In the past week I’ve done so many Real Adult things that I’m not entirely sure I recognize myself anymore.

First, I bought skincare products. Like actual super high quality spendy face stuff to replace whatever I was using from the drug store that made it so my skin couldn’t decide if it was oily or dry or normal or iguana.

Second, I bought a bed. As in, I’m no longer sleeping on an air mattress on the floor. I have a box spring and a mattress and a pillowtop thing that goes on top of the mattress and sheets and a duvet and a duvet cover and pillows and and and THIS THE BEST DAY!

If you know me, you know how big of deal this is since I’ve spent the past two years sleeping on an air mattress. (I know right?!?)

It wasn’t like I planned it. It wasn’t like I woke up one day and was all, “You know what would be the best of the best? If I spent the next two years sleeping on the fucking floor.” No. This, like most other eyebrow-raising things in my life, just sort of happened.

I first bought the air mattress in June of 2008, when the woman I was renting a room from called to tell me that in fact, she wasn’t allowed to rent the room to begin with and that if I wasn’t out by the next afternoon, her and her children would be evicted.  I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I went with the only thing I could think of at the time: buying an air mattress and sleeping on the floor of my office.

This was back when I ran a children’s summer day camp, and apparently being homeless and sleeping in one’s office isn’t exactly smiled upon when you’re in charge of young children. So I went from my office to a friend’s house, and then from the friend’s house to my own small apartment, but even as I settled into my new place I knew I wouldn’t be staying long enough to invest in furniture, especially since the place was mostly furnished already.

So I slept on the floor and told everyone who asked that it was “fine!” and “fun!” and “sort of like a continual slumber party!” Which, for the record, was a big fat horse vagina lie. Not fine. Not fun. Not anything like a slumber party. I mean, imagine having all of your sex on an air mattress on the floor.

Exactly.

I left that apartment at the same time I left that job, and I took off from Southern California to my parents’ apartment in Arizona, and then from there to floors and couches all over the country during my three months of girl gone nomad-ing last fall. The tail end of the traveling brought me to San Francisco (air mattress in tow), and 8 months later here I am, splitting a one-bedroom apartment with Jamie, living behind two folding screens in the living room, but finally the owner of an actual bought-it-from-IKEA bed.

Finally. Fuck.

And on one hand, I’m all, “Yay! I win! Life’s too short to sleep on the floor!” but on the other hand I’m like, “Gah! Too many Real Adult things at once! Who am I! Whiplash!”

But then I look out my “bedroom” window and see the ball pit on the patio and remind myself that a) I still have a very long way to go before reaching full blown Real-Adult-ness and 2) Tequila solves everything.

Whoever says money can’t buy happiness needs to order an inflatable swimming pool and 500 multi-colored ball pit balls and then get back to me.

Nothing about this is practical. We have a fucking ball pit on our patio. But you know what? Practicality is overrated. You know what else? I think you should go out and do one ridiculous thing this week that gives you the kind of ecstasy-inducing heart boner that my ball pit gives me.

Dye your hair. Eat dessert for breakfast. Paint your ceiling blue. Take totally risqué photos of yourself for absolutely no reason. Buy ten pairs of hot pink underwear. Just do something, anything, that makes you feel exhilarated.

What the hell is the point of life if we’re not routinely making people question our sanity while we swim around in ball pits?

Big high fives to Jeremy, Norcross, and Lauren for coming over and blowing the pool up. Big high fives to James Bond for covertly filming this video clip and for smacking my ass in the middle of it. Big high fives to Jamie for putting up with me even though I secretly ordered 500 balls to our apartment and then pouted like a child when she wouldn’t agree to sell the couch so we could put the ball pit in its place. Big high fives to The Bloggess and her red dress for inspiring this post. And biggest ever high fives to anyone who chooses wild and irrational happiness over all of the other options.

(Also, yes, I know we need more balls. We’re getting more balls. Never enough balls. That’s what she said! That’s what I said! These jokes are too easy! BALLS!)

This morning I woke up with the kind of hangover that makes me seriously weigh the pain of getting up to walk to the bathroom against the horror of wetting the bed.

I made it to the bathroom, but let’s start at the beginning.

San Francisco is, without question, the strangest city I’ve ever lived in. Which is surprising, because after 10+ years of living in New York I really did think that I had seen it all. The thing about San Francisco though, is that the crazy is brazenly out in the open. It’s proud of itself. It’s that guy who body checks you in the middle of the street and that guy a few blocks down who tells you that you have a beautiful smile, even though your mouth is closed, followed by a declaration of how he’d like to eat your hair.

This city seems to sanction its crazy, hosting street festival after street festival, continuously giving its residents a reason to be drunk outside in the middle of the day. That’s another thing about San Francisco, it’s a city full of lushes. Jamie and I were talking about this the other day, about how we don’t fit into any of the overt San Francisco cliches (gay, pretentious, hipster, gay pretentious hipster, etc.), but we do fit the quieter mold of likes-to-drink-heavily-for-no-reason-at-all-other-than-the-fact-that-it’s-a-Tuesday-and-wine-is-better-than-no-wine.

So, being that yesterday was a Tuesday, we figured we’d partake. We bought our Two Buck Chuck and did the thing where I sit on the barstool and she stands across the counter from me and we talk until there’s nothing left to say and we drink enough wine to want more wine and then we sprawl out on the couch and watch a randomly selected Friends DVD and discuss how unrealistic it is that women on TV seem to always be wearing a man’s dress shirt after sex as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, when really, I can’t think of a single situation in which I’d get out of bed and be all, “That was lovely, can you hand me the shirt you wore to work today?”

Somewhere between the DVD watching and the obsessive wine drinking, we also managed to severely burn a batch of popcorn and then “fix” said popcorn by melting all the butter in the fridge over it so that we could eat it anyway. Which is to say that this morning was rough and that it’s pretty much going to be touch and go for the rest of the day. Especially since I’m about to leave to get a Brazilian wax, something that falls near “vigorous aerobic activity” and “talking to my mother” on a list of the worst possible things to do while suffering from this kind of hangover.

Yes, this is your cue to think kind and gentle thoughts for my soon-to-be-pained vagina. Unless you’re this guy and you get your giggles from taking a bottle filled with your semen to the grocery store and spraying it on unsuspecting women, in which case I’d appreciate if you never ever ever thought about my vagina ever at all.

The internet is a dirty dirty rabbit hole.

One minute you’re living real life, walking home from the grocery store, passing by that telescope and binocular store that’s somehow still in business in a shopping center in the middle of San Francisco even though you’ve never seen a single person come out with a pamphlet, yet alone an actual telescope, and then the next minute you’re home and you’re on your couch eating all of the groceries you bought (or more accurately, drinking all of the wine you bought because sometimes a 25 year old woman just needs to drink her feelings) and you see an email pop up that’s all, “So and so has done such and such annoying thing on Facebook” and you click over, because you’re alone and you’re bored, and you look at the wall post, which leads you to that person’s profile, which leads you to a different person’s profile, where you see that hey, this person’s boyfriend is mutually friends with a friend you know through your blog and huh, isn’t the world such a small and funny place?

And you’re curious, of course, so you click around some more. You click and go on a virtual tour of everything that’s been happening to everyone you’ve ever known since whenever it was that you last knew them and you can’t stop, click after click, until you look up and realize that you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time learning that your ex is finished with law school and that a girl from college lost her job and that your former neighbor is living in another country and that the guy whose arms you cried in on the morning of 9/11 is married, and you think, “When did we all start hurling ourselves down such drastically different paths?”

You click more, stalk more, judge more, falling down the dirty dirty rabbit hole, staring at pictures of Miss California and “liking” the page of another high school classmate who’s now running for City Council in that very same city.

You close the computer, wondering how long it’ll be before this same guy shows up in your news feed announcing that he’s running for President of the United States, followed by a frenzy of comments from that group of girls who, if they’re anything like their slutty high school selves, will not so jokingly ask when they can audition for the role of his Monica Lewinsky.

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?

I work from home, but not really. I “work from home,” but mostly I work from a coffee shop because being in the apartment all day makes me insaneface and I’m already insaneface enough as it is and also the access to unlimited iced tea is just too tempting to ignore. So I work from a coffee shop. And coffee shops are the best, right? Except for the thing where there are never enough outlets and everyone is there with a computer because of the free wi-fi and the getting out of the houseness and did I mention the access to unlimited caffeine? And yet, not enough outlets!

The coffee shop I work from is the worst with this because it only has two outlets. TWO OUTLETS. For like, eleventy hundred tables. Which makes people all lurker-like for the tables near said outlets and it makes them rude and stabby and this is exactly why I travel with my own surge protector even though every time I go to plug it in people make the squinting crazy eye at me. But then directly following the squinting crazy eye they’re excited as all hell to use the thing instead of having to sigh heavily and shoot passive aggressive stares at the person using the outlet while pretending that they’re horribly important and that the world will end when their battery dies even though all they’re really doing is repeatedly refreshing that website showing pictures of lesbians who look like Justin Bieber. And like, these people make questionable faces at me and my big surge protector but I think it’s really just because they’re full of giant sads about how they’re too stupid to think to bring a surge protector to the coffee shop themselves.

I WIN THIS ROUND. I SO SMART.

And, as what I can only assume is a reward for my sharing my surge protector smarts with the world, I got to witness the best ever coffee shop scene the other day. I was working, type type typing away, next to a man in a wheelchair who was reading a magazine at the table right by one of the two outlets. After about twenty minutes of us sitting there like that, an older man, probably in his early 70s, came up behind us, plugged his power cord into my surge protector, and proceeded to wind it around the other man’s wheelchair to reach his table, all without saying a word. No “Excuse me,” no “Could you lean over for a second?” no “Would you mind if I rudely wrapped my power cord around your wheelchair and made it impossible for you to exit your table when you’re finished reading and would like to go home?” He just went for it.

“Jesus!” the man in the wheelchair yelled.

“What did you just say to me about the Lord?” the old man asked.

And then, oh, and then it was on.

It was also, I’ll admit, the point at which I started to hope that the argument would turn physical. And I know, I know, this makes me a terrible person but let’s not pretend that you didn’t already know the levels of fucked up in my brain and let’s instead focus on how you’re sick too and would *totally* watch the Barnes & Noble Cafe version of Septuagenarian versus Paraplegic re: The Lord.

It’s okay, we can all live in the fucked up hole together. And, because I’m secretly the best of the best, I’ll entertain you while we’re down here by sharing wildly mundane facts about my life, like that the fact that I’ve recently decided that I’m fucking done wearing high heels. Done. Just done. It’s like, they’re so horribly uncomfortable and I get that they’re pretty and feminine – of course I get that – and I also get that they make my legs look hot, but you know what doesn’t make my legs look hot? Limping around like an asshole after walking in heels all the time. I don’t know, maybe I need to live in a city where there’s less walking. Or less hills. Or maybe I need a personal driver. Or my own wheelchair. Or maybe I need someone to carry me around all day. Or to stop being such a baby. But until all of those things happen? I quit heels. Quit. The end. Bye bye. Also, just kidding about the wheelchair. Also, I know wheelchairs aren’t funny. Also, I’m sorry but I just can’t seem to stop being this offensive. Also, speaking of high heels and shoes in general, why do people leave them in the middle of the street? Have you ever noticed that? I feel like the amount of times I walk by either a single shoe or a pair of shoes on the street is just too high. Who’s taking their shoes off in the middle of the street like that? Who’s so upset by their choice of footwear that they’re not only removing their shoes, they’re leaving them in a completely public place. Do these people have other shoes with them that they wear home instead? Do they walk home barefoot? Have they received the proper tetanus shots? Were they physically unable to dispose of the shoes prior to heading home? Was walking over to a trash bin too hard? Or how about donating them? And like, a pair of shoes is *maybe* understandable, maybe, but the single shoe kills me. Did this person walk home with only one shoe on? Do they prefer one foot to another foot? Do they only have one foot?

::brain explodes::

Also, too much iced tea.

I’d like to start by telling you that I’m so exhausted and so hungover and so sore that I think I might actually be dead. Like, really really dead. Like, rainbow dead. Like, this blog post might not really be happening because I might not really be happening because last week Jamie thought it was okay to go away for FIVE WHOLE DAYS and when Jamie isn’t here there’s no semblance of order in my life and I eat too much butter and I lay on the floor in the middle of the apartment and also I drink a lot and on top of the butter and the drinking and the laying on the floor this weekend was also the weekend of Bay to Breakers here in San Francisco and if you don’t know what that is it’s basically a drunk costume parade that’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my entire life even though I grew up in NYC and those crazy fuckers do pretty much anything.

This event though. It’s a little bit like Halloween except we started at seven in the morning and seven in the morning is too early to be doing anything which means it’s definitely too early to be taking shots of Jager while trying to turn a table skirt into an actual skirt while also eating a muffin. And then after the shots and the muffin and the turning a table skirt into an actual skirt we joined the parade of people in matching costumes and individual costumes and big group costumes and kegs and tequila and people with backpacks full of frozen beers (us) and nudity (not us) but seriously so much nudity and you basically just walk across the city getting drunker and drunker and I even saw people that were so drunk they were having sex against a tree in the middle of a park. Also I saw a lot of people peeing. Peeing on the side of the street, peeing in the grass, peeing on each other, peeing in the bushes. Yes, I peed in the bushes. And now my legs are covered in thorn-like scratches. Actually I think the scratches are from when I had to climb into a tree to pee. Or maybe they’re from when I had to break into a motel room to pee. I don’t know. That was before the bushes though. It was a really long day. You’re welcome for the chronological pee timeline.

But now the weekend is over and I’m dying a slow and exhausted and very dramatic death and it’s freezing in this apartment and all I want is for there to be a fire in my fireplace and chicken noodle soup on the stove and a hot tub on the patio and I know, I know, one of those things is much harder to achieve than the other two things but really it’s not because getting a log for the fire or soup for the stove are both totally impossible seeing as how I can’t move even a little bit at all which means I’m definitely not getting soup and I’m definitely not getting a log and I’m definitely not getting a hot tub even though a hot tub is the one thing I want the most in this world. It’s also the one thing Jamie wants the most in this world and we’re sprawled across the couch whining about it in our Snuggies and we’re so dead and un-fun to be around and someone just help us and save us and bring us a hot tub already. Or like, someone just agree to not judge us when we put bathing suits on and climb into the bathtub together as a substitute. Only kidding. We’re too dead to get up and put bathing suits on.

Is this what the plague feels like?

I think this is what the plague feels like.

I can’t believe I’m going to Vegas on Thursday.

Commence the one with all the death.

It’s been wonderful knowing all of you.

SORRY MOM

Once upon a time, a company called Savvy Avenue asked Jamie and I if we wanted to take a free introductory fire dancing class here in San Francisco and what I heard, because I’m all over the place and therefore not the world’s best listener, was “Free!” and “Fire!” and I was like, “Yeah, I could go for some free fire.” And off we went.

The class was at Temple of Poi, taught by a woman named Isa who goes by the nickname “Glitter Girl” and really, let’s stop and talk about how I’m just all kinds of jealous because I don’t even have any nicknames, yet alone a nickname as cool as Glitter Girl and seriously, one of you should come up with a nickname for me. No really, do it. I’ll mail you a giant cookie with your name on it. Or a blowup doll. Or two blowup dolls. Or, you know, something you actually want. Although if you don’t like cookies and you’re not narcissistic enough to love your own name and you don’t like blowup dolls, I really don’t know what the fuck you’re doing reading this blog in the first place.

So. The fire. Luckily for everyone in the greater San Francisco area, they don’t let you use real fire in your first class (something about coordination and safety and the smell of charred hair). But we did learn how to swing beanbags around on strings in all kinds of intricately choreographed movements except by “learned” I mean didn’t really learn but we tried, we tried, it’s just that Jamie doesn’t know her left from her right, which almost got us into a massive car accident once and it got her hit in the face with these bean bags over and over last Thursday night but I know my left from my right and so I could do most of the moves and was actually sort of good at them which probably surprises anyone who knows me because I have trouble even walking in a straight line sometimes but there I was, swinging beanbags on strings in split time and even though I could do the thing with the circles and the split time, I couldn’t do the corkscrew move where one beanbag was going in a circle above your head while the other beanbag was doing the same circle near your feet and Isa kept trying to show me because she’s so helpful and nice and she was all, “Remember to scoop it toward your crotch!” and oh my GOD if there was ever a dance move I should be able to do, it’s the one where you scoop anything and everything toward your crotch.

JUST KIDDING

I HIGHLY DISLIKE THE WORD CROTCH

VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA

And so, my non-scooping vagina and I went through the entire hour of the class and afterward my vagina was fine but my arms were so sore because I’m not really so much with the regular arm workouts and no, I won’t be doing the crotch scooping corkscrew move with real fire anytime soon because as kickass as Isa was, I still couldn’t figure it out but the class was crazy fun and you should all sign up for fire dancing right now except don’t brag when you can do the corkscrew move because bragging isn’t nice and I have a hot little temper and yet I keep reminding myself of the biggest take away from all of this, which was the point Isa kept making about how the moves in fire dancing are “simple, but not easy” and, um, HOW POIGNANT IS THAT?!

Like, think about it. Think about how many things in our lives seem simple and *are* simple but aren’t at all easy. I mean, building up your savings account is simple: just spend less money on lattes and shoes and transfer that money to a savings account . Simple, right? But not easy. And getting over your ex is simple: just stop talking to your ex. And stop sleeping with your ex. And stop anything-ing with your ex. Simple, very simple, but not easy.

SIMPLE BUT NOT EASY

REMEMBER THAT

AND CUT YOURSELF SOME SLACK

AND HAVE A TWIX BAR

NIGHT NIGHT

Sometimes I hate things. Like broccoli. And scented deodorant. And horror movies. And forgetting to buy toilet paper before I run out of toilet paper which means I’m forced to choose between using a really rough paper towel that makes my vagina angry or those tiny little cotton squares we have for makeup removal that aren’t at all big enough and sort of fall apart and get stuck to my body.

I also hate Halloween. Not for any actual Halloween-ey reason, but because it’s a holiday that entirely revolves around girls dressing like whores or girls talking about how much they don’t like Halloween because Halloween is an excuse for girls to dress like whores.

And I hate surprises. Like, I really really hate them. I know some of you will disagree with me about this and be all, “But surprises are so fun!” and I hear that and I’m glad you like being blindsided by random things but I’m a control freak so actually no, for me surprises aren’t fun because I don’t know how to react to them and the entire process of “here’s some shit you didn’t know was coming but are now forced to deal with” is the opposite of fun.

Like, yesterday? There was this big loud knock on our door and I’m like, “Who is that?” and also, “Shhh” because it’s just unnecessary to knock that loudly on a door to such a small apartment but I opened the door and was all kinds of friendly because it was the UPS guy and maybe he didn’t mean to be so loud but is just a little deaf from driving around in a truck with no doors all day. Or, maybe the UPS trucks do have doors but they’re always open which seems overly breezy and wildly dangerous and I know, I know, they probably leave them open like that on purpose because it’s easier to get in and out so many times without something in the way and that’s what she said except not because that one was too easy. Like your mom.

So, UPS guy hands me this big box and starts angrily lecturing me about how he was waiting outside our apartment complex for ten minutes because we’re not in the buzzer system and I tried to explain that we don’t have a landline and therefore we can’t be in the buzzer system and he keeps cutting me off and telling me that if I’m getting a package I need to track it diligently and leave the front door open because he doesn’t want to wait for ten minutes and I’m all, “I didn’t know I was getting this package in the first place and therefore didn’t have the tracking number and also people close that door all the time” but he kept going and kept cutting me off and he was so unnecessarily rude about the whole thing and it hurt my feelings because I was already having a day with too many feelings and in case you didn’t see my tweet, here is what I’ve learned recently:

Getting involved with people = feelings. Feelings = fucking nuisance. Getting involved with less people = having less feelings = better.

I’ve also learned other things, like the fact that my life is now in a permanent default state of weird because the mysterious UPS package wound up containing two inflatable sex dolls, a male sex doll and a female sex doll that were sent via Toy With Me because my assignment for Monday’s column is to write about a threesome with a male and female sex doll and yes, this is seriously what’s on my weekend agenda and then tomorrow I’m taking my first ever fire dancing class and so I leave you with a big hug and a, “Bye!” and an, “Enjoy the next few days!” and a “Please keep your fingers crossed that I don’t die as a result of some strange mishap with dancing or fire or inflatable sex dolls or some as-yet-unknown combination of dancing and fire and inflatable sex dolls.”

When I first moved here, one of my blog readers immediately forwarded me a list of 60 Super Sexy Things To Do in San Francisco. Because I’m sexy. Or, well, I don’t know why else. So yeah, let’s go with the sexy thing.

When I first got the email, I thought, “You know, my blog readers really are the best of the best.” You bitches and dude bitches are always looking out for me and keeping me up to date by sending me fun links and hilarious links and dirty links. And horrifying links. Man, I’ve gotten a lot of horrifying links.

Like, did you know that there’s a website that sells dildos in the shape of animal penises? You can just click on over to the category of “unnatural dildos & dongs” and buy a full size canine penis, or a whale penis, or an 18.5 inch horse penis (I KNOW RIGHT??), or, wait for it, a WOLF PENIS. Let’s not discuss the amount of time I’ve spent on this website. Let’s also not discuss the people who are actually buying these dildos. Actually no, let’s do discuss them.

One reviewer of the wolf penis dildo exclaims, “Okay, I always wanted to see a wolf’s penis and have sex with one. I’m crazy, so I bought this wolf penis dildo. I just got it a week ago and I held it in my hand saying OMG I’m holding a wolf penis. HeHe I lubed it up and shoved it in my ass and when I got to the knot I had to sit on it to get it in. Soon as it popped in it felt so amazing. I leave it in my ass for an hour and sometimes ram it in and out. OMG, It’s amazing and it’s in my ass as I write this. I love wolves penis.”

Please tell me this sort of makes you want to die. Just a little bit. Just enough so that you never have to think about this ever again ever. Yeah, me too. I’m sorry I shared this with you, I really am. But also I’m not, because at least now I don’t have to suffer through this all by myself anymore. I know, I’m selfish. But maybe the review is a joke? Maybe no one has ever purchased this item and someone is actually just sick enough to write fake reviews for stuff like this all over the internet.

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, the 60 sexy things list. Luckily, animal sex isn’t on the list. Wait, hang on, it’s San Francisco, let me double check.

Nope, we’re good.

So, item number eight on the list is to dine in the dark at Opaque, a restaurant where you eat a multi-course meal in straight up pitch black darkness. I’ve always wanted to do this, and by “always” I mean “ever since I read about how Chelsea Handler did it and if you know me you know I’m obsessed with Chelsea Handler in a probably not okay way and so dining in the dark at Opaque is number 125 on my Life List because maybe if I do everything that Chelsea does she’ll be my friend.”

(I get creepier every day, huh?)

Despite the fact that my only draw to this dinner was a head full of Chelsea Handler fantasies, it was actually incredible. Definitely a 39 on an awesome scale from 3-17. It was also a learning experience of sorts. For example, I learned that I’ve never been in pitch black eyes-don’t-ever-adjust dark before. And I learned that buttering bread in this kind of dark makes you feel like an idiot. And I learned that being blind would suck. And that food tastes different when you can’t see it. And that you absolutely can’t go to an in the pitch black eyes-don’t-ever-adjust dark event with someone you aren’t comfortable touching. Not touching touching. Well, maybe. It’s certainly dark enough. Not that I did that. This isn’t that kind of story.

See Mom?! THIS FINALLY ISN’T THAT KIND OF STORY.

Unless Chelsea wants it to be.

HI CHELSEA