It’s OK. I forgive you for hopping out of your cup and onto BOTH the white shirts I’m wearing today, first thing in the morning so I have to walk around all day with three faint splotches of coffee on my chest.
I know you didn’t mean it. You’re just enthusiastic, and I love that about you. I wish more things were that eager to get inside me.
Though, for future reference, you don’t have to do it on my chest. I will happily swallow you, then beg for more. But if that’s what you need, you do you, my love.
All is forgiven, for you are my one true savior.
My therapist told me to eat carbs, including my beloved corn muffins if that’s what I want.
I’m alternating between “BOOM! MUFFIN SCIENCE, MOTHERFUCKERS!” and “I need a new therapist.”
I just saw a YouTube ad encouraging women to wear a scented pantyliner EVERY day.
“Just a reminder, ladies: Your vagina is super gross and shouldn’t even come into contact with washable undergarments. Any of that ‘natural’ nonsense that happens in the region should be relegated to a disposable sliver of chemically scented fabric and thrown into the landfill where it belongs, never to be seen, smelled, or spoken of.”
When I finally indulge a weeks-long craving for a brownie sundae, I do NOT fuck around.
I wish it wasn’t necessary for models who are shaped like me to be labeled “body activists,” but she is cute as all hell, and I love her hair, so I’ll take it.