You are what you eat. I eat muffin tops. Shit…

Ugh. If I keep substituting baked goods for sex, it’s going to become a permanent (and very sorry) state of affairs.

Handily, tomorrow starts a shiny new month, which pleases my OCD, and I just borrowed T25 from a friend. Let’s do this, Shaun T.

Muffin-Free May!

“I got my ticket for the long way ’round…”

I recently told a friend that I was toying with the idea of just moving across the country and starting over, and he said, “But your family is here.” It’s so cute how that matters to some people. Though I suppose if you consider your friends your family, and I do, *that* factors into my decision.

PhD in GGG

Conversation with a friend who, if SHE started a sex blog, y’all would abandon my ass immediately, because she’s just way better at it…

Friend: I think I want to become a sex educator.
Me: You absolutely should. You’d be great at it.
Friend: Thank you. I’m going to see if I can volunteer at Planned Parenthood and go to some conferences. I can actually get a PhD in sexuality from Widener University.
Me: I feel like you should have that already, honorary style, just based on your extensive research.
Friend: Heh. I guess I could write a letter, “Hey, prestigious university people, I’ve fucked probably 100 guys, and given countless blowjobs, played with a few women, I’m GGG, I love sex and read about it all the time. I got this. Just hand over the paper.”

(Afterthought: Heh. “Widen-her” University. Obviously.)

Greetings from the Drakkar Vortex.

In a fog of a male coworker’s cologne this morning at work, I am reminded of how much I adore and completely get off on the smell of a man just out of the shower. Maybe wearing deodorant, if you had time to put it on before I grabbed you and had my way with you.

Gentlemen. You smell amazing. Ease back on the Axe. Those commercials lie — I can’t get it up for you if I feel like someone punched me in the chest. I’m not one to science, but I don’t think that’s how pheromones work.

Love with a side of beer cheese.

Today I fell in love with the guy running the growler station at my local liquor store.

Our union will be craft-beer-battered.

Did you see me get the good beer, man? No Miller Lite in this temple of a body. Let’s get intoxicated sometime.

Things are…things.

I worship at the altar of Jenny Lawson. My head also holds me hostage sometimes. That’s a great way to phrase it.

The Bloggess

The last month has been weirder than usual.  Filled with me wanting to scream at people I can’t scream at.  Filled with me giggling hysterically.  Filled with me crying hysterically.  Filled with stress and dread and far too many hospital visits.  Filled with homing pigeons and falling out of trees and unexpected glee and confusion.  Filled with me sometimes feeling nothing…which is so much worse than feeling anything.   I tend to hide a bit when things are weird and the world goes spiky and I’m sure you’ve probably noticed that.  I’m fine though.  Victor and Hailey are fine and everything that means the most is still wonderful.  There are weird things going on in the background which I can’t always share because they aren’t just my stories, but I still want to come on here and say “I’M STILL ALIVE IN SPITE OF THE BASTARDS” but then people would be…

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Miss Independent. Miss Self-Sufficient. Miss Keep Your Distance.

I took a break from a friendship, which…you know, is a totally healthy and rational thing to need. (It IS, when you can’t seem to stop yourself from repeatedly telling your friend you want to date him, but he’s not into you and you’re just making it weird.)

I’ve spent almost 2 years since my breakup struggling to pull myself out of being all “Behind These Hazel Eyes,” and it SUCKS, so I’m trying for more of a “Since U Been Gone” situation here. (Obviously it would also be ideal if I could stop defining my love life via Kelly Clarkson songs.)

It’s incredibly difficult some days (eg, yesterday), but What Doesn’t Kill Me Makes Me Stronger…Shit.

Sidebar: I wonder if my hair would do that. To the curling iron!

Fuck everyone who isn’t awesome.

In response to my last post, three friends asked if I was OK. One called the person who hurt me “syphilitic and vacant.” One offered to bring me ice cream. And when I apologized to a third for being weak and an asshole, she said, “You’re not weak, or an asshole. You’re human. Life is hard, and painful. Pushing through is what makes us strong.”

My friends are pretty much better than everyone. Onward.

“I can’t help it. I’m an emotional cutter.”

I heard “emotional cutter” on an episode of “Sex and the City” once, and at the time, I remember thinking, “Well, that’s a stupid expression that trivializes actual cutting.”

Nope. No, it’s not. It’s a sick, fucking compulsive form of masochism that can lead to crying in the ladies’ room at your office.

Ahem. Not that I’d know from personal experience… *sniff*

No. Fuck this. I am so much better than this. And there’ll be wine later. So much wine. (I take no responsibility for any blogging I do under the influence.)

P.S. Facebook is fucking awful.