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.
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.
When I was packing up my car to move to San Francisco, my mother and I had a little incident regarding the white bowls.
The thing about the white bowls is that I absolutely fucking love them. They’re soup bowls, white with a little blue rim, and no one has a clue where they came from because there are only two of them and they don’t match any of her other dishes and they’re cheap, CorningWare I think, but they’re microwave safe and big enough for me to eat giant portions of tomato soup out of and so, of course, I put them in my suitcase and tried to steal them. But my mother is a goddamn ninja and she found them and took them out. So I put them back. And she took them out. Which happened for the better part of 10 hours before either one of us ever brought it up.
The bottom line here is that I don’t have the damn bowls because she’s selfish and now that I’m sick and want to mainline tomato soup I’m incredibly depressed about being forced to use my regular bowls.
The being sick happens a lot, unfortunately, because I have a horrible immune system. Like, horrible. Like, I get strep a few times a year and I’m sick always and if people who are sick even wink at me, I totally catch whatever the whatever they have. So if you’re sick and in the greater San Francisco area, please stop winking at me. Also, winking is weird and most guys can’t pull it off anyway so maybe to be on the safe side let’s just have a new general rule that you stop winking at me period.
Anyway, so I’ve had a sore throat for like a week and a half. Not a little bit sore, but really ridiculously sore and it’s less of a tonsil thing and more of an actual throat thing and while I wasn’t concerned before, I’m totally starting to get concerned because aren’t you supposed to see a doctor if a sore throat is sore for more than a few days? I think those are the rules. But, um, I don’t have fucking fuck fuck health insurance and doctors aren’t free and I just moved to this damn city and don’t even have a doctor so instead I started asking a friend what *she* thought the deal was with my sore throat and she’s all, “Maybe you have a throat STD” and I’m like, “Okay seriously? That’s anti-helpful” but of course I started researching it and I’m about ready to hurl myself off of a building because apparently there’s a strong link between oral sex and THROAT CANCER and OH MY GOD WHAT IF I HAVE THROAT CANCER??
Which is to say that if you’re a doctor and you read this blog you should probably make a house call and inspect my throat because if I have a sore throat AND I only have my regular bowls AND I have cancer AND I have to stop giving blowjobs, I’m going to be real fucking pissed.
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!”