Morning sickness

Sometimes you only need to read half of the headline before you know you’re going to vomit if you read the rest.

Latex-piration

Ah, the great moment of reckoning in any packing/decluttering mission: “Do I expect to get laid any time between moving day and October, when this box of condoms expires?”

Tossing ’em. Not SO much because I don’t anticipate getting any, more because I never want to be reaching for a condom only to find myself cockblocked by the passage of time. 

Middle age love for Meghan Trainor

I’m almost 40, so obviously I was rockin’ out to “All About that Bass” in the car on the way into work this morning.

Singing along, I started wondering about this magical unicorn of a mother she had that told her “Don’t worry about your size.” According to my mother, the ONLY thing I had to worry about was my size. Oh, and using condoms. (Explains a lot, doesn’t it?)

But just in case you’d forgotten, every inch of you is perfect, from the bottom to the top. (Especially the men. Y’all have the best inches…)

“Make sure you wear a rubber, dude.”

I realize this makes me insane, but I can’t deal with people under the age of 60 referring to a condom as a “rubber.”

Durex depression? Latex lament? Trojan troubles?

There’s something incredibly depressing about cleaning your apartment and finding expired condoms.

Like the universe is saying, “Really? Condoms are good for years! You couldn’t find anyone to fuck you? Ha ha, you’re undesirable.”

(Oh, yeah, the universe can be a complete asshole.)

One ring to rule…

New Lad: “My box of condoms came with a vibrating ring.”

Me: “Boo! My condoms didn’t come with a prize!”

Apparently Durex condoms are like Filthy Frankenberry.

Count Cockula? Boob-berry? Cheeri-ohhhhhhs? Berry Berry Dix?