It’s Take Your Lingerie to Work Day!

Signs you’ve taken trampyness to the executive level: Walking around the office with a visible bra strap that matches your outfit. #WhoreCouture

Texts from last night…

Sorry not sorry but no, really, sorry.

My mother just left me a 30-second voicemail during which she apologized twice for “bothering” me.

Jesus, no wonder I apologize at least once a day just for existing.

Well. That’s something I now can’t un-know…

Good job, Urban Dictionary. Way to money shot all over my childhood.

Tasteless. But tasty!

Let’s end the day on a good note, shall we?

Via OhJoySexToy.com: How to Eat Pussy. (Sorry, that’s what it’s called. But it’s just a cartoon.)

A friend sent this to me. I’m trying not to believe he thought of me because I look like the woman in the comic. Regardless, I’ll just leave my cartoon doppelgänger here, and simply say that I hope y’all have a lovely and, um, productive weekend. *wink wink, nudge nudge*

(Oh, and hey, a comic called “How to Eat Pussy?” — NSFW.)

“Looks like there’s been some girl-on-girl crime here.”

I apparently have a lot of feelings today…

I hate women’s magazines, and Self in particular — it’s basically Marie Claire wearing sneakers — so I’m enjoying watching this tutu debacle unfold.
I don’t like running. At all. But part of the reason I still do it, and the main reason I pay to do races, is that runners are (generally) some supportive sons of bitches, and it makes me feel awesome to be part of that camaraderie.

And this? Is bullshit. I don’t give a baker’s fuck what that woman is wearing — she’s out there running. (While, I might add, SURVIVING CANCER.) I personally don’t do the tutu, but I’ve run in a tiara. Why? Because I CAN. I like running because you can do it in a tutu or tiara, or in high-tech running gear, and it’s all good. I know there are some judgey panda “real runners” out there, and you know what? Whatever. I’m having fun, and being active, and feeling good about ME.

As long as I’m wearing clothes, my friends who run aren’t gonna go all Regina George on me: “That is the ugliest effing tutu I’ve ever seen.” Because my friends aren’t assholes. And from what I’ve seen, particularly in this case, a lot of runners aren’t assholes, either.

So screw you, Self. And by the way, on Wednesdays, we wear pink. Pink tutus.

Well, this is disheartening.

This made me sad. (And before anyone yells at me, I’m not saying I agree with anything. Merely that it makes me sad.)

Via Slate: Why We Cheat: Spouses in happy marriages have affairs. What are we all looking for?

“You would think an unhappy person would leave. So by definition they must not be that unhappy. They are in that wonderful ambivalent state, too good to leave, too bad to stay.

“That’s why an affair is such an erotic experience. It’s not about sex, it’s about desire, about attention, about reconnecting with parts of oneself you lost or you never knew existed. It’s about longing and loss.”

Nothing tastes as good as punching you in your face feels.

I’m trying to get myself back in line with diet and exercise, and you know what fitness dogma I can’t stand? “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.”

It’s like… Have you HAD cake? Have you tried smoked gouda, which tastes like cheese and bacon are making sweet, sweet love right there on your tongue? Have you had Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream? Have ya had bacon that’s been baked with brown sugar — motherfucking CANDY BACON?!

I think you’ve been eating the wrong food.

Now, OK, am I eating less of that stuff trying to get excess weight off my body? Certainly, I understand I have to. But don’t tell me nothing *tastes* as good, because food is goddamn delicious. I’ve never been thin, but I’ve weighed less, and lots of stuff totally tastes better than that. And I’d rather be a li’l rotund than never eat French fries again. I just need to control the amount of them I shovel into my face, which I am not always the best at. (Curious, the girl with the sex blog can’t keep delicious things out of her mouth — ‘sup, Freud?)

P.S. Holy shit, can we just DISCUSS mozzarella sticks?! CHEESE! FRIED CHEESE! In stick form! Come ON! A stick. In my mouth. But it’s cheese.

Food is GREAT. Shut your piehole (or whatever you’re eating that doesn’t taste as good as being thin feels).

All a-tingle in my patriotic places…

Wine? Popcorn? Hand in my pants?

Must be Scandal Thursday!

Thank you.

The Bloggess

I’m incredibly lucky to have an amazing group of people in this tribe who are so supportive and lovely and wonderful to me and to each other.  Even when I get critical comments or emails they’re mostly things like,

“I like you a lot, but you’re sort of stupid.  But I still like you.  And maybe you know you’re stupid and that makes you smart and I’m stupid for not getting it.  You’ve given me a headache.  Hugs.”

or

“You are very funny, but if you don’t stop putting two spaces at the end of each sentence I will hunt you down and set fire to your cats.  Have a blessed day.”

or

“Women like you should be forcibly stoned.”

I agree with the last one, but I might be misunderstanding the intent.  On the second, I can’t stop with the two spaces after a sentence.  I wrote on an…

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