Dispatches from the department of dubious sexual metaphors…

Dear Coffee,

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.


Thanks in advance for my multiple orgasms.

Dear David at the Barnes & Noble Café in Plymouth Meeting, PA,

I hadn’t been planning to masturbate tonight, but upon sight of you, now I realize I must. Thank you for your inspiration. You are my clitoral muse.

The Blushing Woman/Cold Brew & Scone

P.S. Couldn’t help but notice your finger didn’t have a ring on it. Those are my second favorite kinds of fingers. Give me a call, I’ll show you how we make ’em my first favorite.

EDIT: Goddammit! What a tragic waste of being asked, “Room for cream?”!

Autocorrecting Vagina

Dear Autocorrect,

When’s the last time you remember me using the word “cagina?”

How about “bagina?”

That’s right, NOT NEVER. Stop autocorrecting “vagina” to words that AREN’T WORDS!

“Vagina” is a word. A clinical one, at that. And it’s a word I use. Often. Learn “vagina,” iPhone. Love “vagina.”

No ladybit love,

In which the Universe can eat a dick because I can’t.

Dear Universe,

I realize your goal in screwing up my non-romantic world this week may be to make me realize I should stop thinking so much about men.

But the joke’s on you, Asshole — all I want is to have the men hug me, or alternately have them fuck the holy hell out of me so I can feel something else besides sad. And then I realize no one wants to do those things, and it makes me sadder. So you? Can go fuck yourself.

No love,

P.S. Yeah, yeah, I’ll learn that I’m stronger than I think and can get by with a little help from my friends and all that happy horseshit. FINE. You’re still an asshole.

P.P.M.S. It’s possible this may be hormone-driven.