As part of my ever-growing collection of sex toys, I’m proud to announce that I now own one that looks like a bunny. Well, not an actual bunny. Not like with a cute little bunny face. I wouldn’t touch myself with a cute little bunny face. Or an ugly little bunny face. Or any little bunny face.

Shit, this is off to a horrible start.

A few months ago, Jamie and I went on a tour of the Babeland warehouse for no other reason than the fact that if someone asks if you’d like to tour their warehouse full of sex toys, you say yes.

(That’s piece of advice number one.)

Our favorite part of the tour was the library, or more accurately “The Room Where Every Sex Toy You’ve Ever Imagined Is Displayed To Look At And Play With But No Not Like That You Weirdo It’s A Warehouse Not A Brothel.”

It was in this library (or “TRWESTYEIIDTLAAPWBNNLTYWIAWNAB”) that I first learned about Jimmyjane, a premium sex toy company that I somehow hadn’t heard about in my years of superior vaginaness. I saw their shelf of gorgeous toys and was all, “Ooo” and the Babeland girl was like, “I know right?!” and I was all, “Wait, what the fuck is that?” and she was like, “That’s the Form 2” and I was all, “It looks like bunny ears” and she’s like “It’s one of my favorite toys, would you like one?”

(Piece of advice number two: when a woman who works at a sex toy warehouse asks if you’d like one of her absolute favorite toys, you nod quickly and do a little vagina dance.)

Back at home, I realized why it’s her favorite. The bunny ears sit on either side of everything you want vibrated and the five different modes actually do all feel completely different. Also, it’s waterproof. Also, the ears are flexible. Also, it runs for 7+ hours on a full charge. Also, the manual offers a variety of helpful tips such as, “Do not use on unexplained calf pain” and “Close supervision is necessary when this product is used by, on, or near children, invalids, or disabled persons.”

Which is to say, please comment for a chance to win one of these orgasm ears for yourself, but maybe don’t enter if you routinely masturbate by, on, or near children. Or if you plan to rub your new toy up against your unexplained calf pain.

Although if you have unexplained calf pain that’s bad enough that your last resort is to try to masturbate it, you should probably see a doctor. And if you do the thing with the children and the invalids, you should probably see someone else entirely. And if you want to double your chances for orgasmic goodness while sitting in open-mouthed disbelief at a product you never ever thought would actually exist, you should probably check out this other giveaway for a $2,750 vibrator. Yes, for real. Yes, it’s 24k gold, has 28 diamonds in it, and costs $2,750.

And like, on one hand there are people in the world with no clean water and I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about using a vibrator that costs more than my monthly rent, car payment, utilities, and student loans put together, but on the other hand CAN YOU IMAGINE GETTING OFF TO AN ALMOST THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR VIBRATOR? I seriously can’t think of anything more expensive that I’d like to put in my vagina so if you win and I don’t I’ll obviously pretend to be happy for you, but my clit is going to be pretty fucking angry.

And now an ending filled with adorable bunnies:

{Update: the random integer generator picked comment #51. Happy bunny orgasms to Sarah!}

Somewhere along the way I seem to have become the go-to person for all things related to vagina. The emails and blog comments I get are just, well, vulva-tastic. So, when I found out that Stript Wax Bar here in San Francisco offers a Vajacial service that’s basically a facial for your post-Brazilian waxed vagina, I knew I had to try it. You know, for the sake of my readers.

The lovely people at Stript let me come in for free (proving yet again that my vagina is so much more high maintenance and spoiled than I am), and the entire thing went something like this:

Discuss the procedure with Jamie before leaving the apartment. Debate whether the esthetician is actually going to massage my vagina the way they massage your face during a facial. Evaluate what to do if I accidentally get turned on. Question why in the hell I’m doing this. Falter. Go anyway. Arrive at Stript Wax Bar and wait for my appointment. Look around at how ridiculously adorable the place is. Read over the list of services and wonder about the particulars of a Boyzilian. Question what’s more painful, waxing a man’s sexy parts or a woman’s sexy parts. Struggle to think of a single guy I know who would let hot wax anywhere near his penis.

Meet Katherine, the owner, and get escorted back to the treatment room. Take off my skirt and underwear. Lay on the table. Feel sad that the table is more comfortable than my bed. Contemplate stealing the table. Chat with Katherine and get talked through the $60, 50-minute process: cleanse, exfoliate, ingrown hair removal, calming mask, lightening cream. Continue talking. Learn that for the 24 hours after getting a Brazilian wax, you shouldn’t work out or do anything with hot water, but you should apply Neosporin to minimize bacteria/ingrown hairs. Tell myself to remember these tips because fuck, ingrown hair removal hurts.

Get up and leave. Let my skin calm down. Stand naked in front of the mirror and investigate. Make James Bond investigate. Decide that in spite of the seemingly absurd and unnecessary nature of this treatment, my vagina actually does look the best it has ever looked. Find out that Katherine is offering my San Francisco readers 20% off a Vajacial of their own. Think that blogging comes with some very strange perks…

**

In other (and notably less glamorous) vagina related news, I have recently discovered that inserting a yogurt covered tampon into your hoo-ha can help with certain bacterial imbalances and infections. Yes, I learned this on the internet. Yes, of course I tried it. Yes, Jamie was with me at the grocery store asking my vagina which flavor it would like for feeding time. Yes, you’re only supposed to use the plain kind and she was kidding. Yes, we know we’re sick and weird. Yes, you’d think that removing the yogurt tampon after like 30 or so minutes would be messy, but it’s not. Because your vagina eats the yogurt. Or like, your vagina absorbs the yogurt. Or, I don’t know.

Ladies: You’re welcome.

Gentlemen: Until you’re willing to try out a Menstruation Machine (a suit for men that mimics what having your period is like by releasing blood from a reservoir and using abdominal electrodes to simulate cramps), you don’t get to have an opinion about vagina stuff.

Ladies: Would you seriously want your man to try this ridiculous machine?

Gentlemen: How far would you go to appease your girl?

Everyone: Are there any other bizarre things that my vagina and I should try?

In case we somehow wind up living together one day, there are a few things you should know about me. Number one is that I bake excellent brownies. Number two is that I’ll likely make your bed whenever you’re not home, whether you want me to or not. And number three is that there isn’t a circumstance in the history of circumstances under which I’ll be the one to deal with a bug/rodent. In fact, I’ll move out before I deal with a bug/rodent. And from the time of bug/rodent discovery until I move out, I’ll stand on the barstool and curse both you and the bug/rodent, which I’m thinking is one of those qualifications that will make me an incredible mother, no?

My future four-year-old child: Help! Mommy! There’s a spider in my room!
Me: Well. That sucks.
My hysterically crying child: But I’m so scared!
Me: Well of course you are, the spider is probably going to crawl into your mouth and lay eggs while you’re sleeping.

(Do spiders even lay eggs? They can’t possibly have live births, right? But if they did, they’d have to have vaginas. Maybe spiders have vaginas? Oh my god, I wonder what a spider vagina looks like. Actually, wait. Wait! I’ve finally found something so horrifying that even I won’t Google it.)

Anyway, if we ever live together, you are the one on critter patrol. You. Not me. Not ever me.

This particular scenario (the “which one of us deals with critters” dilemma) hadn’t occurred in the six months of mine and Jamie’s cohabitation. Until last week. Until last week when a wasp arrived in our apartment.

I was the one who first noticed this wasp, and of course I immediately assumed my permanent role in these situations: shrieking and hiding next to the couch. But, Jamie was shrieking too. After we shrieked together for a little bit, I calmly told her that if she’d like to return to our wasp-free existence, she’d better fucking do something. She indicated that I had better fucking help. I agreed, on the condition that “helping” meant “throwing things at the wasp from afar in hopes of stunning it into submission.”

And so it began.

I started with two small Jaegermeister basketballs we were given at our local bar. But I have terrible aim, and I missed, and the wasp stayed put. I then threw a Sky Mall catalog at it. But I missed again, and the wasp stayed put. I then decided to throw my two deflated sex dolls at it, one after the other, and even though my aim was bullseye-like this time around, the wasp stayed put.

We stopped to evaluate. We discussed strategy. We debated how one battles such a freak fearless ninja wasp. We settled on the decision that our only real option here was to continue throwing random items at it. Next went a Trader Joe’s bag. Followed by a rubbery plastic penis (the one that came with the male blowup doll), and even though I was positive I had hit the wasp in its tiny fearless freak face with this penis, it didn’t move. At all. Nothing. Just the stationary buzzing of vehement threats to our lives. Which is when Jamie stepped in, took one shot at the wasp with her purple shoe, knocked it down onto the windowsill, walked over, and beat it to death with the matching shoe. Like Rocky – if Rocky would have done less pointless running of the stairs and more pummeling of unwanted insects on my behalf.

Jamie – 1, Freak Fearless Ninja Wasp – 0, Rocky- 0, Nicole- N/A

Which brings me to my next point, that my roommate > all other roommates and that if faced with a wasp invasion, you’ll probably die because you don’t live with her. And that would make me sad, sure, but not so sad that I’m willing to give up Jamie so she can come save you. I will compromise though. I’ll compromise by giving away one Wasp Fighter Care Package, containing the following weaponry:

- 1 female blowup doll
- 1 patch for said female blowup doll in case you pop a hole in her
- 1 set of instructions for how to open the hygienic seal on said female blowup doll’s vagina and anus, which is now only relevant to her anus since I impatiently cut her vagina open with a knife
- 1 male blowup doll
- 1 penis that fits said male blowup doll
- 2 small Jaegermeister basketballs
- 1 Sky Mall catalog
- anything else that Jamie and I decide is relevant between today and next Wednesday

Now, please raise your little commenting hand if you’d like to be the winner of this package.

[Update: I couldn’t resist. I Google image searched spider vagina. On one hand, I’m afraid to report that a few of the photos may have blinded me. One the other hand, I’m happy to report that one of the photos is of a spider performing cunnilingus on a human woman. Fair tradesies, I'd say.]

[Update 2: Sara wins!]

On days when I’m irrationally stressed out, I take a few minutes to sit quietly and play the “this-would-be-worse-if” game until I calm down. You know, that game that’s supposed to put things into perspective because you realize shit isn’t that bad after being all, “This would be worse if I was in the middle of a tornado” or, “This would be worse if I only had one leg” or, “This would be worse if I were allergic to cheese” or, “This would be worse if a wild horse charged through the door and kicked me in the face while peeing all over the floor.” Usually though, the game ends when I think, “This would be worse if my vagina looked like some of those weird vaginas in sketchy porn movies where the clit is long and stretched out like a baby penis.”

(No, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at baby penis. I mean any time! I don’t spend any time looking at baby penis! Shut up. I DON’T. I’m just saying that I’m grateful for my normal vagina okay that’s all thank you amen.)

Seriously though, I think it’s pretty safe to say that my vagina is my favorite thing in existence. And yes, I know I’m supposed to say “vulva” instead of vagina because that’s anatomically correct but the word vulva makes my insides die a little bit so I’m just going to keep saying vagina regardless of what you and your judgey mcjudgerstein friends think.

Because my vagina is special. So special, in fact, that it even has it’s own schedule. I’ll be sitting down to make plans for the week and I’ll have to be all, “Wait, which sex toy am I reviewing on Tuesday?” and “When’s my Brazilian waxing appointment?” and “Do I have time to try the Vajacial?” (an actual 50 minute facial-like spa service for the vagina that’s being offered here in San Francisco).

It’s basically come down to my needing a separate planner just for my vagina. I swear that bitch has a more active schedule than I do. Like, over the past month it was “Must use the sex swing!” and “Must take a road trip to Oregon to cross another state off my Sex in 50 States List!” and “Must charge the $109 cock ring that the gorgeous people at Babeland sent me!” Oh, the ever exhausting horror.

JUST KIDDING. ME SO LUCKY. THIS THE BEST VIBRATING COCK RING EVER.

It’s like, imagine the best sex you’ve ever had. And then imagine that that sex went to the gym for like eleventy hundred hours and got even sexier. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex also brought you flowers wrapped in brown paper. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex remembered to get you flowers more creative than roses and also threw in a massage, an iPod shuffle, and sixteen very sincere compliments. That’s sex using the LELO Tor.

No joke, this thing has six different stimulation modes and some are fast and some are slow and some are pulsing and OH MY GOD THE PULSING MODES and it’s so easy to use and the crazy things holds its charge for like two fucking hours and and and seriously I think if I had sex with someone while he was wearing this thing for two entire hours I’d be dead from too! many! explosive! orgasms! Also, after a little research I learned that “Tor” is a name from Norse Mythology, so you might as well be having a threesome with your man and a Scandinavian man. Or your dildo and a Scandinavian man. Or, well, I don’t know the details but there’s definitely room for a Scandinavian man in there somewhere. Yum.

Did I mention that I love this sex toy? And did I also mention that I love Babeland enough to have signed up for their affiliate program (see sidebar) and that if you ever decide to buy sex toys you should do it through this link so that in turn, I can buy more tequila?

ORGASMS FOR YOU + TEQUILA FOR ME = WIN WIN SITUATION

Sidenote: If you live in NYC or Seattle, you should seriously take one of the workshops offered at your local Babeland store. They’re amazing.

Double sidenote: Babeland should open a store in San Francisco.

Triple sidenote: I’d totally get trained to teach said workshops.

Quadruple sidenote: I don’t have anything else to say here, but I really just wanted to see if I could spell the word “quadruple” without needing spell check. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere: high five, me too. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere and who also continually try to add a “p” to hamster and at least twelve unnecessary letters to the word “privilege,” let’s all remember that even though we’re shit spellers, this would be worse if we had tiny baby penis clits and if I didn’t have the LELO Tor.

See? ALL BETTER NOW.

A few weeks ago, the kickass people at AdultSexToys.com sent me a Clone-A-Pussy kit so that I could make a chocolate replica of my vagina. It’s things like this that make it really weird to date me because I call at noon on a Tuesday and I’m all, “Would you like to come over for dinner and chocolate vagina?” and he’s like, “??” and I’m all, “I’m pretty sure the fine print of the Universal Dating Manual states that whenever the girl would like help creating an exact mold of her vagina, the guy says yes” and he’s like, “I’ll bring Champagne” and I’m all, “I’m adding that to the manual.” And then he really did come over and he really did bring Champagne because he’s the best of the best and I drank it and he drank it and Jamie drank it because of course Jamie was there too and I made them both five cheese stuffed shells for dinner which was my way of saying, “Thank you for constantly putting up with my shenanigans and for loving my vagina so dearly.”

After dinner we opened the kit and read through the instructions and they were all, “The first step is to thoroughly wash your vagina with soap and water” so I went into the bathroom and took off my pants and did as I was told and then I changed into a long hippie skirt that solved the problem of “How do I have access to my vagina during the molding process without running around the apartment naked?” because I’m totally more modest than you’d think and I don’t run around naked that often. And then steps two and three are to mix the molding powder with lukewarm water and pour it into the molding container but you have to do it quickly because it turns to gel after like actually one minute and then step four is to stand there and press the molding container against your vagina and it urges you to “be sure your entire vulva is covered” which is probably my new favorite sentence ever and is also the strangest part of the process because you’re just STANDING THERE for like FOUR WHOLE MINUTES with gel pressed against your vagina and your legs are spread wide open because who the who wants a mold of the *outside* of their vagina?? But then the mold solidifies and you peel it off and put it in the freezer and melt the chocolate and pour it into the mold and put it back in the freezer and then you take it out of the freezer and remove it from the mold and OH MY GOD IT ACTUALLY WORKS. Like, I stood in the middle of the kitchen squealing and then I made everyone eat part of it except I wasn’t looking when Jamie took her bite and she’s all, “YOU AREN’T GOING TO WATCH ME EAT YOUR VAGINA?” which actually replaces “be sure your entire vulva is covered” as my new favorite ever sentence.

So, to recap, Jamie is awesome and the guy I’m dating is awesome except let’s call him James Bond from now on because “the guy I’m dating” is annoying to type and there are tons of totally legit parallels between them like how James Bond is mysterious and this guy is sort of mysterious and how James Bond is, well, fuck, that’s all I’ve got because I hope I’m not dating someone who’s secretly British with a closet full of tuxedos and guns and leggy women. Actually, I hope I’m not dating someone who keeps women of any leg length stored in a closet. Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the Clone-A-Pussy kit and how it’s awesome and how I’m totally going to do what the package suggests and make other things with the reusable mold like vagina soap and vagina candles and VAGINA ICE CUBES because it instructs you to “fill with water or your favorite juice and freeze for a refreshing treat on a hot day.” FAVORITE JUICE. APPLE JUICE VULVA.

Who wants to make apple juice vulva with me? And who wants to buy a vagina candle? OH MY GOD I SHOULD SELL VAGINA CANDLES. And who wants to win one of these kits? Yes, they’re letting me do a giveaway for you lucky vaginas and dude vaginas and fuck, if chocolate vaginas make an appearance in the next Bond movie I’m totally going to sue.

Happy Thursday.

PS- If I win that lawsuit I’ll buy EVERYONE a Clone-A-Pussy kit. You’re welcome in advance. Happy Thursday once again.

[UPDATE: James Bond has picked a winner. He picked Jenn. He picked Jenn because he liked that she and KYLECOOPER entered the contest together. He has a condition for Jenn winning though. Jenn & KYLECOOPER, are you listening? His condition is that you guys have to tell me the story about using the mold so that I can tell it to him. Cool? Cool.]

When I first got the email, I thought it was maybe some kind of joke. So I read it again and apparently no, it wasn’t a joke and the crazy people at Intel actually were inviting me to attend their Youth Rock Stars Summit at the Intel Headquarters and I was going to get put up in a hotel and by the by I would also be getting a FREE NETBOOK FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON and was I maybe interested in coming?

I mean, what? No seriously, tell me who is too busy or in possession of too many computers to be all, “You know, actually, I’m all set on a really nice hotel room and a delicious dinner and a behind the scenes tour of Intel and a tiny little computer that’s so cute you can basically put it in your pocket and pet it because it’s so little and oh yeah also it’s TOTALLY FREE??”

No one I know, that’s who.

Which is to say, of course I went to the Youth Rock Stars Summit last month and of course the entire time I was all darting around with my eyes, checking out the social media bloggers and the tech bloggers and the PR people and I was like, “Do they know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina?” and I kept waiting for someone to kick me out but it never happened and apparently they really *did* know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina and therefore no one was surprised when we went around the room and shared the things we knew about Intel prior to coming to the event and everyone was like, “processors and chips and blah blah computer stuff” and all I heard was “blah blah shit that I don’t understand but if you’d like to talk about wine and sex toys I promise I’ll have something much more coherent to say” and yet I somehow managed to put together a sentence that was more or less, “Intel = computers?” and everyone laughed and I’m thinking no seriously, give me some fucking techie CliffsNotes and then I didn’t know what else to do because the speaker, Mario Paniccia, went back to his presentation and he was off on some tangent about copper and conductivity or maybe it wasn’t about copper or conductivity at all but who the hell knows because everyone was live tweeting smart shit and all I could think to do was tweet about how hot Mario is and tag it #IntelYouth like they told us to do all day and I know I know, but WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SHENANIGANS DID THEY EXPECT WHEN THEY SENT ME THE DAMN EMAIL INVITATION IN THE FIRST PLACE.

And here’s the fucking craziest thing, IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The email invitation thing I mean, except this time it was less about computers and more about cars and food because Best of Tours was asking if I would maybe like to spend the entire day being driven around San Francisco in brand new Chevy vehicles, eating delicious street food for free and also there’s a gift bag at the end that has truffles and jam except they didn’t mention the gift bag up front but I went anyway and that was just a glorious surprise when it happened.

So that’s what I did yesterday. I drove around in a Camaro and ate hot dogs and creme brulee and all kinds of other street food and the moral of this story is that I’m pretty stoked that people seem to want me and my vagina at events that have nothing to do with me or my vagina but please keep it coming because I love free shit and I love being the person that everyone who is actually supposed to be at the event raises an eyebrow at as they’re all, “I checked out your blog” in a way that really means, “What the fucking fuck fuck are you doing here?” and I smile and say, “Oh yeah?” in a way that actually means, “DUDE I KNOW RIGHT??”

In conclusion, please keep inviting me to your really cool shit at which I don’t belong and I’ll keep coming and hitting on the presenters and eating the free food and enjoying the swag. Or, alternatively, if you don’t have a cool event to invite me to you should probably just invite me over to your house instead and we’ll bake coffee cake and drink tea unless of course you don’t like coffee cake or tea in which case we probably shouldn’t be friends in the first place.

So I came to this realization recently, and it’s less about grammar and more about arousal, but perhaps the most awkwardly horrible time to make a typo is while dirty texting. Because I mean, it’s all hot and sexy until somebody wants you to do something to their hard coke.  Or you’re so turned on that it’s making you wat.

Because you make the typo, right, but then what? Do you ignore it? Do you keep texting? Do you quickly type the hottest thing you can think of so as not to change the mood? Or do you acknowledge it and immediately text back with *wet! I mean wet! YOU’RE MAKING ME SO WET!

God technology complicates sex. Actually no, you know what really complicates sex? The fucking iPhone. The fucking iPhone and its fucking auto correcting of words for no good reason. Like, stop changing “fuck” to “duck.” Have I ever typed duck? No seriously, when’s the last time I ever, ever texted ANYONE about ducks? Never, that’s when. I’ve never texted anyone about ducks. But do you know which word I do use in almost every single text? Fuck. Do you hear that, iPhone? Fuck is my favorite word and you clearly need to just get your shit together already and start recognizing that I like fucking more than I like water birds. And, actually, while we’re having it out, I’d like to also request that you stop anticipating my needs and prematurely inserting the word “Bette” when all I’m trying to do is type “better.” I mean, who the fuck is Bette? There isn’t anyone in my contacts named Bette. In fact, I’m pretty sure there hasn’t even been a single person in the world named Bette since like 1957.

Which makes me think that the guy who programmed the iPhone has an enormous crush on some old chick named Bette. Or maybe his mom’s name is Bette. Or maybe he’s really old and back in college he used to get head from this super hot chick named Bette until she left him for a football player with a really nice car and he’s pissed as hell because he hasn’t had it that good since then and now he’s married and bitter because he spends his days programming iPhones and doesn’t even have a good blowjob to come home to and the crazy thing is that his wife totally *would* blow him, but he never bothers to go down on her first and has absolutely no idea that her clit is shaped like a wishbone or that all clits are shaped like wishbones which leaves him working for Apple and her wildly unsatisfied in the pants and me with an iPhone that thinks I want to duck Bette.

Wait, so, that wishbone thing. Did you know that? Because I totally didn’t and yet I’ve been wearing a small gold wishbone necklace for the past six months and talking about wishbones and luck and how I believe we make our own luck and then I find out last week that what I’ve really been doing this entire time is wearing a GOLDEN CLITORIS around my neck and maybe THAT’S why I’ve been having such incredible orgasms lately.

THE POWER OF THE NECKLACE.

Well, the power of the necklace backed up by the power of my newest favorite sex book, Moregasm: Babeland’s Guide to Mind-Blowing Sex that’s full of incredible tips and incredible photography and the incredible ability to turn me on from just flipping through the pages. Yes, it’s that awesome. Do you want one? I have four to give away. Four! Free! Books! About! Wishbone! Clits!

And I know, I know, between this and the Texts from Last Night book and the blog redesign I’ve been doing a lot of giveaways lately but it’s only because I think you bitches & dude bitches are fantastic and I love you and it’s Valentine’s Day and this is the last giveaway I’m doing for a while but it’s totally worth it because it’s a book that, among other things, taught me the real shape of my clit and if you’re still all, “enough already with the giveaways,” I sort of want to make it up to you by posting a picture in which I’m holding said book and am also maybe a little bit topless but I know that if I did that, somebody would get all snarky and bring up the fact that I’m 24 years old and therefore probably too old to wear pigtail braids but I don’t give a swimming horse vagina because I hate blow drying my hair and I fucking love pigtail braids and you can just shut your lips and and and no topless photo for you.

{Winners! Jessica, Ev’Yan, Jenny, and Alana!}

The annoying thing about going out in public is having to deal with all of the people who are incompetent and stupid and make me want to peel my skin off with a seafood fork. Like, okay, so there’s a Barnes and Noble near my apartment and I basically live there because they provide free wifi and access to an unlimited supply of iced tea, but the people who work there? Totally the D team of Starbucks employees. To the point where I sometimes want to leap over the counter and pour the fucking tea in the fucking cup myself, because, um, HOW HARD IS IT TO REMOVE A PITCHER OF TEA FROM THE FRIDGE AND POUR IT IN A CUP WITH ICE IN UNDER TWENTY MINUTES AND NO I DON’T WANT A MULTI-GRAIN BAGEL BECAUSE YOUR FUCKING MULTI-GRAIN BAGELS HAVE RAISINS IN THEM AND I HATE RAISINS AND I’M STILL TRAUMATIZED FROM THE LAST TIME.

Which is to say that I’m pretty sure I need to just stop what I’m doing with my life and focus instead on total world domination and the mass elimination of situations that make me stabby. Like calling customer service. And taking the number 30 bus where people think it’s totally cool to hold raw chicken in their hands while sitting next to me. And basically anything that has to do with the San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic.

Hmm, you know, the more I think about world domination (and the more wine I drink while thinking about world domination), the better this plan seems. Although the downside of the plan is that I’m actually pretty lazy and would much prefer to lay around the apartment and eat mac and cheese and watch The West Wing than do anything that actually furthers my taking over the world and before you judge me, how about you try watching The West Wing for 7+ hours straight and tell me you don’t walk away with the world’s biggest political boner.

God, and speaking of politics and being unnecessarily turned on, I’ve been reading this memoir called Government Girl about a chick who started working in the Clinton White House when she was like eighteen and it’s so badass and reading it makes me furious that I didn’t go to college in DC because I never got to answer George Stephanopoulos’ fan mail and flirt with Rahm Emanuel and stand on a Japanese balcony hugging President Clinton and, wait, it’s suddenly completely clear that I can’t go anywhere near the damn White House because politics make me wet and hugging Bill Clinton on a balcony would clearly end with my sharing a room in whore rehab with Monica Lewinski.

So, new plan: I’m going to befriend the author of that book, Stacy Parker Aab, and get her to convince her political connections to blow me, because I think being on the other side of the damn scandal would be so much better for my reputation because people will be all “Why should we give YOU control of the world?” and I’ll be like, “Um, because Obama went down on me” and they’ll be all, “Daaaamn girl” and I’ll be like, “Yep, keys to the world and a brownie, stat” and they’ll do it and my mom will be so proud that she’ll forget that this is the second post in a row that pretty much revolves around oral sex and that the last post was actually linked on a PORN SITE under the heading “related blogs on oral” that’s right next to a picture of a chick licking a lollipop and and and FINE I’ll totally link you to it but if you get fired from your job for clicking a link that basically opens to a slideshow of vagina, don’t come begging Stacy and I for a position in our Cabinet of World Domination. Unless you have a totally legit bribe. Like a puppy and a Tempur-Pedic mattress and a basket of raisin-less mini muffins.

A weird fact that you might not know about me is that I legitimately want to be friends with every single person who posts to Texts From Last Night. Yes, even the ones who like Jersey Shore and think “your” is the same as “you’re.” Because really? Those bitches are HILARIOUS and even more than being hilarious, they make me feel better about myself because while I’m maybe the most fucked up person you know, I’m definitely not the most fucked up person you could know and that’s pretty much an end of the rainbow pot of self-esteem gold right there.

So these people behind Texts From Last Night – they’re basically my favorite because they’ve single handedly given me repeated opportunities to be like, “SEE?? IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE,” followed by “AT LEAST I HAVE CONTROL OF THINGS LIKE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND MY BOWELS” and other such statements that make me feel spectacularly put together, even when I’m going through my texts from the night before and it’s basically a flow chart of whiskey and hookers and Twitter and whether or not hookers use Twitter while drinking whiskey and the very best part of it all is how it’s anonymous and based on the numbers of your area code so the few times my texts have been posted to the site the only thing anyone knows is that there’s some crazy chick with a 917 area code whose friend got masturbated on on top of a car.

Speaking of numbers, I’ve recently realized that the secret thing about dating is that it’s totally a numbers game and I’m not so great with numbers and this is probably why I’m single.

Because I don’t give a shit about how many days you’re supposed to wait before calling (two? three?), how many dates you should go on before having sex (five? eleven?), how many people you’ve slept with in the past (fifteen? forty two?), or how many people you’ve slept with at once (threesome? foursome?) because my overly anxious and heavily caffeinated brain is just too frantic to care about those kinds of shenanigans and all I want to know is if you’re funny and good to me and free of herpes but it’s all full circle because how long do you have to date someone before asking about genital warts??

Pressure like this is why I read Texts From Last Night and cry with joy and terror at the thought of this being my life:

(401): This is a mass text. Does anyone know where I am?

Which brings me to my next point: I’m giving away a copy of Texts From Last Night: All the Texts No One Remembers Sending to a random commenter sometime this week. There’s no deadline, I’ll basically just pick someone whenever I feel like it because in addition to being bad with numbers, I’m also bad with rules and timelines and yet I’m also incredibly type A and maybe you’re finally getting the hang of why I’m so stressed out all the mother fucking time.

{And the winner is… the lovely Carissa from carissajaded.com}

I got the email back in June. His name was Grant, he had spent a year vagabonding around Mexico, Belize, and Guatemala, he had written a book about it (Imagine: A Vagabond Story), and oh, by the by, did I want to read and review it?

This was right after I decided that come September, I was going the nomad route myself, so I was like, “um, yes please.” And then I looked through the pictures on his website, and on Facebook, and I saw that in addition to being an incredibly badass backpack-around-the-world-er, he’s also fucking hot. Like, “oh sure I’ll strip down for you in public just because you asked me to” hot.

The book arrived a few weeks later. I started it, I was immediately consumed by it, and then I finished it. All in like.. a day. Because it’s that good. He’s honest (and hot) and simple (and hot) and approachable (and hot) and spontaneous (and hot) and I sort of want to get on the next plane to Mexico and recreate his entire trip. With him.

Obviously.

BECAUSE HE’S SO HOT.

But here’s the thing: the book was such a quick, enjoyable, and inspiring read that I would recommend it even if he weren’t hot. And that’s saying something.

The story goes start to finish on his year abroad, recounting tales of beauty (both the natural-wonder type and the naked-females-of-the-world-that-he-hooked-up-with-while-drunk-or-high type) and details the people and places that changed his life. Totally a worthwhile read.

Want to order a copy? Do that here. Want to win a free copy? Leave a comment telling me which country you’d most like to backpack around for a year and why. Winner will be randomly selected and announced on Sunday, September 6!

*Update: Katelin, our randomly selected contest winner, will be receiving a free copy of Imagine: A Vagabond Story! The book’s (hot) author is also giving a 20% discount to all readers who use the code “nicoleisbetter” when purchasing the book from his website! So pass the word on and enjoy!*