This is probably a little redundant at this point, but I drink a lot of wine. Specifically, I drink a lot of Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s, which isn’t necessarily relevant but might be something you should write down just in case you’re ever faced with needing to buy me a present and you’re all, “Does she maybe want a sweater?” and then that little voice in your head can be like, “No bitch, of course she doesn’t want a fucking sweater, she wants a case of Charles Shaw.”
And I do. Like, all the time. Like, I want a new case delivered every single week. I mean, wait, what’s the appropriate amount of time in which to consume 12 bottles of wine? Assuming you do it with a roommate. And sometimes with friends. But also sometimes not with a roommate or with friends because you’re having a college flashback weekend and you’re too cheap to pay for drinks at bars and you aren’t slutty enough to flirt your way into getting free drinks from guys in bars and so maybe you pour an entire bottle of wine into an empty Smart Water bottle and it’s white wine so it kind of looks like urine and you’re drinking it IN PUBLIC while having the audacity to wonder why you’re single and constantly hungover.
But I mean, whatever, that type of shit is SO NOT THE POINT RIGHT NOW.
The point is this: while I was sitting around wasting space and being a cheap drunk, some glorious person out there took the time to make a giant wine glass
that’s large enough to hold an entire bottle of wine. AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF WINE. IN ONE GLASS.
When I first found out about it, I sat there staring at its pretty little picture, fantasizing over the endless possibilities for a future of me + the glass that was clearly sent to my computer screen by a brothel of angels and I’m scrolling through the page and I see the section where they try to get you to buy corresponding shit by being all, “customers who bought this item also bought…” and then listing things that would complement a big giant wine glass. Except instead of normal shit like a corkscrew or a wine rack or a one way do-not-pass-go ticket to AA, Amazon is all, “Customers who bought this item also bought Boston Legal: Season 3” and I’m like, “Wait, what?” and Amazon is all, “Customers who bought this item also bought the Omron Body Fat Monitor and Scale” and I’m thinking okay, I can maybe understand drinking an entire bottle/glass/bottleglass of wine while watching a season of fake legal drama on DVD, but if I’m going to drink an entire bottle of wine, and I’m going to do it regularly enough to justify purchasing a glass for this specific purchase, you can probably just assume that I never even weigh myself on a regular fucking scale and therefore have zero need to know what my body fat percentage is after I’ve been able to consume an entire bottle of wine without even exerting the tiny amount of energy required to, you know, STAND UP AND REFILL A WINE GLASS.
But Amazon is a persistent and snarky little whore and was all, “Fine, customers who bought this item also bought Oxo Good Grips Locking Tongs with Nylon Heads. And a Neiko Super-Bright 9 LED Heavy-Duty Compact Aluminum Flashlight in Gunmetal. And the 5th edition of a book called Plain English for Lawyers.” Which is when I realized that actually, these things aren’t random and it all makes complete sense because there’s obviously some guy out there who really wants to be a lawyer, but English isn’t his first language and so he’s reading this book and watching Boston Legal and he’s on edition 5 and season 3 because he’s wanted to be a lawyer for so fucking long that he already finished seasons 1-2 and editions 1-4, but he got rejected from law school and started drinking heavily enough to warrant a glass that holds an entire bottle’s worth of wine at once and he got a little carried away with it all and his girlfriend left him for someone who isn’t an alcoholic and drinks manly shit like beer from the can and speaks enough English to get into law school and so now he sits at home and jerks off in the dark with nylon tipped tongs and makes shadow puppets on the wall using his super powered gunmetal gray flashlight.
Which is to say, somebody please buy me this fucking fuck fuck wine glass, stat.
I mean please. I mean maybe not. I mean actually yeah as long as I don’t somehow wind up masturbating with kitchen utensils.
When I first moved into this apartment, I noticed that 1. there’s a trash chute in the hallway and that 2. the opening for the trash chute isn’t actually big enough to put a single fucking trash bag through.
Which is when the baby thing came up. The realization that while living in this apartment, we wouldn’t be able to throw away anything bigger than a newborn baby, because that’s all that was ever going to fit down that hole.
And I mean, listen, before you freak out, I’m not saying I’m ever going to throw away an *actual* baby. I don’t even have a baby. I don’t even have access to a baby. And even if I did have a baby, and access to like 6 other babies, I wouldn’t throw any of them down the trash chute. It’s just a size thing. IT’S A SIZE THING.
The day after the baby thing though, we found our way to the trash room and realized that actually, we could just carry our non-baby sized trash down the stairs and put it in the dumpster ourselves. Which, okay, is awesome because at least we don’t have an entire apartment full of trash, but it’s also like, um, what the fuck?? Because why take the time to build a trash chute if no one in the entire apartment complex can use it for anything besides baby disposal?
Once in a while though, Jamie and I will get a small package in the mail (makeup, a sex toy, you know, the usual) and we’ll look at the empty box and scream, “IT’S SMALLER THAN A BABY!” and run and put it down the chute.
It happened again the other night. We were sitting on her bed, folding the laundry that we only do once every like four weeks and I was matching the socks together and freaking out about how I was maybe losing my mind because there were SO many socks that didn’t have matches and I tried over and over and finally I gave up and looked down at the ridiculous amount of pair-less socks and was all, “Jamie. Seriously. Jamie, look at this. This is the state of your life as a grown woman” and she looked down all skeptical and judge-y, like I’m the idiot who doesn’t know how to match socks with other socks and she sits and she tries and she’s holding them up and trying to make them fit together but they don’t fit together because it’s just a pile – I mean an actual PILE – of socks that don’t go together and she’s all, “What about these two!” and I’m like, “THOSE AREN’T EVEN THE SAME LENGTH” and she points to a few others and I’m all, “No. This one is wooly. And this one is tights!”
And we went on and on, trying to make pairs, circling back to the same fucking socks, yelling about how those two still weren’t the same length and how that one was STILL TIGHTS, until finally, we gathered them all into a big ball and walked them down to the dumpster, because the quantity of socks was > a newborn baby.
And I know, maybe we need to buy more socks. Or maybe we need to be put on some sort of trash baby watch list. Or maybe we need a new point of comparison. Or maybe we need to spend less time together because at this point we have our own language that’s so wildly offensive that we’re sometimes nervous about going out in public but I’m thinking that actually it’s fine because at least we still have enough social decency to create hand gestures for the really REALLY offensive things like the times we feel like we’re living in a trailer park or the times when we quote Katt Williams and wish we were black but I can’t do those hand gestures right now because I’m typing and oh my god please tell me you do things like this too so I don’t have to climb the long staircase down to hell all by myself.
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!}
Sometimes I love that I don’t have a TV in my apartment. Like when I’m bored and instead of wasting time wondering how in the hell MTV can still call itself Music Television when they haven’t shown a legitimate music video since like 1998, I go online and find incredibly inappropriate and magical websites like Guess Her Muff, where it’s just picture after picture of fully clothed chicks and under each clothed picture there’s a link to a naked picture and the premise is basically to guess what each chick’s vagina is going to look like based on her clothed appearance.
Please don’t ask me how much time I’ve spent on this site, because it’s just absolutely crazycakes, and please don’t ask me why it’s so ridiculously gratifying to look at one photo and yell, “landing strip!” and then the next photo and yell, “totally shaved!” and then the next one and yell, “big giant bush!” and be right about EVERY SINGLE PHOTO and convince myself that I must be some kind of x-ray visioned vagina jedi person. It just is.
The only downside is that this damn website has more or less ruined my life because I find myself playing the Guess Her Muff game out in the 3D world, walking by woman after woman and guessing quietly to myself, mentally screaming, “Brazilian wax!” and then immediately hoping that I didn’t just risk getting assaulted by accidentally saying it out loud while pointing to her lady parts.
God, speaking of getting assaulted, last weekend there was a fucking shooting in my neighborhood. Like, an actual SHOOTING after two guys got into it at this shady club, got kicked out, and then the one guy fired 32 rounds at the other guy and killed him in front of a sex shop that’s next to the club and oh my god only in San Francisco would there be a club next to a sex shop and this is all very stressful for me because I love sex shops and don’t want to associate them with getting fucking SHOT TO DEATH.
Which is to say that maybe I should get a TV so that I can start paying more attention to the local news about who’s brawling with who in my neighborhood. Or maybe I should just become a complete recluse who spends hour after hour in front of her fireplace trying to guess the pubic hair situation of some chick posing for a photo on a boardwalk while simultaneously wondering where in the where they even FIND women who will submit both clothed AND naked pictures to a site that has muff in the title and how they’ve found enough of them that as of this morning, they were already up to girl number 1,367.
People are fucking weird.
