To date.

I am over worked, over sexed, and over sized. Blogging had fallen by the wayside. Thanksgiving was good, but the only thing that got stuffed was me. And by me, I am sad to report that I am only referring to turkey in my belly. Our Christmas tree is up- but not without some bullshit. You see, as Riot & I sat peacefully on the couch Sunday afternoon- the fucker tipped right over. Shattered glass and a big fucking mess- I dial up Girth at work. In a frenzy. We hang up, I have Riot go in his room, because I am raging...I tear that fucking tree apart. Had I been able to unleash it from that hellish death trap of a tree stand, it would have been in the front yard. I go into Riots room, feeling bad for having sent him there with no explanation, became the big spoon, and we fell asleep until Chris came home at 5 to a tore up house. I didn't even fucking sweep up the glass. Thank you pregnancy hormones. All in the world ended well, as we redecorated and watched Christmas movies. Am I the only person who hates The Polar Express?? Ugh, give me the classics- before things sucked, thanks.

My belly is so low I am fearful of developing a FUPA after birth. Twenty-Two weeks along this Thursday- and I feel like I did with Riot at 9 months. FUPA fear aside, I am convinced that I will die during childbirth or that I won't like the new baby as much as I like the old one or that other people will dismiss Riot for the new baby or...the list goes on & on. This pregnancy might really drive me crazy. Feeling her move now though, that calms me down. It feels different from Riot's movement- his were like ultimate fighting. This time, she seems to move more fluidly...like she is twerking. Charly Maylene seems to be sticking. And on April 10th she shall be taking over the world in her band tees, tutu's, and leg warmers.

Pregnancy Recap, the Evolution of 17 pounds.

 

Week 12

Week 15

Week 19

Week 20

 

Anyway, there's also this...

 

Amazon sells zombie dildos

 http://www.amazon.com/Fleshlight-FL6753-Freaks-Zombie-Dildo/dp/B006JMDUTG

 

So, for almost 80 bucks, you can buy a dead dick.

 

It's all in a name.

Nineteen weeks and the jig is up-it's a girl baby!! My excitement was eclipsed by terror, and then excitement won out again. My god. A female. A carbon copy of myself...like my boy baby is already not...holy balls. A family of four lies within the wakes. How is this possible when I do not feel like a grownup? When did I become the matriarch of a small family? How is my goofy husband a hero and role model to a small boy? Who are we, and when did this happen!? Last I knew we were a care-free duo who had sex whenever they wanted.  Now we busy a 4 year old in the kitchen with food or some other item he is not allowed to have so we can jam in a solid three minute trip to pound town. We enforce a strict 8 pm bedtime as well, because sex is a priority. I have a feeling that come Springtime- this new family member is not going to give a shit. Time to configure a new plan. Hopefully after having her, my hormones will level out and I can stop abusing Girth. The pregnant dreams I have are insanely vivid, and all about sex. Lesbian sex included.  I am not above resorting to getting my husband drunk in exchange for sex. Pretty sure he'd like me to be sedated. Everyone also seems very curious as to the name of this new offspring too! Well- there are three contenders, in which I sent a mass message to 7 females under the utmost secrecy, in order too gather opinions. Bottom line, one is a favorite, and I know some real twats. This quickly turned into a funfest for the seven of them in making fun of me and my unborn child. Why I have love for these bitches is beyond me. Their opinions are valued though.

 

Charly

 

Lennox

 

Birdie

                 Middle name will be Maylene on which ever one we choose.

 

Note to self...thank you, self.

How much do you think we REALLY need the acceptance of others? How much does their opinion of us really matter? I mean, it doesn't define us. Sure- it matters to some extent. How much better would it be though to have a healthy level of self appreciation? To just know all that you are good at, to recognize your own attributes. Compliments are awesome, they no doubt make my day- but it's always awesome to make my own day too. So, on days where I feel hideous, like shit, like I don't do enough- it's nice to remind myself of what I have going for me. So, I am just going to toot my own horn, louder than a mother fucker.

1. I'm a good student.

2. A good worker too. Especially in clutch situations.

3. I have a pretty sweet set of knockers.

4. I am a superb fucking mom.

5. A fantastic lover. Skilled in the undercover arts.

However, there's this too...

1. I sound like a cat banging on deaths door while singing.

2. I can be tactless.

3. Thoughtless too.

4. I'm judgemental.

5. I have scummy girl hair.

But, I can always work on these...

1. Leaving my comfort zone.

2. Being honest with myself.

3. Doing more for others.

4. Being a twat.

5. Sandwich making.

I know what I am good at, what I am bad at, and that I am a work in progress. Maybe I could have added that my terrible trash mouth could be worked on...but....eh.
Update- My mom bush is gone. Though, not without pressing it into a Mohawk in the bathtub, then screaming for Girth to come in- only to have him rip open the shower curtain while I scream "PUNK PUSSY!" at him. Or 5 minutes later when I yelled for him again, leading him to tear open the shower curtain a second time and hear me say, "Give padussy loo-who a kiss". His disgust with me is permanent, and I accept that he will never accept me.
Acceptance is one of my attributes.

This & That.

Well...not a lot of new developments, anywhere in life really. So, I guess I have a just smidge of a hodgepodge of shit.

Last week at my 12 week appointment, they think my due date may be off my 7 days. Which puts this kid as becoming a member of society on my birthday. Because that's exactly what I wanted for my birthday- to have my vagina ripped in half.

Riot turned 4 years old. I don't have a toddler anymore- I have a kid. Today he showed me a new four year old activity...he tucked his junk between his legs and said, "Look , Mommy- my doodle all gone!" I expected this- but at 14 not 4. There is no way he has seen this or heard it anywhere- so I now know that these are the things boys are naturally equipped to do from birth.

I finally got a pumpkin white hot chocolate. It was too hot to drink so I planned on getting all up in it at home. After driving all the way home I dropped it getting out of the car. It spilled and was all gone. I cried real horse tears while my offspring comforted me. He is learning at a very young age how terrifying pregnant women can be.

Girth almost had sex with me last night. He was even having some beers to do it. Then I farted too many times. He was really upset and dragged me across the couch, held my head down and force fed me my own fart smell. I did not like it, not at all.

Girth also bought me pregnancy Pilate's. I have also begun the squat challenge again. This baby can have my uterus- but it cannot have my ass. The Pilate's will also keep me nice and limber for next years pyramids and such.

I think some of you might judge me because I continue to bartend twice a week at a club that allows smoking. Just keep in mind that I am not judging you when you call yourself a stay at home mom as opposed to a welfare recipient. Bartending there might not be ideal while I am pregnant- but neither is syphoning off the system. Before you just tell me to find a different part-time job, remember I already also babysit full time as well as attend school full time. And you and your opinion are welcome to lick my nuts at any time.


So, yeah. That's where I'm at lately.






 

 

Maybe it's a mean day.

Obviously pregnancy is not all glory. Quitting smoking, drinking, and caffeine all in one day has taken its toll. I want mimosas for breakfast and Bloody Mary's for dinner. I want to empty a pot of coffee before 8 in the morning. I want to ride the meat train to pound town around the clock.
Just kidding, I haven't stopped doing that yet. No plans to either.
Pictures of bar shenanigans make me feel left out. I want to be a pyramid topper, fall on my face and do too many shots. I want to eat unhealthy food and own my body.
Naturally these feelings come and go, and my hormones will level out. Spare me the pregnancy is wonderful, embrace it spiels. I already know all of that. I am just not going to pretend to be the magazine mom who feels nothing but excitement. I feel EVERYTHING right now. I feel lonely and crowded, happy and weary, excited and exhausted, beautiful and hideous. It's all there- it just depends on the day. Becoming a family of four is a thought I still have not fully comprehended. I'm hoping for a girl- but a boy would not disappoint in any way. Keep the fucking "a healthy baby is all that matters" to yourself as well. That goes without saying, twats. No one is willing to sacrifice the health if their offspring for their choice in anatomy.
Sometimes I want to invite company over so I can be a bitch to them. I don't see why Girth has to bear the brunt of it when I have so many friends and so much twattyness to go around.
I want all of my food covered in gravy. Or lime.
Baby names. When the time comes that I actually announce it- remember that I am not looking for permission granted, or acceptance. Try not to make yourself look like a dick- because in the end, that's all you will have done. Can't please everyone, and I am not about to start by using my offspring as a people pleasing tool.
I think I'm done today.

 

 

 

Blahblahblah.

Charlie Hunman. Charlie frigging Hunman. This is who will play Christian Grey. While I can surely see myself banging him, I cannot see myself banging him as Christian Grey.
Eh, who am I kidding...
I am pregnant with raging hormones, sex obsessed and relentless. I'd get hot right now if Conan O'Brien was cast in that role.

My tits are getting ridiculous already. They are rock hard, weigh about 72 pounds apiece and feel fresh out of the oven warm. Last night at work one of my overworked bra straps gave out on me. The fucking plastic piece sprung off and flung off with enough speed to almost slice me in half. Had to MacGyver it up and lasso the loose strap over the back of my neck and around my other strap.
Super comfy.

In one week, at the end of the month while rent is due- two laptops needed repairing, my cat needed a vet visit, the washer broke, mailbox was beaten off its post by a scumbag, I am laid off babysitting for a few weeks, and a couple "surprise bills" popped up. Fuck you August.

Quitting smoking, drinking, and caffeine/coffee all in one day has made me volatile. My patience has evaporated. I have filled those three voids with sex. Girth will need words of encouragement, and lots of support in the oncoming months. I'm about to put him through the fucking wringer.





 

Week 8.

Had a 3 hour doctor appointment at the new practice today. And If this was any indication of the rest of this pregnancy...Jesus. The sonogram went just dandy. Then it was onto the pap smear and boob feeling. So Girth and I are sitting in the room waiting for 16 days on the doctor to come in. I am naked from the waist down, paper sheeted up. I have to fart. Badly. I can't hold it because I have a pap smear coming. So I jump off the table, inside the smallest room ever, and stick my ass in the closet sized space with a curtain for changing clothes. I fart. Obnoxiously, loudly, horrendously. Girth dies. I run back to the table, hop my fat ass back up there. Still waiting. So I am begging Girth to come over and see the view while I am stir-ups. He's not having it. That bitch is no fun. Again- I have to fart. I repeat the process, my poor husband is hanging his head in his hands. Shamefully. Next, here comes the doctor and his apparent entourage. In this small room is now Girth, the doctor, a nurse, a computer lady, and my vagina. Pap time. Almost impossible to not make creepy eye contact with the full house. All of a sudden, BOOM. Rectal exam. Hold the phone. I expected the doc to knock first, but he stormed in. Girth noted my surprise. Then, just like that- everyone is gone. I jump off the table and fling my paper dress off, Girth yelps. "Why is your pussy so hairy??" I'm like, what? He's like, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I told him I was growing it out like a woman. Then he continued to belittle me on the height of my underwear and said we are going shopping for new ones. On the way home he fed me a jr. bacon, so all was forgiven.

 

  

Dynamic.

I have had something on my mind since yesterday. A friend asked why I teach my son to swear, though she did bring up that "teach" was probably not the best word. This was in regards to mentioning how my offspring used the word "shit" when talking to me. There was nothing condoning from her, or nasty. Simply curious as to why he would just use that word. Well, because he hears it. Especially these past couple weeks while his mother is running around crying over not being able to shit. Naturally I do not want my child to swear...but so many other things are more important to me also. The other day I was actually shitting and had my head on the bathroom counter. Yes- our bathroom is that small. Well, Riot comes in and says, "Awwww, mom, you taking a big shit?" I told him yeah. Then I watch him lay down on the bathroom floor right beside me on his back, put his feet up on the cabinet and rest his arms behind his head. He says, "Mommy, tell me about some of your favorite things". So I did. He learned that from me, just like he learned the word shit from me. He is ridiculously compassionate and aware of peoples feelings. At a parade once, he tore out of my hand to run over and hug a crying child that he did not know. He is wild and gogogo all the time, but he's a pretty quality kid. When he pours his own drinks and spills the milk, I clean it without a word, when he asks to walk without holding my hand, I let him...because he is establishing independence. I watch him lay down, organize, and cover up his babies telling them he loves them. Hugging them all, kissing them all, and making them kiss each other.  He is an independent, smart, witty, loving, compassionate kid who says shit and piss. Our family dynamic is less then perfect, but we work, and we work well. 

Girth and me, we are wicked frigging good at what we do.  

Nothing less than beautiful.

I figured I would also give a brief rundown of Riots worldly entrance.

1. My water broke at home, at the dining room table while I sat in a chair with no pants on. I jumped up, running to the bathroom with fluid flying out of my vag, hurdled over my cat who was stretched out in the hallway and sat on the toilet. There was a trail all through the house from my run, except where my cat was laying, because I slimed her.

2. Only half of my water broke at home, the other half they broke during labor, in which I yelled, "It smells!!!", and Chris simultaneously yelled, "It's on my shoes", all while my sister stood there laughing.

3. 18 hours of labor, 3 epidurals, 45 minutes of pushing, 2 full days with no sleep.

4. The second epidural wore off just before the pushing began, I felt pretty much everything. Because I am spastic, I flailed and kicked over the entire stainless steel tray of vag/baby tools and items in front of me.

5. The third epidural came after Riot flew out of my poor muffin, and my placenta did not detach. My doctor went ahead and got balls deep by reaching her entire hand and arm- all the way up to her elbow into me and pulling. Because I felt as though I was being gutted, and rightfully so, I screamed like a murder victim. The 3rd epidural was administered immediately.

6. I received 5 million stitches from my taint all the way up to the man in the boat. Seriously. I also received a hemorrhoid as a thoughtful parting gift.

7. When the nurse was stitching me up, I would not stop farting. It was like my asshole gulped air for all 18 hours. I kept apologizing, and she would giggle and move her head to the side...it was insane. Just huge gusts of air erupting. my sister and Chris thought it was awesome and the other nurse commented that they sounded like, "cartoon farts".

8. My doctor would not allow pictures or videos to be taken. I was hugely disappointed.

9. Chris was great and petted my hair with a wet cloth the entire time. This regretfully resulted in my after delivery photos looking like I had a greasy mullet.

10. The birth of our child was a shit show, but nothing less than beautiful. And all of these things make me strangely excited to do it all again.

                                                              So new. A whole day old.

First day home.

Best first day, ever.

 

Did it. Again.

First, I want to say thanks for all the congrats!! It's amazing how glorious and celebratory an unplanned pregnancy is in your thirties! Although I do feel nervous, like, knocked up 14 year old catholic lass nervous.  Girth is beyond pumped, and will be the keeper of the balance and sanity from here on out. We thought we were one and done- we were wrong. Don't be twatty and confuse unplanned with unwanted though either.  This also definitely explains why I murdered that burrito from Taco Bell, have been abusing Girth's penis, practically orgasm if wind grazes my nipples, and have not shit in days. I am 6 weeks along and scheduled to squeeze this babe out on April the 10th, 2014. While a healthy child is all that matters, bitches are lying when they say that they don't secretly hope for one sex or the other- just a little. I just so happen to secretly hope for a girl this time. A boy would by no means disappoint me, but I already know we make a gorgeous boy baby. Now I want to see what a girl baby will look like. Which is a decision I will want to take back during her teenage years. Naturally,  we have already chosen the name for the girl as well. No- we will not be telling for a very long time. Ladies these days are a bunch of no mind, baby name stealing shitbags.
I will of course be blogging the usual all over, but these blogs will also be full of every beautiful and disgusting aspect of pregnancy. Occasional pictures of my body, boobs, crying face, poop, everything. You have no idea what the terms "overshare" or "TMI" will mean in the next 36 weeks. Also probably weird photos from baby morph websites, and if all goes well- a video in about 9 months time. Thank me later.

Sally Sassafrass

First of all, the only people still wearing jeans so low that their yucky pussy bush is barely covered- are older women who should not even be allowed to purchase them. Keep watch for bedazzled back pockets...it will be a dead give away for those jeans. As will be the giant fucking moose knuckle in the front. Because she is probably past 40, and wearing those jeans, I am willing to bet Girth's big ol' wiener that she will be wearing a tube top as well. In reality she is probably only 30, but looks 40, while all her bestest friends are 21. She'll be getting loaded and having fun, then crying about her lonely single life while shoving her hand down the front of some strange guys pants. He's only going to let her blow him though- because no guy in their right mind would hit that snootch anymore. Don't get me wrong- she will still get laid, occasionally. By some poor unsuspecting soul who thinks he is nailing a cougar. But he isn't. He has just been duped by a haggard 30 year old. Maybe I am just getting older myself, maybe I am just feeling twatty. But people are grossing me out lately either way. I drink, I piss my pants, show my tits...I get belligerent. I just don't do it regularly, I don't prowl for new dick, and I certainly do not pretend to be a 20something. It would be impossible anyway, I am way too stuck in the 90's. I just don't get how these women think these things will land them a good guy while they are single and looking. No one wants the lady who only looks decent when illuminated beneath the dim glow of Coors lamp hanging over a pool table. Smarten up. Stop being so fucking embarrassing and you might get a guy to call you before midnight. And for fucks sakes, stop dressing yourself from your tween daughters closet.

No.

 

Best Friends

Well, Girth stole me away for a sneaky surprise camping trip. We brought a tent, 2 steaks, pbr and a bottle of vodka. We are obviously wicked good packers. Aside from blogging, another thing I have not done in a month is drink. And it just so happened to be a Hawaiian themed party at the campgrounds that night. Guess who got crunk? Wapatula, beer, a Bloody Mary, and some concoction of liquor inside of a watermelon with straws poking out set me up for lushiness. Probably not the best choices were made having not drank in a while. But I think I only stormed off once in anger, for who even knows what. I also took a huge leap off a deck- to which I didn't stick the landing. Jacked up my bum birthday knee again. Still limping. Photos informed me that half of my bra was hanging out of my tank top all night- trashy box- check. My one comfort is that nearly everyone else, was in no condition to remember shit. Girth was upset that the night was actually suppose to be a more romantic getaway- just the two of us. While it did not go as he planned, we still had fun..
Highlight?
He ravaged me in the tent. Unexpectedly, after telling me he would not be hitting it that night. He couldn't help himself though, because I was a hot mess. One better? We got busy outside the tent. I am pretty sure that being naked outside in the woods is my most favorite thing in all the land. I really just wanted to gallop around the entire campgrounds like that. I have been naked in the woods, but not completely, completely. And not since I was like 15.
Low point?
Well, you know in the morning my body hated me when it let me know that I would be needing to take a huge shit. Blue Bowls. Jesus Christ on a cracker- the most disgusting BB's I have ever waltzed into. My eyes water, I yanked my shirt up over my face...I moaned. MOANED, it just escaped. Why isn't there anything in a BB to cover your shit after you leave it? Maybe scoop some sand, some kitty litter, fucking something??? Isn't there anything that will dissolve shit??
So, there is our Saturday. Bottom line is, Girth loves me. He planned a sneaky good time, with just each other- which is fantastic, though it didn't work that way. He ended up putting out, again- by surprise, and we just enjoyed each other. Overnights with any period of time is so rare for us. It's good to be reminded why you're best friends again. I needed that as much as I needed the D.

Best Friends. 4-eva-eva.

 

SheWee, SheWhat?

Initially, the idea of the Shewee was super attractive to me. I am a huge fan of standing up to piss like a guy, I just don't generally take advantage of the opportunities. A couple weekends ago I did bet Girth that I could put the fire out by pissing on it like a man. I think that was the PBR talking- but I gave it a shot. Pulled down my jeans and gave a mean thrust forward. I did not anticipate the billowing smoke or the huge flame that lashed out and almost burnt my muffin off. I pulled back quickly, however- I was not able to kegal it off. So I continued to piss all over my self while Girth screamed at me to thrust forward again. I did, but it was in vain. My jeans were to pissy and tight to pull back up, so I had to walk of shame it half dressed back inside.
This weekend, I thought I found a solution in the Shewee.
I was wrong.
Lesson learned from last time, I prepared myself by getting naked from the waist down. Excellent choice. I then removed the Shewee from its packaging. Immediately thrown off, because it feels like a dildo and resembled a pocket pussy. I went with it though, cupping it too my muff. Positioning was tricky, as I poked myself in the b-hole. Finally, I thought I nailed it. Started pissing and it was a disaster. All down the backs of my legs, all over my hands, my cup runneth over. Did I drink too much beer? Did I hold my piss too long? Too forcefull? Is my monkey to plump? I just don't know. Possibly this was user error.

All this and I can't figure out where my sexiness has went...

 

 

Sticky Sally

I don't mind hot days at all, but the humidity kills me. Being sticky is gross. I have to make sure I wear certain bras that lift and separate the teets, so that they don't become a mashed up sweat-fest. The crack of my ass doesn't really sweat though, so that's a plus. A butt crack is actually so useless, isn't it? I mean, mine doesn't do anything except collect the hair off my head in the shower. Just a pointless split. I guess when it is so hot and sticky out, females can be grateful to not have a sack of nuts. THAT must feel gross. Plus, nuts get all long and dangly when they get hot. So they are definitely just hanging out, swinging and sticking around. You always see guys adjusting themselves- which only means that they are ripping their nuts off their thigh. In this heat, I imagine it looks like tearing gum off a sidewalk. And sleeping in this heat? Ugh, that's horrid. Some people complain that they can't sleep without being covered up by something. Are you kidding me? I went to bed last night naked as can be, sprawled out like I was being sacrificed with not a single thing touching me. Before I went to bed I asked Girth if he wanted to pork, I was met with the usual look of disgust, and, "Can't we ever have sex when you aren't gross? You probably stink". So I smelled my armpits, they were fine. He wasn't buying it though. I might have looked a little, let's say disheveled, but gross wasn't very nice. Off to bed I went, while he watched the game. Obviously he couldn't resist my sweaty, sticky sprawled self though, because I woke up to him standing over me and smacking my arm with his wiener. Pffftttt...nope. Buddy boy missed the ride on this Sticky Sally when he had the chance.

Mean Monday.

It's Summer and you want to look good, I get it. However- you can't look like Rosie O'Donnell in the Winter and Lana Del Rey in the Summer. Unless you're Oprah.

Frenemy is one of the stupidest fucking words I have ever heard.

Bacon is my frenemy.

I can't even remember what clothes I wore yesterday. Or how old my husband is. But I can't erase a  single word of Ice Ice baby from my brain.

Asshole person, "Will you please <insert food or drink request>"

Other person, "No, get it yourself".

Asshole person, "You're wicked lazy".
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Outstanding 80's movies are being remade into ridiculous new releases. Ruined by boys that can't act and whorish tween looking girls. And the new soundtracks suck balls.

People who are mean to cats.

Girls who are newly single- you do not have to throw your muffin into overdrive. Chlamydia is not a requirement of solo ventures. No one wants your gift of HPV.

Brag about your body. Wear clothes from the children's GAP. Post hundreds of selfies. Complain about attention from guys.
Silly twats.

Shorts/sweats, anything with words across the ass. If you're young, it's inappropriate, old, also inappropriate. They should just never exist. Gross.

Don't brag about your clothes, car, paycheck, anything- if you live with your parents. The only things you should brag about is your savings account, because hopefully you are striving for more than your childhood bedroom in life.

That's all. I am done being hateful for now.




























 

Dead Mouse

I have never lied about so many things in my life, as I have since becoming a mother. I lie to my child constantly.


Example 1) That stupid play area in the food court at the mall. There are always rotten kids running around in there jacking up other kids, unsupervised because their parents are way too concerned with their phones. So, we never usually take him in. Nine out of ten times- I tell him that he can't go in because it is a birthday party and he wasn't invited. Awful, I know. But he is fine with it.

Example 2) Mostly any toy at the store. He "needs" many of these toys, so I have to break the news to him that they are not for sale. Of course I tell him that I will talk to the manager about it, and get it straightened right out. You know, because mommy saves the day. 

Example 3) I just started the bathtub up the other day and as I was getting in, I remembered that I have my period. Which obviously means I was corked up. So I pop er' out and toss it in the toilet. Like a scum, never flushed it. Doesn't Riot come strolling in, looks in the toilet and clasps his hands over his mouth. He is concerned and asks what it is.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
I am not having a tampon talk. Dead mouse it is, so I tell him that. He believes me, but is then very concerned over there being a dead mouse in the toilet. Then he announces that "It is bleedin', mom!! Zombie mouse...AHHHHHH...gonna get meeeee!!"...Great. I heard about zombie mice getting him  for the rest of the day.

So, yeah. I lie like it's my frigging job. The kid never would have eaten steak if I hadn't told him it was brown chicken. Best of all though, I will not have a child with entitlement issues...because he is OK with not always getting what he wants. Besides, I can always bribe him with a dozen hot chicken wings.  

 

 

Dear Me...

So I saw the idea of writing letters to your younger self...holy interesting. It actually took some thought! Loved it. Did it.


Your dislike of babies and fear of pregnancy will not be enough reason to get your tubes tied at 15. Don't bother writing that huge letter to a random medical board about it.

You are going to actually give birth to the most beautiful child, you're really going to like him.

Eventually your disdain for the institution of marriage will fade and you'll do it. Crazy, I know.

Don't pay attention to the people who called your first love 'puppy love'. There are few things in life as passionate as your first.

Your boobs are huge, we all know it. Stop letting everyone feel you up.

You're going to break a few hearts- don't forget what yours felt like that one time.

Outie vagina's are not strange. It is not falling off. You are fine.

In ten years you will have stopped letting everyone feel you up. However, you won't stop showing them to everyone. What is your deal?

There will be one person in your sexual repertoire that you will want to punch your teenage self in the face for. 1 outta 9 isn't bad- good job.

You're obsession with things ending on an even number will spiral out of control when you realize that you married wiener number nine...

Mixed tapes will always make you misty eyed, keep them all.

That stubbornness that was once your downfall, will become your savior.

You won't ever grow out of pecker checking.

I don't need to tell you that your are beautiful- you've always been a vain fuck. However, you are so much smarter than you ever realized.

You will never pass through that stage of awkwardness, sorry.

You'll learn to cut what weighs you down...

 

Long Hair, Don't Care

I have decided that if I want to claim back any sexiness that I once embodied, I will have to take the necessary actions. Be pro-active. And there is only one way to do it. It isn't something I WANT to do, but I HAVE to. You see, I have never had a pedicure...because I wouldn't pay someone to do what I can do for myself. And I HATE people touching my feet. Only one manicure, because my sister in-law to be at the time conned me into it and made me go. In which I abruptly jacked up as soon as we walked out the door and got into the car. I'm just not cut out for those things. I have not even worn heels since I had Riot. Not that I could walk with my ankles snapping every other step...but I did it anyway. Pregnancy robbed me of any iota of sexiness that I had, but I have already told you all that. So. I have given it some thought, really thought about actual sexy girl actions. And BOOM, there it was. Strippers. Slow your role...you won't be finding me at the Woosah anytime soon. However, strippers in a specific way- like when they have really, really long hair and tip their head back and their hair swishes on their ass? That's it. That's the ticket. I need extensions. Long glorious ones that I can just walk around tickling my ass crack with for a day or two. I am absolutely positive that it will transform me into a raging sex goddess again. I want to swish it and flick it and whip it with slutty passion all over the place. I'm officially convinced, and obsessed. I even gave this blog red print. Because red is the color of whores.
So exciting!

BOOM.

 

Complimentary Douche.

"You have a great front row".

"The closer you walked to me, the more gorgeous you got".

"I like your hangy downs" (Referring to my earrings).

"You're so good".

A man who was about 103 years old informed me that I caught him on payday, and that if I stuck around after my shift I could find out what my "big tip" was. Insert creepy wink...which took A lot of effort.

Scenario, Every single time paying for a drink- huge wad of money is pulled out to extract 3 dollars from. Stop it. First of all, you look like a douche. You are not giving off the wicked awesome vibe of, "Look at me I'm fucking loaded and have a huge wiener". Instead you are stating, "Look at me I don't have an actual bank account but will show you this huge wad to over compensate for the small bulge in my pants". Just throw your money on the bar like a grown ass man and let me pull from it.

Please stop waiting for your wives/girlfriends to go to the bathroom so you can give me a huge tip and tell me to put it in my kitty. I do appreciate the cashmoney, but don't do it if you have to tip me like a hooker on the sly.

I really do enjoy when your eyes glaze over and you order your draft beer from my tits.


I absolutely adore bartending, really, I do. I find humor in many of these things. However, it gives me a glimpse into what life would be like as a single lass...which has not happened for me since I was seriously 15 (relationship hopper status). Well, I was single for about 10 minutes in between my previous relationship and this one...and something as simple as changing my Facebook status had made my inbox BLOW UP over about two days. It was intense. Oh, no. The single life would not be for me. I applaud the ladies I know that handle it though. Should my marriage ever eat shit, I'm getting lesbionic. There will be so much love and so much boob between us.

 

 

Up to Speed...

So, in case you have not heard, we are at war. This began last week when I decided to rub it in Girth's face, via Face book, that I was wearing his beloved Between the Buried and Me sweatpants (yes, the same ones that I shit in before) without underwear. This is what he received from me:

"These are your favorite sweatpants, on my body. Sans skipps. It's just me...all up in there.

Consider it marking my territory.
I do what I want.
I dominate.
Boom."

 

 

He gets home, sees this, and is not pleased. At all. So as he is sitting bitching, and I am cooking dinner and laughing at him, I piss.
"Ooops, I just pissed your pants".

And there the war was born. What followed that evening before bedtime was this:

 "You piss in my favorite sweatpants and wear them with no underpants again this will not be the last time this happens. REVENGE!!!"

 

Now- these are my favorite comfy pants. And I am also not one to be outdone, though I am no arsonist either, so I was forced to get creative. Which lead to him coming home the following day to this:

"It is not even 10 a.m. and I have already cut the nuts out of all of your underwear. Just so you know how intense things can get, I snipped the nuts out of a pair of your kids too.
Enjoy the new airflow to your taint."

 

There has been zero activity in the past few days. Peace has been restored on Facebook, and I believe that I have won. We'll see.

 

 

In other news, a couple things that made me feel like a legit mother.

1. Riot dropped a huge F-bomb...so I put soap in his mouth. Not a lot, but I did jam it on his toofs with my finger...so the taste had to have stuck.

2. I had my physical done. My jeans were so high that my physician chuckled and asked me to unbutton them. I did. It was three buttons worth of unbuttoning, reminding me of the Button Your Fly days, and I suddenly became nostalgic for the Button Your Fly t-shirts. And Umbros. And Rave hairspray.

 

A million things...

I hate lip gloss, lip stick, chapstick, anything lip related. I think it feels like jizz. However, I don't mind...well, nevermind...


Why do people say,"God never gives you more than you can handle",....but the suicide rate is so high? So he just gives you more than you can handle, because he thinks you can handle it, but then when you try to kill yourself, he doesn't intervene, and just lets you die, even though suicide is a sin?  


Sometimes when we go for rides on nice days, Chris will say excitedly, "Oh wow, LOOK!" and point to my window. When I look in a hurry, he slams on the breaks and I smash my head and face off the window.


I always feel like I want something, but I never know what it is. Like the same feeling you have when you forget something, but you can't figure out what. Constantly.


I know secrets about people, that they don't know that I know. Legit secrets, fact based, legit sources. Sometimes I get awkward around you because if it. Because it's a scummy secret. Sometimes I want to laugh and ask you a question about it, but I can't, because I am not suppose to know...so I want to punch you in the face instead. There are quite a few of "you".


Every girl owns 'period underwear'. Ask her, if she says no, she's a lying whore. Or she is menopausal. I own a pair or two. They are huge. Like, up to my tits and the back of my neck. I tell myself they are 'vintage' style. Sometimes I lie to myself.


Easy come, easy go.


Every time I open up candy or fruit snacks for Riot, I eat one of whatever it is. I completely justify it by calling it 'commission'. See a smudge of dirt on my offspring's face? Don't think I won't lick my entire hand and palm the poor kid. He's only three and ducks for cover. I feel an obscene sense of entitlement over his whole life, and it will probably never fade.


Suzuki X-90's are my favorite car in the world. On a drive one day, Chris pointed out that a house had two in their driveway. When I saw them, I cried because I was so jealous. They were made from 95-97. A two door, two seater, T-top, 4 wheel drive car. Been obsessed since I was around 20. Only around 3-4 thousand dollhairs for my dream car. 

Who the fuck has posed Leonardo Dicaprio for photoshoots?

 

Bathtime. Together.

So Girth and I had a bitchfest the other night. I was raging since my ovaries are exploding and he was just being especially twattish. Finally I settled into my book and and he roamed around the house like he was busy. Then grabbed a beer and told me he was taking a bath. About 15 minutes later he calls my name. I'm fucking pissed because I never sit for more than 5 minutes at a time without my name being called urgently. So I get up, and head in. Open the door, there's my husband bathing with the light off and lit candles. He tells me to get in. (Now, we used to take baths every day together, pre-baby days, pre-fat days....so this is nostalgic).
So I am in and we are cuddling. He wants to sex me. I know it. Mostly because of the raging boner taking up space in our already limited bathtub. I feel frisky, so I decide I want to drip candle wax on him. On his wiener, specifically. Immediately this isn't looking good. He isn't letting me near his junk. I'm laughing and begging...I say, "OK, OK, let me put it in your pussy hair", he says, "No, no, you'll start a bush fire"...I am waiting to sneak attack him...he stands strong though. So I fling the candle, he screams like a bitch and awkwardly catches it. Frgging candle wax floating everywhere. We are scums though, so we stayed in. Now we are at opposite ends and I'm like, OK, wash my vagina. He sits up, looks down at my snooch and says, "ew- fuck you". I tell him no, it's sexy, let's get sexy. So, he grabs his squeezy soap, splats it on me, gives my muffin a couple swipes and then flicks water at it. I told him he had to get all up in the nooks & crannys. He had a disgusted face the entire time. It was a shit job. He would have the dirtiest clam ever, if he had his own. Again, we lay back at opposite ends. My hair gets stuck on the faucet part and rips half of it out. Then I farted.
Then he got out.
The end.

This picture is a fucking lie.

 

Sexy has left the building.

I was sitting on the couch with Girth, and farted. It was disgusting. He got up, and walking into the kitchen says:
"You are so fucking gross. Whats wrong with you? That smells hot, I bet you singed your asshole hairs!"
I can't see him because he is in the kitchen, but I am laughing and jiggling like a lard ass, and as I get ready to say something, he yells:
"And don't try and tell me you don't even have asshole hairs, you're fucking sick".

He also regularly checks Riot and me for ticks. So the other day after we came in, he checked Riot, then when Riot was in his room, I hurried up and stripped completely naked and ran and splayed out on the bed. He hung his head in defeat, maybe shame, and came in to check me. I rolled onto my belly and farted...intensely. His decision was to stop checking me. And now he won't check me for ticks anymore, so I am probably going to die.

I drove our 4 wheeler for the first time yesterday. Now I am completely in awe of how some girls do it. Girth took pics of me, and I am left wondering why I don't make adventures look sexy. Head back laughing, hair blowing Godiva style in the wind...nope. My hair blows back into the form of a mullet my eyes get crazy and my mouth hangs open like a happy moron. You would think it was my first day running through the halls without a helmet on.

I am convinced that any sexiness I once had was lost when I gave birth. There must have been a glitch in that magical moment when my foot slid out of the stirrup, kicked over the surgical tray holding all the tools, my sister yelling, "You pooped! It's OK though though, it was only a small nugget...", Chris laughing about my water breaking and splashing his shoes and a baby springing out of my vag. Sexiness ran out the fucking door, slammed it shut and decided to never return.

Pretty much.

 

Week 4-score and oh my huge ass later...

Well, week four is here. I am still not pleased with the results, not entirely anyway. I thought for sure it would be way more Kardashian than it is right now. Granted, I am about 225 behind. Normally, I am not one for excuses, but a sick household, finals week, on top of moving- kind of rearranged my priorities. I am in the process of making them up, so it should be fine. Even if I have to tack an extra day on. The biggest difference seems to be in the way it feels though, and up towards the top. It just feels more round, more firm. The pictures can't really convey that to you. Plus, my saddle bags seem to be lesser. Which is nice, of course. I still feel like those under ass creases should be straightening out.

 

 

Here's some weird side ass too. The side ass itself is actually looking alot better. It's the fat thighs that are really fucking shit up, I think. Better start getting in some walking to straighten shit out. That extra fat between my thigh and my ass drives me insane.

 

 

On another note, today is mine & Girth's 5th anniversary. He tapped that ass just this morning, around 4:30 am. Good thing, because I would hate to ring in the 5th year with him not putting out.
Love you, Girthy.

 

 

 

"...stop being a little whore..."

I'm just going to jump right into this one. A man and a vibrator are nothing alike. Just because you may use one more than the other, does not mean the other won't work anymore. If I just want to just get off, about 60 seconds later, I have. Obviously I have stellar technique and I aim to please- myself. If I wanted actual sex, just bribing Girth to put out would take at least 5 minutes. Followed by 5 minutes of foreplay, then the 5-10 minutes of smashing anatomy, then about 5 minutes of clean-up'. 
It still does not of course, beat real sex. The sweat, the smell, the taste...you just aren't going to get all that passion by yourself. The closest analogy would be like starving and and choosing fast food or 4-Star. Both will do the job, but they definitely aren't alike in experience.

With that being said, my greatest sacrifice during pregnancy was being made to give up my toys. Girth made me get rid of everything before I evicted Riot from my uterus. His words exactly,

"You need to throw that shit away. It's time to be a mother and stop being a little whore".

 

It was awful. Goody box, gone. Missed most of all, was the Bullet. I probably could have gotten away with smuggling and keeping it, being only the size of my pinky. But let me tell you- throw a couple watch batteries in it and it will shimmy across a counter top in half a second. Miraculous little fucker. My friend actually gave it to me as a gift a few years before. She gave it to me right at work, and it was on a key chain- I had no idea what it was. Turned it on in the office...yeahhhhh...our boss was not impressed. I was though, for sure. It was the beginning of a beautiful thing, which Girth tore from the depths of my soul during pregnancy. Someday I'll pay him back. Like when Riot is grown up and moved out. I'll get a frigging wall-banger and attach it to his side of the beds headboard. A huge black one. And forever and ever he shall wake up every morning bouncing his forehead off a big black dick.

I win.

I find it absolutely insane if an adult woman has never masturbated. That must be like not knowing how to find your own way home.

 

Sometimes I complain.

Why is everyone who gets their picture taken by a good photographer suddenly beginning a "modeling" page? Easy, Elle Macpherson. And also, if you un-Instagram yourself, it's like Superman revealing he is just Clark Kent. A big fucking disappointment.

No one is going to share a million dollars with you. Cancer will not be cured. Sick children will not be fed. You're mother/father/sister/brother will not die.
Free couches will not come in the mail.
Stop riddling FaceBook with this insanity. No one is secretly counting your FB likes and feeling that we are on our way to a better quality of life. No one is over your shoulder ready to kill anyone if you scroll past.

A $20.00 dollar tattoo is a $20.00 dollar tattoo. If you are in a kitchen, 9 times out of 10, it looks like it was done in a kitchen. If you say you got 'tatted', then this is more than likely exactly what you did. If you want professional pictures taken, and I started snapping away with a disposable camera and charge you money, then that wouldn't be very professional, now would it? You would not have professional pictures, you would have retardation. If you are buying groceries, do you want to save some money and get old, stale, bad food? No, you probably do not. You want the good stuff. So, then why go to your neighbor, who just got his first artistry kit, via the interweb machine, and let him etch a permanent practice session into your skin? Of course you can pay out of your ass to have an actual professional fix it, but maybe they will pass. Maybe they are a little weary on being at risk for Hep B, unlike YOU were when you sat in that kitchen chair, table full of food, kids running around, people smoking/drinking, with your un-gloved artist.

Why can't FaceBook just be full of baby animals and porn *sigh*

Just in case you need help identifying professional from non-professional work:
http://www.deathtoscratchers.com/Index.html


Keep in mind, shit work is alot different than apprentice work.


If you are offended by this, then you probably did it. Don't fret, this guy can more than likely fix your mistake. And I do say YOUR mistake, instead of the "artist" you initially went to- since YOU chose them in the first place.

https://www.facebook.com/messages/635479014#!/TattooMacabre

https://www.facebook.com/messages/635479014#!/tymelesstattoo.piercing?fref=ts


Now, kids- Mr. Macabre won't work out of a kitchen, but you won't be disappointed.

So that means you can have something like this...

 

 

 

 

...instead of this.

 

Asstastic Week: first odd prime number

So, this is week three. I have to say, I thought my ass would be way more awesome by now. Maybe that's the issue. Unrealistic expectations that lead to disappointment, that lead to giving up. So, I will continue with these hellish squats. They actually aren't so bad, and each week I have been able to pop up & down more and more at a time. Starting out, doing just 20 at once made me want to punch babies, but now I can spring out 40 like it's my fucking job. I also like to think that this directly correlates to better sex. It's got to affect the pounce-pounce of it all. We'll see...


Well, here it is. Week 3;

 

 

I also decided to take a second pic, because I do think my ass is looking bigger. Especially up top? I don't even know what is happening...I look wider! Which also makes my waist look smaller...I am getting surprised left and right. Holy balls.

Don't judge my fat thighs...I will work on those another time. They do look weird, making my shape boxy like spongebob or something. Gross.

 

 
Also, those that feel the need to judge me because I am blogging my ass on here, suck it. Doesn't seem to stop you from sneakily clicking the blog link I post and checking me out though, does it.

Hypocritical twats.

One more thing, look into this blog:

http://bringthesprinks.wordpress.com/2013/04/15/a-special-thanks/


That is my friend, Chrissy- who is doing amazing things with her body. She also posts pictures of her body over the 12 weeks she just endured, and let's you know what she has gained from it, and how she achieved it. Her ass is slammin'.

Asstastic, week deuce.

Oh my balls. The first week of squats was intense. Shaky legs, thighs felt like charlie horses...I completely wanted to bury and eat my feelings of physical pain. The second week, doesn't feel like that at all. Only my outer thighs hurt, and it isn't even that bad. I think that means I am making muscles, woot! These past few days got a little jacked up with moving and all, but I have made up all of the squats that had gone neglected. I have only today's, and yesterday's to handle. Rolled out of bed at 5 this morning and did 25 real quick, like a fucking boss. 180 more to go before midnight. Taking my ass selfie this morning, I am not sure that I see a difference, but it feels different hanging off my body. Here is this weeks...a fucking disgusting amount of squats later...
And please pardon the massive whorish wedgie that is happening. Hungry, hungry hamburger.

 

 

And here is a side by side of week 1 and week 2...

 

 

 

And an unexpected surprise from the squatty challenge...

 

Again, pardon my slitty looking bellybutton, since I was pulling up my ridiculous boobs.

 

 

 

 

This is getting exciting. Results are exciting!

Asstastic.

Let's face it, Winter time is a luxurious fat ass of a time span. I am not out walking the bridges, or really doing much of anything. However, my mid thirties clearly does not agree with that lifestyle choice...and it is obvious by the way my ass is trying to jiggle itself away from the rest of my body. Tonight I happened upon a picture of a 30 day squatting challenge. Well, challenge fucking accepted. "Mom Ass" terrifies me, and I do not want to lose the gracious "gap" that I was blessed with. However, walking this Summer will save that- since it is more about my thighs getting fat and crowding out that coveted little space. It also seems that I have been building up some "saddle bags". Awesome. This was the first time I have ever taken a selfie of my own ass, and it was fucking terrifying. Now, after the squatty challenge, I am not hoping to see a miracle, just a little more pop. It seems strange to me having my thighs wider than my ass. And also having them struggling to kiss each other beneath my ass cheeks is ridiculous. I feel like I want to go Nip/Tuck all over it with a black sharpie. Je-sus. I want a more defined under ass crease and more lift. So, here it is...

 

I am not a fan of the way my ass has become one with the rest of legs...not a fan at all.