sex.
It’s important people, and I am not going to wait till I fall in love to do it. Religion is one thing, God is one thing, being a pent up asshole that refuses to get some release is entirely something separate. It makes no sense. Our bodies were made to do it, they need it. It’s a fundamental hunger that grows and grows, we need to feed the desire, be who we were made to be. With the invention of condoms (not just for infant prevention, also keeping your girl parts fresh and smelling like fruit) you can be on your back as often as you’d like and there are no consequences…
Okay, maybe I should say that differently. How you look at sex from the beginning (i.e. when you first discovered that cleaning it was way more fun than cleaning all your other part) and depending on what you were taught and believed reflect on how you’ll view it once you start doing it, regardless of if you’re married or not. Just because you now have a ring on your finger doesn’t mean the guilt you felt every time you looked at your hot math tutors ass goes away. It’s all about how you look at it, and I think people look at it wrong.
If you look at sex as a way to make babies; then you’ll see sex as a way to make babies. You’ll be afraid to fully enjoy yourself because even though your intent isn’t to make a baby, the thought is always there, looming in the distance, threatening to impregnate you.
If you look at sex as a dirty act that is sinful, even after you’re married you’ll still see it as that. All the pressure from seeing your body as dirty and wrong your entire life up to that point will be too much. You won’t be able to enjoy yourself and you won’t be able to get all the benefits (pain release, sinus health, sleep inducing, cardio…) because your stupid brain and your mother’s voice will get in the way of a seriously good time.
But, if you look at sex as an adventure, a fun journey to take your body on that can be done with someone (or by yourself) then you will get the benefit. You will feel better after because it also relieves stress, and we all could use some good old fashioned stress reduction. There is no medical reason to wait till you’re married, your period doesn’t wait till you’re married, your wet dreams where you wake up stuck to the sheets don’t wait till you’re married, why should you wait to use those working parts till you’re married?
All I know is Jesus died a virgin for my sins so I wouldn’t have to… that’s how it goes, right?
Why Premarital sex is a good idea:
I have so many reasons to back this up I don’t know where to begin… maybe I’ll start with the fact that the human life span is far far too long… thus we don’t want to get married when we’re twelve anymore but we still want to bone everything we see.
Modern science has made abstinence nearly impossible; I think I discovered my clitoris when I was two or three… all I remember was my mother telling me to keep my hands out of there, I remember her telling me that a lot. How can anyone expect people to keep it in their pants till they get married if our bodies are ready sometime around twelve years old (younger for me…) but people don’t get married till mid to late twenties? The fact that I waited to have sex till I was seventeen is more impressive than waiting till I’m twelve and getting married to my farm husband who expects me to pop out 15 kids and cook over a fire while darning his socks and never speaking lest I’ve been spoken too. All I’m saying that waiting till you were married wasn’t’ a big deal back in the day… they only lived till they were thirty or so to begin with, so marrying someone at ten or whatever meant you spent more than half your life with them, and waiting ten years is nothing. Nothing I tell you!
Now, we live till we’re 70, so… if we don’t get married till we’re 34 we’re still going to be spending half our lives with this one person. Who wants to wait thirty years to get their dick wet?
Or a P in the V…?
Or a V next to the V? I don’t discriminate here people.
All sex is good, and from what I hear lesbian sex is the best. I wish my door swung the other way sometimes; I’d be down for good sex, nice smells, and both people wanting to snuggle after. I do enjoy being the big spoon.
So, this I guess leads to my next point, why the heck can’t you get married if you’re gay? The only thing preventing this is people being discriminating ass holes, if we let them get married they could have all the gay sex they wanted under the protection of the sacrament of marriage and no one could say anything else. According to Slaughter House Five every baby has 7 parents anyways, and two of them age gay men. And we all know that Fiction is really the only place to get reliable scientific fact… oh wait, no, that’s from the Bible… Scientific fact comes from the Bible.
Please excuse me while I go do some Lutheran stuff so I can get into Heaven. Thank you.
I guess the next reason, and I know everyone says it, but why buy a car without test driving it first? You’re not going to marry a guy (or gal) if he can’t cook, right? Okay, well, yes, you probably still are. But, you can get around that. You can eat out (hahaha), you can get hot pockets and those pizzas that are supposed to be really good but aren’t, or you could even cook yourself (please, only as a last option). But what to you do if they are terrible in the sack? Eventually they get better or you get out. Amirite? If it wasn’t the case I’d still be having bad sex in my not-boyfriends basement while we watch reruns of Seinfeld and talk about calculus because I’ve been a nerd since birth, okay.
Sadly that’s not the case. Sadly I’m not having any sex. But, I’d rather have no sex than bad sex and so I’m here, waiting to find some guy on match dot com who I think is worthy of putting more than his face between my legs. Back to not feeling sorry for myself:
Cooking is pretty important though; so, if that is important and you test that out on each other from really early on in the relationship, why not sex? Why not something so fundamentally important for overall well being that there are doctors who devoted their entire career to it? Doctors. Career. Devote. Sex. Doctors. Sex.
It’s important people, and I am not going to wait till I fall in love to do it. Religion is one thing, God is one thing, being a pent up asshole that refuses to get some release is entirely something separate. It makes no sense. Our bodies were made to do it, they need it. It’s a fundamental hunger that grows and grows, we need to feed the desire, be who we were made to be. With the invention of condoms (not just for infant prevention, also keeping your girl parts fresh and smelling like fruit) you can be on your back as often as you’d like and there are no consequences…
Okay, maybe I should say that differently. How you look at sex from the beginning (i.e. when you first discovered that cleaning it was way more fun than cleaning all your other part) and depending on what you were taught and believed reflect on how you’ll view it once you start doing it, regardless of if you’re married or not. Just because you now have a ring on your finger doesn’t mean the guilt you felt every time you looked at your hot math tutors ass goes away. It’s all about how you look at it, and I think people look at it wrong.
If you look at sex as a way to make babies; then you’ll see sex as a way to make babies. You’ll be afraid to fully enjoy yourself because even though your intent isn’t to make a baby, the thought is always there, looming in the distance, threatening to impregnate you.
If you look at sex as a dirty act that is sinful, even after you’re married you’ll still see it as that. All the pressure from seeing your body as dirty and wrong your entire life up to that point will be too much. You won’t be able to enjoy yourself and you won’t be able to get all the benefits (pain release, sinus health, sleep inducing, cardio…) because your stupid brain and your mother’s voice will get in the way of a seriously good time.
But, if you look at sex as an adventure, a fun journey to take your body on that can be done with someone (or by yourself) then you will get the benefit. You will feel better after because it also relieves stress, and we all could use some good old fashioned stress reduction. There is no medical reason to wait till you’re married, your period doesn’t wait till you’re married, your wet dreams where you wake up stuck to the sheets don’t wait till you’re married, why should you wait to use those working parts till you’re married?
All I know is Jesus died a virgin for my sins so I wouldn’t have to… that’s how it goes, right?
You've been warned...
Okay America,
I get it. I look exactly like my mother. But …Oh. Dear. God. The next person that comes up to me and says, “By golly, it’s like looking at the Olsen twins…except wrinklier….and fatter…and not blonde/famous/or cute.”
…I’m going to cut you.
No seriously, bitches who feel the need to point of the obvious while wolfing down a McRib, I’m going to take my butcher knife out of my party poof and cut you…. yes cut you, with a smile on my face.
That’s my bread and butter, bitches…my bread and butter.
So let me just say this… you’ve been warned, America.
Seriously, last week someone said, “You can definitely tell ya’ll are kin.”
….There are so many things wrong with that statement.
First of all, who the fuck says kin anymore?
And B…what the fucking fuck?
Is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother.
Isn’t that the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/Quiznos?
I’d show you a picture of my madre and me so you could see the resemblance, but my bro keeps snitching on me when I write about my parents.
Bro, you’re 26, stop snitching, or I won’t be your DD to the strip club this week...but thanks for reading my blog.
The worst part is my mom fucking loves that shit. Never fails to plaster a shit-eating grin on her face when she gets compared to someone 30 years younger than her.
“I bet I get carded today.”
“…Sure you will.”
She did… get carded that day. Whatever, I had braces then…it was a very weird scenario.
Well, to be perfectly honest she loved getting compared to me until just recently….
I shit you not, a cashier said this to me and my mother on Sunday….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
“…Great.”
I don’t think this pleased my mom….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
I get it. I look exactly like my mother. But …Oh. Dear. God. The next person that comes up to me and says, “By golly, it’s like looking at the Olsen twins…except wrinklier….and fatter…and not blonde/famous/or cute.”
…I’m going to cut you.
No seriously, bitches who feel the need to point of the obvious while wolfing down a McRib, I’m going to take my butcher knife out of my party poof and cut you…. yes cut you, with a smile on my face.
That’s my bread and butter, bitches…my bread and butter.
So let me just say this… you’ve been warned, America.
Seriously, last week someone said, “You can definitely tell ya’ll are kin.”
….There are so many things wrong with that statement.
First of all, who the fuck says kin anymore?
And B…what the fucking fuck?
Is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother.
Isn’t that the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/Quiznos?
I’d show you a picture of my madre and me so you could see the resemblance, but my bro keeps snitching on me when I write about my parents.
Bro, you’re 26, stop snitching, or I won’t be your DD to the strip club this week...but thanks for reading my blog.
The worst part is my mom fucking loves that shit. Never fails to plaster a shit-eating grin on her face when she gets compared to someone 30 years younger than her.
“I bet I get carded today.”
“…Sure you will.”
She did… get carded that day. Whatever, I had braces then…it was a very weird scenario.
Well, to be perfectly honest she loved getting compared to me until just recently….
I shit you not, a cashier said this to me and my mother on Sunday….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
“…Great.”
I don’t think this pleased my mom….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
Hmmm, well...this is embarrassing...
I think I might have an issue...
....i think I'll go read a bible now...or some shit like that....
....i think I'll go read a bible now...or some shit like that....
Bitch is the new black...
It really is. Bitches get shit done...deal with it.
And now I'd like to introduce miss Dana from pushingthirtyy.wordpress.com with her take on being a bitch...
What Makes Me a Bitch
Being a bitch is a privilege one must not take lightly. I mean, not everyone has the talent, sass, or gall to be a bitch. And perfecting one’s bitchiness takes a lifetime of exposure to the elements, and developing the appropriate reaction to situations. Let’s practice.
You invite you friends over. They decide to invite their friends over without your permission. How do you react?
Non-Bitch, but passively annoyed: “Oh, it’s cool. I think I have enough food/beer/weed to go around. Just make sure they don’t break anything, or sleep with anything.”
Clearly annoyed Pro-Bitch: “I really don’t want your skivvy friends skanking up the place. They better bring a stripper/weed/food/beer to make up for it, or I’m throwing their shoes out the window.”
Obviously the only rational reaction is to be a Bitch. Don’t hate. Just learn.
I don’t have a problem being a bitch. My problem is controlling my bitchiness so I don’t cross that fine line between Bitch and Psychobitch. My dear friend at Dezolutions just reminded me of a time where I did cross the line. Here’s how that went down. I’ll let you be the judge of the appropriate reaction to get a message across.
Your boyfriend is drunk and pushing your buttons. You give him fair warning, but he persists:
Non-bitch: Ignore him and hang out with your friends
Bitch: Embarrass him and call him out for being a douche
Psychobitch: Pummel him on the train in front of strangers so that boy will know who's boss...
Yea... so maybe I overreacted. But I did make a point, and leave a mark. :)
As I’ve gotten older, my anger levels have gotten insanely high. I can actually feel the anger in my veins. I’ll be completely fine one minute, then one little thing will set me off (I hear you people whispering bipolar -- guess what? fuck you!). So before I burst I need to find out why. So I turn to the obvious. PMS? Maybe. I’m on the pill, so maybe it’s that I’m fucking with my hormones too much? I took this one to the bank, or in this instance, to the gyno. I don’t usually consult a doctor about anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.
Here’s how that conversation went:
“I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten bitchier lately. I’m wondering if it has something to do with my birth control. What do you recommend?”
“So let me get this straight -- you think your birth control is making you bitchy?”
Great. Even my doctor thinks I’m a bitch. As long as he doesn’t think I’m a psychobitch...ok maybe he does. Whatever, I’m a bitch so I don’t care.
So maybe I just need to vent about what exactly makes the Bitch in me come out. Here it goes:
Repeating myself. If I have to say it more than twice, you need to get your ears checked.
Stupid people. Stupid people should be used to bitches, because it’s all their fault. If you continuous say stupid shit, expect to be bitch slapped.
Rude people. I know the city is crowded, but if you bump into me, show some fuckin manners. Otherwise I may trip you next time.
Technology failing. Damn all the companies that have made me rely on technology to live. If my ipod, camera, computer, cell phone, or tv isn’t working, don’t come near me, unless you want a remote control in your forehead.
Overly sensitive people. I’m not politically correct. Deal with it. There is a reason why stereotypes exist. As a Jew, I am the first to make fun of jews. If you can’t take a joke, go lock yourself back into the bubble you came from.
Ok, if I go any further, I’m going to be bitchy all night. Not that I mind, but I’m pretty sure my boyfriend would like to be able to come home tonight.
Just one more thing. Try to love a bitch. If you can learn to love a bitch, you will open your eyes to a better world. A world without pansies and pussies. What can I say? Bitches do it better.
And now I'd like to introduce miss Dana from pushingthirtyy.wordpress.com with her take on being a bitch...
What Makes Me a Bitch
Being a bitch is a privilege one must not take lightly. I mean, not everyone has the talent, sass, or gall to be a bitch. And perfecting one’s bitchiness takes a lifetime of exposure to the elements, and developing the appropriate reaction to situations. Let’s practice.
You invite you friends over. They decide to invite their friends over without your permission. How do you react?
Non-Bitch, but passively annoyed: “Oh, it’s cool. I think I have enough food/beer/weed to go around. Just make sure they don’t break anything, or sleep with anything.”
Clearly annoyed Pro-Bitch: “I really don’t want your skivvy friends skanking up the place. They better bring a stripper/weed/food/beer to make up for it, or I’m throwing their shoes out the window.”
Obviously the only rational reaction is to be a Bitch. Don’t hate. Just learn.
I don’t have a problem being a bitch. My problem is controlling my bitchiness so I don’t cross that fine line between Bitch and Psychobitch. My dear friend at Dezolutions just reminded me of a time where I did cross the line. Here’s how that went down. I’ll let you be the judge of the appropriate reaction to get a message across.
Your boyfriend is drunk and pushing your buttons. You give him fair warning, but he persists:
Non-bitch: Ignore him and hang out with your friends
Bitch: Embarrass him and call him out for being a douche
Psychobitch: Pummel him on the train in front of strangers so that boy will know who's boss...
Yea... so maybe I overreacted. But I did make a point, and leave a mark. :)
As I’ve gotten older, my anger levels have gotten insanely high. I can actually feel the anger in my veins. I’ll be completely fine one minute, then one little thing will set me off (I hear you people whispering bipolar -- guess what? fuck you!). So before I burst I need to find out why. So I turn to the obvious. PMS? Maybe. I’m on the pill, so maybe it’s that I’m fucking with my hormones too much? I took this one to the bank, or in this instance, to the gyno. I don’t usually consult a doctor about anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.
Here’s how that conversation went:
“I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten bitchier lately. I’m wondering if it has something to do with my birth control. What do you recommend?”
“So let me get this straight -- you think your birth control is making you bitchy?”
Great. Even my doctor thinks I’m a bitch. As long as he doesn’t think I’m a psychobitch...ok maybe he does. Whatever, I’m a bitch so I don’t care.
So maybe I just need to vent about what exactly makes the Bitch in me come out. Here it goes:
Repeating myself. If I have to say it more than twice, you need to get your ears checked.
Stupid people. Stupid people should be used to bitches, because it’s all their fault. If you continuous say stupid shit, expect to be bitch slapped.
Rude people. I know the city is crowded, but if you bump into me, show some fuckin manners. Otherwise I may trip you next time.
Technology failing. Damn all the companies that have made me rely on technology to live. If my ipod, camera, computer, cell phone, or tv isn’t working, don’t come near me, unless you want a remote control in your forehead.
Overly sensitive people. I’m not politically correct. Deal with it. There is a reason why stereotypes exist. As a Jew, I am the first to make fun of jews. If you can’t take a joke, go lock yourself back into the bubble you came from.
Ok, if I go any further, I’m going to be bitchy all night. Not that I mind, but I’m pretty sure my boyfriend would like to be able to come home tonight.
Just one more thing. Try to love a bitch. If you can learn to love a bitch, you will open your eyes to a better world. A world without pansies and pussies. What can I say? Bitches do it better.
Well shit...
So it has recently come to my attention that I am no longer on my parents health insurance, and…um…yeah, it’s safe to say that now I’m freaking the fuck out.
I don’t think you quite understand how my mind works, while yes my brain talks in constant perverse one-liners; my mind also has a very dark side. A very dark, superstitious, slightly OCD side…and then I freak the fuck out.
I blame Catholicism for that one, you god damn superstitious fucks.
And now with this new development, I’m afraid to do anything, and I mean anything.
For example, I shouldn’t be writing this post. One, I’m superstitious as fuck and don’t want to jinx myself and two, what if my macbook gets like really, really fucking hot (like it always does) and then burns my stomach/thighs/love junk?
What if I get carpal tunnel from writing too much at a 90 degree angle? My wrist has been hurting a lot lately…is that a symptom? What if it’s broken? Or a hairline fracture? Maybe it’s just gas…
I’ll WebMD that shit tonight…that will make me feel better, or tell me I’m dying…I’ve heard it’s a very reliable source.
And, and, and, I can’t eat. What if I choke? And, and, and, I can’t not not eat. What if I starve to death? And I definitely can’t spray icing on mini-donuts anymore…god damn you, possible chance of type 2 diabetes, god damn you.
And I definitely can’t do the laundry anymore. What if I trip and fall over the pile of dirty clothes…nope, nope, nope…we just can’t have that. I think febreezing them will suffice. Wait…those fumes aren’t toxic right?
Shut up. I’m pretty, don’t contradict me.
Wait, why is my stomach hurting now? Is that from the laptop? Mad cow diease? SARS?
Fuck.
What is that saying? “An apple a day will keep the mad cow away?”
Great, lack of health insurance, great. I don’t fruit…ever… Unless there is a –tini behind the name or a carmel in front of it’s name.
Maybe if I just shotgun a shit-ton of vitamin gummies with some boxed-wine it will diffuse the situation.... yeah, yeah, yeah, that will work... I don't need health insurance...I'll just drink a shit ton of wine.
Wine is considered a fruit, right?
I don’t think you quite understand how my mind works, while yes my brain talks in constant perverse one-liners; my mind also has a very dark side. A very dark, superstitious, slightly OCD side…and then I freak the fuck out.
I blame Catholicism for that one, you god damn superstitious fucks.
And now with this new development, I’m afraid to do anything, and I mean anything.
For example, I shouldn’t be writing this post. One, I’m superstitious as fuck and don’t want to jinx myself and two, what if my macbook gets like really, really fucking hot (like it always does) and then burns my stomach/thighs/love junk?
What if I get carpal tunnel from writing too much at a 90 degree angle? My wrist has been hurting a lot lately…is that a symptom? What if it’s broken? Or a hairline fracture? Maybe it’s just gas…
I’ll WebMD that shit tonight…that will make me feel better, or tell me I’m dying…I’ve heard it’s a very reliable source.
And, and, and, I can’t eat. What if I choke? And, and, and, I can’t not not eat. What if I starve to death? And I definitely can’t spray icing on mini-donuts anymore…god damn you, possible chance of type 2 diabetes, god damn you.
And I definitely can’t do the laundry anymore. What if I trip and fall over the pile of dirty clothes…nope, nope, nope…we just can’t have that. I think febreezing them will suffice. Wait…those fumes aren’t toxic right?
Shut up. I’m pretty, don’t contradict me.
Wait, why is my stomach hurting now? Is that from the laptop? Mad cow diease? SARS?
Fuck.
What is that saying? “An apple a day will keep the mad cow away?”
Great, lack of health insurance, great. I don’t fruit…ever… Unless there is a –tini behind the name or a carmel in front of it’s name.
Maybe if I just shotgun a shit-ton of vitamin gummies with some boxed-wine it will diffuse the situation.... yeah, yeah, yeah, that will work... I don't need health insurance...I'll just drink a shit ton of wine.
Wine is considered a fruit, right?
This probably isn't a good thing...
My parents have been happily married for 33 years…disgusting, I know. Every time they kiss in my presence I want to vomit (and I usually do).
True love is so 90s, yet they seem immune to the social norms of our society…lame.
But what really confuses me is the adverse affect this situation has seemed to have had on my general psyche; my parents 33 years of happy fidelity has produced a “fear of intimacy”, with a smidge of “fear of commitment” and a dab of “narcissim” with just a splash of “gassiness” within my black soul.
I mean, come on, I have a fucking blog…so yes, one can safely assume I am a narcissistic lady douche (with bad gas)… not that I would know or anything.
Any who, this douche (me) has an intimacy problem…and it’s gotten bad.
I can’t even stay in the same bed with a guy I just had sex with anymore. I usually try to kick the guy out right after the deed, but a couple of them caught on and pretended to be “asleep” as I profusely kicked them in the kidneys…those selfish bastards.
I have an issue and I am aware of that. I purposely go out of my way to find men that are emotionally unavailable, because I am one of them….small penis and all.
And for the most part, I don’t have an issue with this issue, unless I’m going through a dry spell, then I get pissed I don’t have a guy who is legally forced to have sex with me based soley on the fact that he is my boyfriend.
Most women are more emotional about sex than I am too, supposedly they even have a different word for it… they call it, love-making or even worse…cuddling.
And let me be frank, but thought of cuddling makes me gassy. The act of cuddling makes me gassy. Skittles after this so called “love-making” makes me gassy. So me kicking a dude out of my bed after sex, isn’t necessarily an intimacy issue it’s more of a “get the fuck out of my bed, or I’ma cut you fool and then fart into your flesh wound” issue.
…Whatever, it’s my fucking bed…house rules.
True love is so 90s, yet they seem immune to the social norms of our society…lame.
But what really confuses me is the adverse affect this situation has seemed to have had on my general psyche; my parents 33 years of happy fidelity has produced a “fear of intimacy”, with a smidge of “fear of commitment” and a dab of “narcissim” with just a splash of “gassiness” within my black soul.
I mean, come on, I have a fucking blog…so yes, one can safely assume I am a narcissistic lady douche (with bad gas)… not that I would know or anything.
Any who, this douche (me) has an intimacy problem…and it’s gotten bad.
I can’t even stay in the same bed with a guy I just had sex with anymore. I usually try to kick the guy out right after the deed, but a couple of them caught on and pretended to be “asleep” as I profusely kicked them in the kidneys…those selfish bastards.
I have an issue and I am aware of that. I purposely go out of my way to find men that are emotionally unavailable, because I am one of them….small penis and all.
And for the most part, I don’t have an issue with this issue, unless I’m going through a dry spell, then I get pissed I don’t have a guy who is legally forced to have sex with me based soley on the fact that he is my boyfriend.
Most women are more emotional about sex than I am too, supposedly they even have a different word for it… they call it, love-making or even worse…cuddling.
And let me be frank, but thought of cuddling makes me gassy. The act of cuddling makes me gassy. Skittles after this so called “love-making” makes me gassy. So me kicking a dude out of my bed after sex, isn’t necessarily an intimacy issue it’s more of a “get the fuck out of my bed, or I’ma cut you fool and then fart into your flesh wound” issue.
…Whatever, it’s my fucking bed…house rules.
Hmm, I'm listening...
I’ve been told that I have a look that says, “I like black guys.” So does my best friend…and don’t get me wrong... we do…we really do.
But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”
Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.
And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.
Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”
Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”
… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.
And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.
My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.
There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!
White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority doesn’t know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.
Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.
But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”
Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.
And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.
Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”
Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”
… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.
And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.
My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.
There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!
White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority doesn’t know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.
Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.
I present to you the greatest game of all!
Once again, boys have been given everything. Not only do they have penises and better porn, they now can add “Bros Icing Bros” to the list of everything a girl really wants in life.
If you are stupid and unfamiliar with this beautiful game, it’s pretty simple. Bro 1 gives Bro 2 the girliest drink possible, a warm, diabetes ridden, Smirnoff Ice. Bro 2 must then get into pussy position (drop to one knee) and chug. However, if Bro 2 has an Ice hidden in his man purse and/or satchel, then Bro 1 must drop to one knee and chug not only one BUT two Ices.
Honestly, it’s genius. It’s riddled with humiliation, name-calling and good-hearted blood alcohol poisoning.
And it’s time for girls to catch up, thus ladies I give you a new game, or one should say, the female counterpart to “Bros Icing Bros.”
Ladies and (Gentlemen if your man enough) I give you: “Hoes Dogging Hoes.” It’s the same exact game as “Bros Icing Bros,” without the Smirnoff. Instead, girls must be presented Mad Dog. Any flavor, any color, any size. My preference being the Bling Bling edition.
So ladies, you know your mission: open your purses, shove as many MDs as you can and start dogging some bitches.
If you are stupid and unfamiliar with this beautiful game, it’s pretty simple. Bro 1 gives Bro 2 the girliest drink possible, a warm, diabetes ridden, Smirnoff Ice. Bro 2 must then get into pussy position (drop to one knee) and chug. However, if Bro 2 has an Ice hidden in his man purse and/or satchel, then Bro 1 must drop to one knee and chug not only one BUT two Ices.
Honestly, it’s genius. It’s riddled with humiliation, name-calling and good-hearted blood alcohol poisoning.
And it’s time for girls to catch up, thus ladies I give you a new game, or one should say, the female counterpart to “Bros Icing Bros.”
Ladies and (Gentlemen if your man enough) I give you: “Hoes Dogging Hoes.” It’s the same exact game as “Bros Icing Bros,” without the Smirnoff. Instead, girls must be presented Mad Dog. Any flavor, any color, any size. My preference being the Bling Bling edition.
Wait...that's not right...
I once knew a man with a penis;
That wasn’t quite smooth from side to side.
Try as I might;
I couldn’t help but be freaked out by the sight,
By a penis that zig-zagged all throughout the night.
Creepy right? But it’s true… this guy I had “relations” with had a “zig-zaggy” penis. It made absolutely no sense. We’ve all heard of the chode…and the infamous curved penis or as I like to call Mr. Curved curvy McCurvster… but zig-zagged? A penis that not only zigged…but zagged?
This did not please me. Or should it please anyone (male or female).
I have to admit, one of the good things about being a girl, is every girl’s lady junk pretty much looks the same (for the most part). Well…until you have babies…and then it’s just icky.
But boys, if you have a weird penis…people are going to know… and soon.
It’s the first thing we talk about really. When I say, “what was it like?” It means penis. At least among my friends.
When I first encountered Mr. Zig-Zag I didn’t know how to explain it.
“So what was it like?”
“Um…his penis was jagged…”
“What, were there shards of glass on it?”
“…maybe?”
Words made no sense. I had to draw it. My friends hovered around me for hours as I attempted to draw this infamous…member. It soon became a terrible name game of Pictionary.
“Is it a Christmas tree?!”
“No.”
“Wait! Wait! Wait! It’s a lightening bolt, isn’t it!?”
“No.”
“Charlie Brown?”
“God damnit….no.”
In the end, the best way to describe Mr. Zig-zag, was that well, the penis did in fact zig and then zagged. Picture three square boxes stacked on top of each other and then someone accidently pushed them off kilter, but was too lazy to straighten the boxes back to their normal position.
…and that’s how anatomy was explained to me in Catholic school.
But hey, let’s give Jesus a break, he has to make a lot of dicks everyday… not every man’s boinking-membobber can be perfect.
Am I right ladies? Am I right?
I think I am….gentleman.
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