Eating cereal from the box so I won’t have to wash a bowl. #TheRealBachelorette
I’d like to thank the Internet for helping me narrow my self-diagnosis to either: a harmless cyst that will go away on its own; a staph infection; or a tumor.
Very helpful, Google, thank you.
It’s a cyst. Probably.
But if I die of staph-infected tumor, it’s been fun, guys. Remember, “Baby Got Back” at the funeral, and make sure the obituary spells it “staphylocockus.” #ClassyAsFuck
I have reached peak white trash. No, literally — I overslept, so my “shower” consisted of five baby wipes, dry shampoo, and a metric shit-ton of powder.
(Oh, please. Like I have a threshold for “oversharing.”)
As if we needed more proof of what a classy lady I am, I pulled my bra strap away from my back because it was itching, and ended up putting my finger through the fabric.
I mean, it’s like you can’t rely on a 5-year-old bra anymore. What CAN I believe in, Universe?
Right, then. Shopping.
Also, this is totally how I roll when I wear flannel pajamas. Victoria’s Secret gets me.
Last night I went to Margaret Atwood’s booksigning at the Philly Free Library. Look at me, all feminist and intellectual and shit. Classy as fuck, right?
Um, yeah, leading up to the event, I was having this hilar-balls group text with friends…
Friend 1: “What kind of classes should I teach at the sex boutique besides oral sex?”
Friend 2: “Something about body confidence in the bedroom? Toys, why to use them, different ways to incorporate them.”
Me: “Confidence for sure. Maybe consent? Intro BDSM? Handjob Blandjob?”
Friend 1: “I’m the WORST at handjobs!”
Me: “That’s because they’re not a real thing.”
Friend 1: “That’s shit you do on your own. I’ll never be as good.”
Me: “Right? I hired you to use your mouth. I HAVE hands.”
Friend 1: “I could probably teach a class about how to incorporate toys into coupled sex.”
Me: “Yes. Because I have no idea. Well, wait… There was that one time. But nothing I did with that asshole counts. (To be clear, I did nothing to his asshole. He was just a shithead who brought a toy.)”
Friend 2: “I like giving handjobs…but only if they don’t take forever.”
Friend 1: “I’m terrible at them, hate doing them, always have, always will.”
Me: “I like a happy man who’s not looking to put things in my butt. If he needs a handjob, I’ll DO it, but I just feel like I could be more useful.”
Friend 2: “Agreed, but sometimes my knees are sore and I need to change it up. (Sorry, is this too much?)”
Me: “Yes, we clearly have a “too much” threshold. 🙂 Also, my hands and wrists are FUCKED from phone/computer use, so handjobs hurt, AND I’m bad at them.”
Friend 1: “Handjobs take forever. At least with a blowjob I can incorporate my hands to give my mouth a rest. I’m hardly ever on my knees. I just move around if I’m uncomfortable.”
Friend 2: “Eh, sometimes they take forever, sometimes not. And I prefer BJs, and prefer my knees (good angle for all involved).”
Me: “Anyone else really want dick now? (Now, see, THAT’s too much.)”
Friend 2: “I do. Husband should thank you both. (I see your ‘too much’ and raise you.)”
Me: “Ha! You’re welcome, Husband.”
Friend 1: “Boyfriend will also be benefiting from this conversation.”
Me: “Meanwhile, I’m at a feminist booksigning. No dick in sight.”
Friend 2: “Maybe there will be literary dick?”
Me: “Heh. Maybe. Or bar dick afterward.”
“That’s the one nice thing about being a dork about men: you can sometimes play it off as restrained and classy.”– Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?