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....

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.