My new mantra

“If you SAY you’re a feminist, then FUCK like a feminist.”

I’d buy that t-shirt. Make it so, Sam Bee.

Hell, can I get that tattooed on my lower abdomen?

Semi-annual reminder that your vagina is vile.

I just saw a YouTube ad encouraging women to wear a scented pantyliner EVERY day.

“Just a reminder, ladies: Your vagina is super gross and shouldn’t even come into contact with washable undergarments. Any of that ‘natural’ nonsense that happens in the region should be relegated to a disposable sliver of chemically scented fabric and thrown into the landfill where it belongs, never to be seen, smelled, or spoken of.”

You have your Christmas carols, I have mine.

I was looking for a different Garfunkel & Oates video for a later post, but I saw this in the YouTube sidebar so I’m sharing it first.

I’ve posted this before, but it’s been a while, and it’s always worth hearing again. But also, I HAVE in fact gotten that drunk text at 3 in the morning, and it was indeed “SO close, but not quite there.”

“Hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady…”

I am obsessed with this song — it’s my new Sassy Strut/car singing/Pull Yourself Together song. In addition:

a) Miranda Lambert looks better unkempt than I do when I bring my capital-A game. I need more eye makeup, like, immediately.

b) I’m pretty sure I’ve HAD this conversation with my mother.

c) You can write it off because it’s country music, but it’s a bawdy, curvy, big-haired blonde sangin’ ’bout drankin’, and that there is some of my favorite comfort music. (For obvious reasons.) This song is the twangy, guitar-driven equivalent of “Conceal, don’t feel” — Miranda Lambert is basically Elsa, and you KNOW that movie would’ve been way better with whiskey and pills.

Slutty von Slutwhore and the Blown Goat.

Recently a friend told me about a writer named BrenĂ© Brown, who I guess is a “self-help” author (I know, I rolled my eyes, too), and talks a lot about fear, shame, and vulnerability. I liked her approach, and have been mainlining her lectures on YouTube. (For someone who writes a sex blog, I have a LOT of self-slut-shaming issues…among others, obviously. It’s part of why I started writing it.)

Anyway, I reported back to my friend that I found Brown’s perspective helpful, and because my friends keep shit real, she said: “That’s great!…You know you still need to find a therapist, though, right? This isn’t a substitute.”

Yuuuup. Yup, I do. Bleh. Feelings. UGH. I’ve maxed out my coverage on “friends as therapists,” and Lexapro is lovely, but it’s probably not helping as much as it could if I would just stop being so…ME about this.

“I think I have a problem, and I just… I need some help. But here’s the thing — no family stuff. No childhood shit. I JUST need some strategies.”

(I’m not naive enough to think I’ll ever fix my Slutty von Slutwhore problem without discussing family/childhood shit. This is gonna blow, like, several goats. But it needs to be addressed.)

No shame in my menstruation game.

Via Huffington Post: This Ode To Periods Puts All Shamers To Rest.

I’m really not big into the “Kumbaya sisterhood,” “menstruation is a miracle of womanly nature” shit.

But, um… fuck you. I don’t CHOOSE to menstruate — I don’t think anyone would. It’s a pain in the ladyballs, it’s uncomfortable, it’s exhausting. Salted caramel chocolates and Pamprin become necessary so I don’t fucking cut YOU every 28 days so you’re bleeding as well, and then there’s the feminine products, so menstruation is also expensive.

So you can kiss my bloated lady-belly for even ATTEMPTING to shame any woman for it. We don’t talk shit on YOU because your balls look like the shitty Christmas ornaments you don’t put on the tree because they’re not pretty enough.

Also? You’re an idiot. I’ll say it — period sex is AMAZING. At least for me, that first few days before it gets too hectic in the DMZ, you WANT to be fucking me. All the good bits are extra sensitive, so you barely have to TRY and I’m coming like an adolescent boy who’s just discovered what his dick does.

So yeah. Go fuck yourself, sir, because no one else should.

Getting my wallow on.

I’ve posted this before, but it’s just the perfect morning for it to come up on the iPod shuffle and remind me what’s what. Thanks, Universe.

“How can I deal with this, if he won’t get with this?
Am I gonna heal from this? He won’t admit to it.
Nothing to figure out; I gotta get him out.
It’s time the truth was out that he don’t give a shit about me.”