This holiday season, give the gift of kissing my ass.

During holiday seasons I love to torture myself by looking at those bullshit “for her” and “for him” gift recommendation lists.

For instance, recommends “for him” all this sweet Star Wars and Doctor Who stuff, Rodin “Thinker” bookends, and cool beer/gin kits. And “for her,” a bunch of fucking candles and tote bags and tea sets, and what looks like every pink gift item they sell.

Kiss my dick, Barnes & Noble.

I will admit, I love candles and pink stuff. But I also like beer and gin, dammit, and I do, um, THINK, at least often enough to enjoy “Thinker” bookends. Plus I know tons of ladies who’d enjoy Star Wars/Doctor Who swag. Hmph.

Mad props to LivingSocial, though. Their “for her” gift guide has bourbon tastings, distillery tours, photography lessons, and race car experience packages. (And Brazilian waxes, but eh, it’s still a good list of options. And, um… I’ll just go ahead and add that wax to my cart along with the bourbon tasting. That’s gonna be a weird day.)


Wolf convents and my breasts.

A friend and I have a running joke about me being overly modest about my cleavage. She says I was raised in a convent. (Sidebar: I’ve never seen Star Wars, so I may also have been raised by wolves, and I think we can all agree that a wolf convent would be pretty badass.)

Anyway. I texted her a photo of the shirt I wore last night, and asked, “Proud of my cleavage?”

Her response: “What cleavage? I’d wear that to church. I’m proud of your attempt at cleavage.”

Me: “Goddammit.”

Whatever. Men eat up that modesty shit. My niche is “girl next door…who says ‘fuck’ a lot and won’t make you watch The Notebook.”