Weirder than midget porn. More metal than your mom.


Is This Thing On


Did everyone have a good Christmas? Good Chanauka or however the fuck you spell it? Turkey day? All the other days that are significant from October through January? I sure hope so. For me, I wouldn’t know if my holidays were good or bad because it went by so damn fast that I hardly had time to figure out if I was enjoying myself or not. To clarify, this is pretty much a breakdown of the holidays as I recall it: Shit, it’s Halloween? I better start prepping the turkey, and I’m thirty one now because I need to put the tree up and throw out all this wrapping paper, the end.

And now I’m here. looking up at my 2014 calendar, ready to take it down and set it on fire, because 2014 can suck it.

It wasn’t all bad, I suppose. I learned a lot of things, like birthdays cease to matter after thirty, cats really don’t have nine lives*, and North Koreans have no sense of humor. Also? BILL COSBY HAS A RAPEY PUDDIN’ POP.




This is what life is all about, right? A collection of learning experiences that all make sense when it’s too late and then you fucking die? Yeah, I suspected as much.

*(regarding the nine-lives reference, our beloved cat Butters decided to up and die in front of our house for no discernible reason other to ruin Christmas and make us all sad. It totally worked too because. I loved that furry fucking asshole more than I’ve loved any other furry fucking asshole besides my boyfriend).

((Kidding. My boyfriend isn’t furry))

RIP, my sweet boy. Stuffed monkeys and the morning ritual won't be the same without you.

RIP, my sweet boy. Stuffed monkeys and the morning ritual won’t be the same without you.

Around this time every year, I always look back and reflect on the events leading up to this point in my life, and think of the things that were good, the things that were bad, and chew on what went wrong and what could have been done to make it better. This practice would always revitalize me in a way, as I’m sure it does for many, seeing as how “New Years Resolutions” is still a popular custom. Doing this would give me this renewed sense of hope that I can turn everything around and make the new year magical and gooey and whatnot. Now that I’m officially an adult and the magic in my heart is dead, I know better. DON’T GET ME WRONG, I’m not saying all is hopeless and that it is impossible to improve on things and create a decent, relatively happy life, I’m just saying that there is no magic in the timing. There’s no magic in a day, or a week, or in some spoken or written intent. If there is any magic in anything, it’s in the “now” and in “doing”, and that can happen all year long.


Shut the fuck up, Gandalf. Anyways, I know that I sound like I’m trying to make some sort of profound point here. I could be, though I don’t know what, exactly. I’m really hungry and my head is swimming with all sorts of enlightened, pessimistic wisdom, so instead of making some eggs and keeping my thoughts to myself like a smart person, I decided to write this blog post instead, because I miss posting. I’m not quite sure why I stopped, though I’m sure it has something to do with me getting in my own way and being swept up in the mundane whirlwind of the day-to-day bullshit we all have to endure. I also feel like this site doesn’t “fit” me anymore, like a snake outgrowing it’s skin or the pants you can’t wear anymore because of all the garbage you’ve been eating, fatty. Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, Tubby McTubberson, seriously, TIME TO PUT THE FORK DOWN.

Okay, before you cry, I’m not actually talking to you, I’m talking to myself because holy shit, I’ve eaten so much pie and mashed potatoes over the past month and a half that I feel like a swollen planet that probably has diabetes now, for fuck’s sake, and it’s time shove a salad into said pie hole and go take a walk or something, shit.


One thing is for sure, I need to keep writing. It’s the only thing that keeps my head in order. Even though the blog world seems to have died out, save for a few whiny folks that like to cry about real world non-issues, I may start a new site. If I do, I’ll post the new link here, should any you want to follow along. Until then? THE END.

Life Is So Damn Silly

I know my little site here is in blog-hospice, so allow me to use it’s last few breaths to pay my respects to one of the funniest, most talented human beings that has ever existed who, sadly, decided it was time to call it a day. Forever.

.... fuck.

Life fucking sucks, you guys. 

I know that’s terribly negative, but it’s the truth. Anyone who be quick to challenge that statement, DON’T BOTHER, because you’re wrong. You’re more wronger than 2+2=7.

Don’t believe me? Then I highly suggest you google “life and things” and “the news” and read up on the ungodly horrible shit that’s happening everywhere on a daily basis. If after that you’re still not convinced, then best wishes in your rose-tinged little bubble, weirdo. If you’re the type who looks at life and thinks,”You know what? There is nothing insane about how things are. Everything is perfectly acceptable and wonderful and I wonder what Kim Kardashian had for breakfast this morning”, then there is something absurdly wrong with you, and we can’t be friends.

I really should note here that I am not saying that “everything is terrible, therefore no one should enjoy life and we should just sit and dwell on the awfulness until we die, the end”. Nothing could be further from that. I’m simply acknowledging that LIFE IS HEAVY. It’s heavy, and it’s hard, and it fucking hurts, and sometimes it hurts so much to where you simply “can’t” anymore.

This is why comedy is so important.

Laughter eases the burden of life. It lightens the load off your shoulders, even if just for a little while.  Comedy takes the mundane and the terrible and fashions it into a picture that allows you to see it in an entertaining light. I can’t even tell you how many times comedy in some form or another has saved my sorry ass from getting swept away in a dark shitnado when life was becoming ‘too much’. Laughing is my religion and comedy is my personal Jesus. If you’ve never tried laughing when you feel like shit, then I highly recommend it.

That’s what makes someone like Robin Williams such a magnificent human being. He didn’t just ‘do’ comedy. He WAS comedy. The man was a walking jukebox of delight that was always on for our entertainment and joy . He spent his entire life dedicated to bringing happiness to others, whether it was on stage, on camera, or to strangers on the street. The best part? He was a humble about it. He did a LOT for the benefit others without making a big “look at me and all the good I’m doing” fuss that a lot of celebrities do. He just “did it”, because he was a genuinely kind and real person. Yes, he was far from perfect, just like the rest of us. We all fucking suck in our own ways, but that doesn’t negate whatever goodness we have within us, and from what I can tell, he had a lot of it.

The hardest battle we fight as humans is the wars within ourselves.* It breaks my heart to think of a man like him struggling with his darkness despite the light that he exuded. This might come across as dark and fucked up, but I’ll say, if there is any positive to be drawn from this, it’s that at least he doesn’t have to fight anymore.

As per usual, I can’t figure out how to close this post up, so I’ll leave you with one of my favorite Robin Williams moments. It was a very hard challenge to pick which one, since there is so many, so I went with one of his old stand up bits from back in the 70’s.

RIP, Robin Williams

The end.

PS. To those of you who are calling him, as well as anyone else who commits suicide, “weak” and “selfish”, you may go butt-fuck yourself with the business end of a pineapple while a hobo takes a hellacious dump on your head. Jerk.


*I don’t know if that is a quote or something I made up just now, so if it is a quote, don’t judge me for not citing who said it.

Ham Jesus And Sometimes Pie


Happy Easter, the Internet!

I do hope everyone is enjoying the day. While Easter is my second favorite holiday, I opted to work today because I like money more than I like eating ham and chocolate with my family (also because I’m a heathen who views Easter as the ultimate sex holiday, and seeing as how not a lot of folks are on board with that, it’s just easier to avoid social gatherings on this day all together). I will say that I am actually a little bummed that I’m not at home smiling and nodding into my mashed potatoes while pretending to be interested in a full recap of the three hour sermon my good, wholesome family attended this morning. This is another “food holiday”, and the fat girl in me sure loves any day where I can openly display my ability to ingest horrifying quantities of  meat and biscuits in one sitting.

“OMG, Cerebral Milkshake, how dare you say the “F” word! That’s a very insensitive and it hurts the Internet’s feelings!.”

RELAX, it’s cool.. I used to be incredibly overweight once, so I’m totally allowed to use the “F” word. I mean, shit, what other words should I use? Chubby? Rotund? Packed with adipose? There really is no graceful way to say it, and one does not simply ignore the inner fat girl. SHE NEEDS LOVE TOO. She also needs pizza. Lots and lots of pizza…. and cookies…. and sometimes pie…. oh fuck yeah… pie….



Speaking of pie and cookies, I’ve been really hyper aware of this remaining five or twenty pounds that’s been clinging for dear life to my ass and thighs lately. It’s been bugging me enough to the point where seeing myself naked in the mirror causes a visceral , “this is such fucking bullshit, what the fuck” reaction from my brain. I suppose I could take the easy route and just “accept myself for the way I am please pass the Entenmann’s” or some shit, but that’s lame. Believe it or not, I’m one of those unpopular weirdos who not only doesn’t mind eating vegetables and engaging in vigorous cardio, but thoroughly fucking enjoys it. What I don’t enjoy is having to surrender the glass of vodka I like to have after particularly long and treacherous work days, and also that in order to lose weight, it’s required that I become a food snob for a bit which tends to make people uncomfortable and even downright not like you. No joke, it is mind blowing how offended some people get when you decline a slice of their delicious banana bread (uhn), and despite explaining the reasons, they assume it’s really because you hate them and will often reply with, “losing weight is terrible, plus one slice isn’t going to kill you, have some right now or we can’t be friends”.

THIS IS FALSE: Banana bread will absolutely kill you if you put enough arsenic in it*, but really what I’m worried about is the fact that I have the sort of metabolism where merely gazing upon a chocolate chip muffin (uhn) for longer than five seconds causes me to gain 5.6 pounds, and that’s the sort of thing that will keep me from achieving my goals.

*Alright, I know, it would technically be the arsenic that kills you and not the banana bread (plus I’m pretty sure my friends wouldn’t poison me, but you never know). Either way, I hate having to explain myself and I don’t understand why “no thanks” isn’t an acceptable response to banana bread.

“Okay, we get it, you want to lose some weight or whatever, but what the fuck does any of this have to do with Easter?”

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, you guys. I went into a completely different direction than I had intended and I’m so far off track that I don’t even remember what the hell I was going to say to begin with. I know it had something to do with rabbits and ham and Jesus and….. mmmmmm….  HAM JESUS….







Please Refrain From Hosing Me With Your Sickness Because I Am Not A Glittercorn

Hello, The Internet.

I am really sick right now.

I do not mean sick in a “oh dear, I have the sniffles, I must be dying” sort of way, or sick in a “gee, I sure hope no one goes through my internet history if I die today from said sniffles because they will know just how incredibly fucked in the head I was in real life” . Don’t get me wrong, I do have a horribly runny nose and a slight fear someone will figure out my computer password after I leave this life, but I’m referring to the, “fuck this fever, body aches, chills, I hope the dick-hole that coughed in my face last week stubs his toe so hard that it ruins his gait for a month” kind of sick.

Okay, I’m sort of kidding about calling dude a dick-hole and wishing him discomfort. In his defense, I was sticking an eight inch Q-Tip into the back of his throat, and let’s face it, it’s hard to take eight inches of anything in the mouth without coughing or gagging AMMIRIGHT, LADIES???

fuck yeah.

fuck yeah, ladies.

“WTF, CM, that was really inappropriate. Also, why are you giving that guy shit for coughing when you were, in fact, poking his throat with a long object?”

Yes, you’re right, that was HIGHLY inappropriate. Please forgive me. I don’t have a lot of gal-pals, so I look for any opportunity for lady bonding. And like I said, I was mostly kidding about calling the poor sick sap that I was poking with a stick a ‘dick-hole’. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, you see. I can’t even begin to tell you how many people vigorously and unabashedly hack their diseased sputum in my face and, in response to my wincing with dread of all the potential diseases that I just ingested, retort with, “what do you care? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU PEOPLE GET SICK.”

You people. Meaning health care workers.

I have to say, out of all the incredibly stupid things that come out of people’s’ faces at my job, the thing that floors me the most is something that I hear MULTIPLE times a day, and that’s, “IT’S AMAZING HOW YOU GUYS NEVER GET SICK”.

Not only do people say this, but they fucking mean it.

I wish I were joking. If I had a dime for every time I hear this mind-blowing statement, I would be raking in at least thirty cents a day. Times that by four and a half (the average amount of shifts I work per week), that comes out to roughly 280-something a year, and I could buy a really awesome thing with that many extra dollars* in my pocket.

*I’m sure the math isn’t entirely accurate here, but whatever. My head is stuffy and fevered and I want a cookie because everything sucks right now, so don’t judge.

What I wouldn’t do to be able to charge such an asshole-fee for being subjected to such nonsense on a regular basis. Sure it’s easy to shrug off the blatant stupidity of others, but after a while, the shit just adds up and makes my brain hurt, and I WANT COMPENSATION FOR THIS FUCKITRY, DAMMIT. How did the notion get started that people in health care are impervious to germs and viruses in the first place? Sure, we develop some immunity to bugs over time, and while we appreciate being viewed as some sort of mythical creature with super human abilities, let me assure you, we are not magical flying fucking glittercorns and we get sick just like everyone else. Trust me, I have the inflamed tonsils and sweaty shirt to prove it.

So, with that, next time you’re at a doctor’s office and you find yourself coughing up the contents of your lungs into the face of the doctor or their assistant, just remember, THEY ARE JUDGING YOU FOR BEING AN INCONSIDERATE DICK.

“Please, be a doll and cover your fucking mouth”*~ every health care worker, ever.

The End.

*please disregard if you are not an inconsiderate dick or if you don’t have arms.

I don’t give a shit about your fancy baby

Sweet mother of squirt, let’s all stop what we’re doing and acknowledge the fact that Kate Middleton and that one guy had a baby.

Yes, it’s true. They bumped their uglies, did the horizontal genital grind, dingled their dangles as one, and *oops* forgot to pull out, thus producing a boy-child that has the entire Yooniverse weeping for joy and talking about it a lot on the internet.

There isn’t an ounce of my being that gives a shit about their new found bundle of celebrity-gossip fodder. I understand this makes me some sort of asshole, but I’m okay with that. Just like I’m okay with anyone that genuinely cares about the things that come out of famous people’s uteruses because TO EACH THEIR OWN. I’m all about accepting each other’s differences and shit.

That’s not to say I don’t like babies. Quite the contrary, I fucking love babies. They’re usually cute, squishy and made out of sugar and WAY easier to deal with than non-baby children. Their sounds are cuter, too, as most children use words and have thoughts and opinions, one being that their parents are nothing but babbling, maniacal morons who cook, clean, and earn a living for them. That is not the case for babies though, oh no. To a baby you are a MAGICAL GOD who can do no wrong and I like that very much. BABIES DO NOT QUESTION ME AND THEY ALSO HAVE FAITH IN ME. Not to mention babies are super easy to take care of an maneuver through life with, unlike non-baby children. Example:

It’s easier to go to the store with a baby than it is a child.

All you need to bring with you is a well-stocked diaper bag and the handy car seat/carrier. Oh, you also need to bring the baby. While you are at the store, the baby rarely complains or asks you to buy unnecessary things utilizing repetition of said request to break down your ability to reason and will to live until you, eventually, cave in to their demands. Babies just sit there and looks at things. Sometimes, the baby will cry, but that is often easily resolved (see below). Sure, there are rare occurrences where the baby’s bowels explode without warning in an unholy fury of awfulness, saturating every square inch of their clothes, carrier, and possibly the person next to you in the aisle. This often results stinky mess and mild to moderate embarrassment, but you can solve this easily by leaving abruptly with your soiled baby and pretending it never happened. This would not be so easy if you were with a non-baby child instead. Have you ever needed to make a quick escape from a store with a non-baby child? Their short legs and no concept of haste make it IMPOSSIBLE. Also, they’ll likely stop at least three times on the way out the door to ask for cereal and some other shit.

It’s easier to troubleshoot problems with a baby.

Babies are easy. Period.
They have this amazing built in sound system that notifies you when they’re is a problem called CRYING. When things are going wrong, there is usually a quick fix for the problem, such as:
1. giving them a bottle
2. giving them a bath
3. changing their diaper
4. changing their surroundings
5. a nap
6. ibuprofen and a chew toy (if they’re teething)
7. picking them up and swaying from side to side
(for more tips or general knowledge, please refer to this informative link on how to take care of babies) (no seriously, go look at it because it’s awesome).

If you’ve done all of these things and the sound system is still activated, then you proceed to a doctor to rule out an ear infection or something potentially catastrophic. If the doctor says your baby is fine and they are still making loud noises, then could be an indication that you’re baby is just being an asshole, or has possibly morphed into a non-baby child.
The very same sound system also notifies you when things are going swimmingly and you’re doing a good job via cooing and giggling which makes you all warm and fuzzy and boosts your sense of self-worth as a parent.
Not so much for the non-baby child though. As they age, their built in sound system begins to degrade and malfunction. They cry when everything is perfectly fine and are silent when something is wrong. Coos are replaced with complaining despite all of their needs being met, which, I might add, become more complex as they get bigger. When they ask for something, rather than using a normal tone, they insist that raising their voice a few octaves and causing variances in pitch (otherwise known as ‘whining’) is the optimal way to get grown-ups to understand and respond to their request. THIS SHIT DOES NOT WORK ON ME, however, and I’ve explained to them over and over that talking in such a tone will not get me to cave in to their desires, yet they seem to interpret that as, “I should keep talking to mom in this tone in order to ensure that I get a cookie before dinner”. I WOULD TAKE CRYING OVER WHINING ANY FUCKING DAY.

Babies are very easy to keep entertained.

There is a phrase that children are often heard saying that gets under my skin like an angry case of scabies, and that’s “I’M BORED”. I want to know how in the hell it is possible to be so bored all the time when they have these amazing, vibrant, technicolored imaginations that opens up so many doors for fun and creative expression? How is it they’re bored when they have a closet full of toys that I spent a fuck-ton of cabbage on for their birthday or Christmas that they can use in conjunction with said imaginations? I’d like to remind all the children that THIS SHIT GOES AWAY AS YOU BECOME AN ADULT. It becomes socially unacceptable when you’re a grown up to talk to your stuffed dog that’s really a rainbow peeing cyborg-unicorn super hero that bakes the best imaginary friendship cupcakes you’ll ever have in your fucking life. I can’t spin around in circles at the park and pretend that I’m a helicopter that’s spiraling out of control and is going to crash. ENJOY THAT SHIT WHILE YOU CAN, I often say to my children, yet they still insist of complaining about how terrible their life is due to the severe lack of things to entertain them. I had hope that they will one day grasp the fact that all whining at me about this only leads me to find things for them to do, and these things are NEVER fun, but so far to no avail.

You rarely hear babies complain about being bored. Sure, once in a while they need a change in scenery which is easily fixed with a walk around the block, but over all, BABIES ARE AMUSED BY EVERYTHING. Have you ever watched a baby discover their foot? It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve seen it before, thanks to a short memory span, that foot will be the best damn thing they’ve ever seen and tasted in their entire little life. Shit, I remember when my oldest used to sit for hours in her light-up bouncy chair and stare at wide-eyed amazement as she would open and close her hand in front of her face. HOURS. I would eventually have to intervene to engage her in other things, but she would always go back to the awe and wonder of her little hands, and I rarely heard her complain about a lack of things to keep her interest. Obviously, if she were to do that now, I’d have to worry about possible LSD use, but I’m just saying I miss those simpler times. Or maybe, deep down, I miss babies and I’m sad that my ovaries are slowly turning into the Sahara and my baby days are over, unless I want to borrow someone else’s for a day.

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah. The Super Fancy Royal Baby and what not. Shit. I totally went off on a tangent that had very little to do with what the fuck I was talking about in the first place. So yeah, congrats and such to Kate Middleton and I’m so sorry to hear about her vagina, but I unfortunately cannot join the masses in their over pouring of joy for her royal crotch-fruit. I may love me some babies but the celebrity ones are only pretend babies and don’t count.


But Seriously, Say No To Toilet Sex

I have no fucking clue what I should be when I grow up.

Note I used the word “should” instead of “want” as I am pretty keen on what it is I WANT to do. If I had it my way, I would get paid to sit around and do creative writing all day. HOW BEAUTIFUL A DREAM IS THAT? I could be my own boss, do something I love, and things like “wearing a bra” and “having a good attitude” would be totally optional. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to provide excellent customer service to entitled dick-holes who deserve to be high-fived in the face with a clipboard. I WOULD BE GETTING PAID TO BE FREE. Doesn’t that sound nice?

See this guy? He's free as fuck. That's how free I want to be.

See this guy? He’s free as fuck. That’s how free I want to be.

Then I wake up and realize the fact that, in the present moment, my dreams of being paid for my creative brain sauce isn’t terribly practical. I can’t very well go to my boss tomorrow and say, “I’ve decided to leave the company so I can go be a free spirit and sit around making word art and hope to get paid for it some day.”. Okay, my boss is cool enough to where I could probably say that but she’d laugh and say, “okay, see you tomorrow”. Because she knows what’s up in life and also knows how much I hate change. That is one thing I’m grateful for in my current job in that the people I work for are pretty damn awesome, but what I do for a living sucks. I am a million dollars in debt* to the Student Loan Overlords just to have a job where I sit and not be smart all day. Very rarely do I get to do things like “critical thinking” and “working with my hands”, and these are two activities I enjoy thoroughly. I’ve always had this thought that I would one day finish my degree and become a real nurse, and I might still do this, but it’s expensive and time consuming, and I still need an income while going to school so I can afford my children.

*mild exaggeration.

So what then? If writing and nursing isn’t in my cards at the moment, what should I do?

I recently turned inward for guidance. This was the resulting conversation I had with myself:

Self: Come to me, my child, tell me of your burdens that I may lend a hand in solving.

Me: Why are you talking like that?

Self: Just tell me what the fuck your problem is.

Me: “sigh”… I need a new career path. I’m not fulfilled in my work and I still don’t have an Audi in the driveway.

Self: Don’t you have more interesting problems? Like your house was recently invaded by rabid sugar-gliders or your boobs are too big and they sometimes cause car accidents when you’re jogging on the side of the road?

Me: I wish…

Self: Hmm. Well, you want to be a writer, and that’s cool, but you need to work while you get your shit together.

Me: Obviously.

Self: And you’d make a damn fine nurse, but more loans in your anti-wallet is a shitty idea.

Me: Okay, now you’re just being an asshole.

Self: Yes. It’s what I do. Have you considered being a hooker?

Me: Um… no. Can’t say that I have. Last I checked it’s legally and socially frowned at and a great way to get one of those toilet-seat diseases.

Self: Toilet-seat diseases?

Me: Yeah, you know, “oh, I have this STD but it’s cool because I got it from a public toilet” diseases.

Self: The fuck? Is toilet screwing a thing?

Me: I guess so. I don’t know how else you would get diseases from sitting on a toilet seat. Last I checked, you have to actually have sex with someone to catch crotch-rot, merely sitting on their genitals won’t cause a problem, so I’m guessing there’s some folks out there that like to get it on with public johns. But whatever. I’m no toilet-scientist so what do I know.

Self: God, people are weird. Ooo, there! You could be a free-lance toilet cleaner. Do your part for society by preventing the spread of toilet-seat disease. Also you can educate public bathroom users against the dangers of fucking toilets while you’re in there. Make up some fancy pamphlets to hand out and shit. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, OF COURSE.

Me: Hmm, well I would at least be working with my hands, but that’s not very mentally stimulating. Plus fuck that. I don’t even like cleaning my own toilets.

Self: hmm… OOOOOO, how about a Master Kegel Trainer? You know, you can lead cooter toning classes and do one on one training and help women achieve their vaginal fitness goals! Think of how rewarding that would be!

Me: So.. lemme get this straight, you think I should sit in a room and simultaneously clench my vagina with other women while cheering them on? “Keep squeezing! Work that cooter! You can do it!”

Self: Or you can all stand, whatever.

Me:… are we all wearing spandex?

Self: YES

Me: Okay, that’s where I draw the line.

Self: Geez, you’re such a baby…. Hmm… what about a phone sex operator? They make good money, you know*.

*I was informed of this a few weeks ago. Something to the tune of 125 dollars an hour.

Me: no way, I hate talking on the phone. Plus, what would happen if someone asked me to do something awkward like call him daddy while imitating a sheep or something? I’m not good at that kind of sexy talk.

Self: This is true.

Me: *sigh*…..

Self: OH MY GOD. I think I just found a loop hole in the whole “being a hooker is illegal” while combining your desire to nurse people..

Me: Oh God….

Self: Shut up and listen… WHAT IF…. you were a traveling handy nurse?

Me: ….what in the hazy blue fuck is a “handy nurse”

Self: You travel to handicapped men’s houses and give them handies! THINK ABOUT IT…. everyone masturbates, right? And men kind of need to otherwise their balls get backed up and they explode or something? What about those poor saps who have broken arms or had them blown off in some weird grilling accident and are single or their partners don’t like touching their penises?

Me: Geez, that’s like insult to injury…

Self: EXACTLY! Those poor souls must have painful balls the size of grapefruit all because they’re physically incapable of expelling their man-batter. THAT’S WHERE YOU COME IN! You travel house to house and help them take care of business. For a fee, of course.

Me: I don’t see how this is a hooker loophole. Plus, I don’t think Caveman would appreciate me doing that sort of thing.

Self: IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S ACTUAL HOOKING… you would be doing it in the name of medicine. Plus it’s sort of like charity work, you know, helping the disabled? And you could wear a nurse uniform so it’ll be totally legit! But not scrubs though. I was thinking those short, white, old-school dresses with the shoes and a little nurse hat…

Me: I’m not talking to you anymore. You’re awful.

And that’s when I decided to just be grateful for the job I have and also I should stop talking to myself because I give terrible advice.


No. I Do Not Want To Go To Your Weird Lady Party.

This is a copied and pasted message from my sister:

“Hey, can you please make it out to my wrap gathering? It’s maybe just like an hour and a half of your time. I am trying to sell these and I need four people at the party to try it to pay towards my start up. I PROMISE you that you will see a difference, especially since you are so concerned over your stomach area. This will help it. I tried it on my stomach and lost three inches…Cellulite lines are better, skin not so “dimply”. Will you try it????????”

This “wrap gathering” that she speaks of will consist of women gathering in a social fashion and putting some sticky, expensive paper on our sagging, flabby, or otherwise unfortunate parts.

I saw her facebook invite last week and quickly changed my screen to something else as though it never happened. Note, I WAS NOT PURPOSELY BEING A JERK AND IGNORING HER. I was merely putting myself in a state of denial that I had ever read it in order to avoid explaining why my RSVP was a giant “fuck no”.

I really should know better because I always wind up having to explain myself. It is just the way it is.

I love my sister. A lot. She is a very important person to me. We are quite different from each other, but still get along quite well, and have lots of neat talks all the time. Keep in mind, that by “different”, I mean something that surpasses comparing us to “night and day” or “black and white” or “steak and lettuce”. We are more like comparing a potato to a lamp, in that we are a completely different things all together.

Side note: I am the potato in this relationship because I go great with salt and butter.

Anyways, we have known each other for twenty-nine years, and she still forgets that these sorts of vaginal gatherings are just not my bag, ESPECIALLY one that involves us sitting in a room complaining about the semi-private areas on our body that we hate and covering them with magical sticky paper. She may be able to lure me in with some fancy dark chocolate and a bottle of red wine so long as I’m allowed to hide in the bathroom during the shenanigans and won’t be required to participate or buy anything, though something tells me that will not do.

After going back and forth with her for a bit as I was defending my “I don’t wanna” stance, I had a thought: I’ve been on a mission to do things that challenge my comfort zone. I resist these “ladies getting together and buying shit” parties because I am not always a very social person and I think they’re really dumb. But WHAT IF this whole ordeal BLOWS MY MIND and winds up being one of the best experiences of my life and I miss out because I’m stubborn and hate everything? And, WHAT IF this magical sticky paper really is a truly amazing product that will transform me into a SPARKLING SEX-BEAST?

I decided to look up the product’s website to see what the fucking hoopla was about, and the more I read, the less I wanted to attend.

First of all, the product name is awful. It’s called “It Works”.

I’m glad I discovered that before asking my sister what it was called because that would have likely been a very frustrating conversation.

Me: “What’s it called?”

Her: “It works”

Me: “Yes, you mentioned that in the invite, but what is it called?”



Her: “OMFG. It. Works.”

Me: “Fuck this, I’m telling Dad.”

Of course there are cliché pictures of tape measures and women smiling holding up a pair of fat pants next to their lucious skinny figures with quotes, “It really works!”

So ‘It Works’ really works, eh? You don’t say.

It goes on about how it’s amazing and wonderful and magical and such. I’m automatically suspicious when companies use those sorts of hefty adjectives in hopes of selling their product, which is not helping me change my mind what so ever.

Then it gets to the part about the wrap parties, and shows this picture:

scary lady party…..





I have never been more sure of anything in my life.

Even if you lure me with chocolate and a bottle of delicious fermented grape juice.

Even if I will transform into a sparkling sex-beast.

That shit is fucking terrifying.

And I do not want to go.

I have never been more sure of anything in my life.

The End.

PS: In my last post, I asked for help in picking out a sac that I will be stuck with for the unforeseeable future. I am most likely going to make my purchase tomorrow, so if you’re bored, do mosey on over and vote on which one is the least shitty.


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