Hodgepodge

Some things on my mind today.

People spend years of their lives focusing on their bodies and doing amazing things. Toning, strengthening muscles. Now, I have mentioned before...I have a chubby muffin. What if I focus on that? Could I slim and tone it? Could I concentrate so hard on kegals that I could actually snap a dick off? Would that be pretty much a super power? Super Snatch? The Clammed Crusader?

As I peruse Craigslist like a creepy stalker of sorts, I really do hope that some of the Missed Connections get answered. And I really do not get why more people don't use it. For the most part, technology has made people pussies. If I were single, I would be after 80's style romance. If me and some stranger had a flirty connection, I would want to him to chase me down, search for me, look for a reason to find me and ask everyone he knew about me. Not go home and silently stalk me from his phone. Boys had balls in the 80's, and that gave it romance and a timeless touch that we probably won't ever get back. But at leaset the people on Craigslist are taking a chance.

I also wonder how different my blogs would be if I were single. Probably full of one night stands and failed connections. For every bad date, I would soothe myself with a new kitten. I am definitely not built for the world of singles. It's ok if Girth shoves me out of bed and onto the floor for queefing during sex, but I don't think I would appreciate it during stranger sex.

Did you know that scientists have just recently discovered than an essential protein of sperm is molecularly similar to snake venom? Personally, I don't believe it. I mean, my stomach would have rotted right out by now...

Boom.

 

Two.

Jordan Knight. It's going to happen. An adolescent fantasy come true. Long ago are the days of me stroking the "real" hair on my fancy Jordan doll. I now face the possible of stoking his real-real hair. It won't be his beloved tail though, he must have ditched that when he decided to be a grownup. Yet the need to be in a boy band continued...I don't get it. Anyways, I had never gone to a single New Kids on the block concert as a teen. Now, at 32, (well, I will actually be 33 when it occurs)...there will be lost time to make up for. My dream at 14 was to make Jordan my man. Back then, it was my mother who kept us apart, you know, running my life and shit. Now, all these years later- we have a new obstacle...Girth. Couple of clam jammers.




Same name, different note. Jordan Davies. A lot of hearts broke last weekend when he was taken too soon. There will always be people who speculate, spread rumors and have no class putting in their two cents. All that matters is that he was loved completely by so many, he will be missed and peoples memories of him will be sacred. We will all grow old and live our lives, get married, have babies, but he will remain in the thoughts, memories, and hearts as forever young, wild & carefree. He had a lot of love and alot of life in those 21 years, and though the years were too short, they were certainly full.

RIP

 







 

(P)oopsie-daisy...

Let me just rewind right on back to the moments that lead up to me doing the nasty deed that I did.
As always, I am overly excited and eager to go out on a Saturday night. This must have led to faster than usual beer consumption and my happy acceptance of any shot set in front of me. There was no gradual work up into drunkenness, it was abrupt as fuck. Basically like doing 0-60 in 1.5 seconds without even knowing my foot was on the gas. And no brakes either. I was fall down drunk, grabbing tits, and got behind the bar with the bartender. Girth found me on the side of the road with the contents of my purse scattered around me. There is a hole in the knee of my favorite jeans and gross gash on my knee. I don't remember leaving the bar or countless moments before that, getting home, or passing out.
Now, here is where things get dicey.
I wake up at 4 in the morning, sick. I'm naked in the bathroom shaking, sweating, puking. Well, I lay down on the floor because I am hot flashing and the cold floor feels awesome on my fat naked skin- and then things got weird. On my side, literally curled into the fetal position, I have to shit. But I can't move, because I am too busy dying. All of a sudden, I feel it. The poop. My eyeballs popped open and I just laid there, pooping on myself. Literally. My poop popped out of my butt, bounced off my butt cheek and thudded on the floor. Suddenly I could move, and sprung up and started puking again. Even through the shit and the puke, I was happy that I have been doing squats. Somehow my brain focused on the fact that shit (although literally) bounced off my awesome ass. Thinking back, the fact that I was not in a dancing mood while being so disgustingly drunk was a godsend. But that wasn't the miracle moment. The miracle moment was that I had a nice solid poop. Had it been any other kind of shit, I am not sure what would have happened.

It's true, I shit you not...

 

 

 

Mixed tapes.

Kissing on the roof of a water pump house at night time.

Playing putt-putt golf in the pouring rain on a date.

Mixed tapes and handwritten love letters.

Make-out sessions that left my lips red & swollen.

Getting serenaded at 15, by a boy who could drive. He sang this to me;

Sneaking out to meet in the woods.

Unbridled passion, because nothing had happened yet that made us want to hold back.

"I will love you always and forever no matter who you chase"...written to me in a love letter, made me cry and listen to Boyz II Men songs for days.

My best friends knew everything, we told each other in detail about it all. We cried all over each other for every breakup, and re-lived it every time someone new heard about it. Nothing ripped your heart out faster than seeing the boy you love holding hands in the hall with another girl at school. We got dolled up to slow dance in the cafeteria for school dances, and wore tight jeans to football games. We skipped class to sit under the stairwell and gossip about everyone we knew.


I hope that in 10 more years I will remember all of this well enough to handle a teenage boy. While my perspective will be undoubtedly different than his, he's going to break some hearts. I just want him to break them with compassion and class. And I hope I remember enough of those feelings to get him through "the end of the world" when his heart been broken too.   








 

Toot-toot!

A farting chef. Let me break that small sentence down for you. That man can cook. He is a god damn chef somewhere in the NYC's west village. He is an extrovert, bold and fun. His sense of humor is amazing, and he feels pretty confident about himself. You would have to be confident in your relationships to know that you can back that ass up around people and fart all over them. The people around him clearly love him, or there is no way that it could have gone on for the 37 days he claimed it has. He wants to write a book detailing each fart, on each person, throughout those 37 days.
Ummmmm, aloha....how are we not best friends?!

I found one article that doubted the farting spree. They are quoted as saying this,
"We're not sure if we believe the bizarre account quite yet. Penis dumplings? Sure."

So, they believe in dick dumplings, but not in some musical, playful b-hole activity? Stop it. I don't see where it is such a stretch. When we have gone out to the bar, I have pressed my ass cheeks against many friends and gave them a little gift on their leg. It usually results in me getting shoved 3 ft across the room, but I think they secretly love it. In a kitchen though, that might get a little dangerous. I hope he's so careful! I also looked for his Craigslist posting, but it must have been pulled. No doubt directly related to copious amounts of marriage proposals and e-mails of adoration. I know that's why I was searching for it, so excuse me while I swoon.
And listen up chef shitter, *toot-toot* to you for sharing your fantastic farty-pants.  XOXOXO




Oh, and in semi-related news, this is me after a nice batch of spicy meatballs. My mother in-law did this to me.

                                                                                Cold skin, hot shits.
                                                                                **Photo courtesy of Girth.