Gingers, Facebook, orgasm denial, and poor life choices 

Dear Facebook,

No, “That Guy” and “Unfunny Ginger Comedian” are NOT among the “people I may know” on your site. They ARE among the “people I’ve slept with.” Maybe start a separate suggestion list? But hey, thanks for making me consider all THAT again in the span of 5 minutes.

At least That Guy and I COULD have been friends if things hadn’t gone all stupid. But “learning experience” be damned, the comedian was just an almost impressively bad life choice. The only memorable things about that “relationship” were learning:

A. That it’s possible for a man to appear bored while I’m naked and riding him. (I HOPE I can chalk that up to his seemingly rampant control issues, but maybe I’m just bad at being on top.)

About orgasm denial via his goddamn Jedi mastery of the Hitachi Magic Wand.*

No, really. Thanks a pantload, Facebook.

No love,

* I have no idea what kind of dark sorcery y’all summon to determine when we’re on the verge of orgasm, but damn. I salute you. You’re doing God’s work. 

Breasts be with you. And also with you.

There’s a freckle at the top of my right breast. For a long time I referred to it as The Freckle of Good Taste — my shirts would never be low-cut enough to show it.

Yeahhh… Fuck that. Look at my freckle and fear me.

My friends are a good influence, plus I’m old and tired of giving a fuck. My breasts won’t be this lovely forever, I might as well revel.

(I’m all bluster until the creepy dude at work checks out my rack. But even then — he’d be leering at me if I wore a turtleneck. And I can’t with turtlenecks, man. So sayeth the Hedberg: “Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy, all day.”)

I’ll still consult The Freckle for family gatherings, and any time I’m forced to be in a place of worship. God is aware of what my breasts look like, He doesn’t need to see them. (By the way, God is totally proud of my chest, even though pride is a sin. They’re THAT good. Some of His best work.)

</ego trip>

Naked truth

Eating better and working out is going OK, but I realized I have a new fitness goal: to look as good naked as I do dressed. I look adorable today… or at least I will until I go home and take off my pretty wrapping. Then the illusion is shattered when everything on me goes “flump.”

I don’t even know if my body is capable of being toned — I’ve been thinner, but still looked like I was covered in vanilla pudding when naked. My shoulders and clavicle are bony as fuck, yet I have a gut like Nacho Libre — where does that get logical? This is how I know I was not intelligently designed — only a system that gave us the duck-billed platypus could also provide this particular assemblage. The good Lord woulda had His shit together.

Maybe there’s a spa treatment that can just slough off all my skin so I can start over.

(I’ll have none of your logic about patience and perseverance and inner beauty. FEH! I want to look like Ashley Graham tomorrow. Make it so.)

The reason: Zombees?

My dad’s version of Easter: “Happy Easter. Remember the reason. God bless you all.”

My version: “Goddammit! There’s a bee in my apartment!” *murders bee, disposes of corpse, giggles at thought of zombie bee (zombee?) resurrecting in three days*