Ok, so as most of you know by now, Facebook has recently set out to remind us in one minute flat just how pathetic or awesome the last 10 years of our lives have been. Normally I would be all over this because if there's one thing I love, it's a picture slideshow set to sappy music. And make it a picture slide show about ME?...sign my narcissistic ass up!
Unfortunately, within the first 3 seconds of my video, I was already re-evalutating my life and wondering where I went wrong.
You see, apparently they use your oldest profile picture as the very first slide. Now, although this may seem hard to believe, I don't go back and revisit my album of profile pictures, so you can imagine my surprise when a picture of me and a very significant ex of mine popped up on my screen. A picture I hadn't seen in years. A picture of me kissing his freakin nose because at the time I was just so relieved to have a boyfriend- and a very, very serious boyfriend at that- that I apparently needed the entire world to know.
This led me to think about all of the people I have dated between him and my current relationship, and it made me kind of sad to think about everything- and everyone?- I've been through since then. It also made me mad because I don't think people should be judged if they date a lot of people, and I certainly was. I was never blind to the fact that there were quite a few people in college who told people I was a slut, or just assumed that I was sleeping with every guy I hung out with. The fact of the matter is, I wasn't being trampy, I was being a college student (Because lord knows in high school I wasn't doing anything. While other kids were off drinking and rubbing their American Eagle jeans together, I was playing pool or riding around in Claudia's truck. No drinking, no drugs, no sex, no anything but the very rare kiss from a guy.). In addition, I've never had a one night stand, I've never gotten knocked up, and I've never had to refer back to the STD slideshow they showed us in 12th grade health class. Although...if I'm being honest, it is strange sometimes to compare my former carefree life to my current one where I'm living with my long term boyfriend and where we refer to ourselves as Mommy and Daddy when talking to our pets.
Anyway, the remainder of the pictures on the Facebook video were of people I haven't talked to in years, and every single Russian Christmas family photo of the last 3 years. No pictures of the girl's I've been friends with for over a decade, no pictures of Dave and I, no pictures of the animals- and god knows I've posted enough pictures of them on Facebook that at least one should have popped up.
Lastly, all of my "significant posts" from the past 10 years have been about getting a job, all of which - with the exception of my current one- obviously haven't worked out. Especially my "dream job", which ended up being the portal to Hell, with the devil herself blowing fairy dust in my face and telling me I might actually look a little pretty if I put on makeup once in awhile.
Now let's all take a moment to acknowledge that I just wasted an entire blog post explaining why a company full of hipster strangers in California who know absolutely nothing about me have given me a complex about my life. Well played Zuckerberg, well played.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Would You Like A Grape? How About Two?
From time to time (that's girl talk for "all the time"), I like to peruse the Internet and magazines for anything from pop culture tidbits to scientific studies. I do this not only for my own amusement and interest, but also to see if there's ever anything that I can slap my two cents onto, via my bloggy blog. Today, I came across yet another article on the perils of having big boobs. I then realized that people are ALWAYS writing about the struggles that come with having an ample chest. This I have no problem with whatsoever, because I'm sure it's no picnic. What I DO have a problem with, however, is the complete lack of conversation about the crap-factor of having not only a small chest, but damn near no boobies at all.
So, without further ado, here is my Flat-Chested Checklist. Pull up a chair, snuggle in with your favorite training bra, and enjoy:
1) It's a known fact that the vast majority of women have different sized breasts. In fact, it is usually the left one that is bigger. Since almost every lady deals with this, it shouldn't be that big of a deal. However, this asymmetry is significantly more noticeable on a smaller bust. Since we pretty much don't have enough boob for there to be any droopage, everything is right there, in peoples' eyeline, where they can very visibly see that Lefty is bigger than Righty, and therefore has a circumference that comes down lower on our chest. It's like our boobs are winking at you.
2) On a similar note, it is damn near impossible to find a bra that fits properly. Aside from the fact that you can pretty much forget about finding anything sexy in an AA or A cup, the main problem is that usually, one of your boobs IS an AA while the other is an A. So now you have 2 choices: Get a bra that fits the smaller boob, therefore suffocating your larger one, or get one that fits your bigger tater tot, leaving the smaller one just hanging out in the open because the cup juts out an inch from your actual body. Don't try bending over or letting anyone see you from the side, because all they're going to see if your whole. entire. booblet.
3) We may not have a chest, but we do have a butt, leaving us looking like an upside down question mark.
4) If you're as unlucky enough as I am to have a mammoth sized ribcage run in your family, you have the absolute delight of having two bony bumps stick out significantly farther than your lady lumps.
5) Oh, you want to wear something strapless? Sorry, strapless bras don't stay up when there's NOTHING TO KEEP THEM THERE.
6) I'm kind of tall, so I need my shirts a little longer. Unfortunately, clothing designers don't really accommodate this, leading to a whole lot of extra material up top.
7) What's cleavage?
8) There's no better feeling than being at a bar with your large-breasted friends, and having a guy completely ignore your existence. Oh, did I say "better"? I meant kill me now.
9) Medically speaking, one day I asked my mom how in the hell a doctor would ever be able to get my breast in a mammogram machine. She just laughed evily and said, "Oh honey...they find a way...". Then she walked away and kept laughing.
10) If you're bloated, forget about it. With nothing up top to balance out your stomach, you might as well take advantage of those parking spots for expectant mothers.
11) On a more serious note, although I have come to a peaceful place with my chest and wouldn't change anything, it took a long time to feel good about myself. You always hear that "real women have curves", and for those of us who don't simply because we weren't built that way, it's difficult not to have moments where you don't feel like a real woman.
So, in conclusion, for all of my unsung flat-chested warriors out there- let's be proud of what nature forgot to give us! And also remember the best advice my mom ever gave me: "Alexis (feel free to insert your own name, but if you want to use mine that's cool too), never wear a padded bra because one day, a guy is gonna take it off and get one hell of a disappointing surprise".
So, without further ado, here is my Flat-Chested Checklist. Pull up a chair, snuggle in with your favorite training bra, and enjoy:
1) It's a known fact that the vast majority of women have different sized breasts. In fact, it is usually the left one that is bigger. Since almost every lady deals with this, it shouldn't be that big of a deal. However, this asymmetry is significantly more noticeable on a smaller bust. Since we pretty much don't have enough boob for there to be any droopage, everything is right there, in peoples' eyeline, where they can very visibly see that Lefty is bigger than Righty, and therefore has a circumference that comes down lower on our chest. It's like our boobs are winking at you.
2) On a similar note, it is damn near impossible to find a bra that fits properly. Aside from the fact that you can pretty much forget about finding anything sexy in an AA or A cup, the main problem is that usually, one of your boobs IS an AA while the other is an A. So now you have 2 choices: Get a bra that fits the smaller boob, therefore suffocating your larger one, or get one that fits your bigger tater tot, leaving the smaller one just hanging out in the open because the cup juts out an inch from your actual body. Don't try bending over or letting anyone see you from the side, because all they're going to see if your whole. entire. booblet.
3) We may not have a chest, but we do have a butt, leaving us looking like an upside down question mark.
4) If you're as unlucky enough as I am to have a mammoth sized ribcage run in your family, you have the absolute delight of having two bony bumps stick out significantly farther than your lady lumps.
5) Oh, you want to wear something strapless? Sorry, strapless bras don't stay up when there's NOTHING TO KEEP THEM THERE.
6) I'm kind of tall, so I need my shirts a little longer. Unfortunately, clothing designers don't really accommodate this, leading to a whole lot of extra material up top.
7) What's cleavage?
8) There's no better feeling than being at a bar with your large-breasted friends, and having a guy completely ignore your existence. Oh, did I say "better"? I meant kill me now.
9) Medically speaking, one day I asked my mom how in the hell a doctor would ever be able to get my breast in a mammogram machine. She just laughed evily and said, "Oh honey...they find a way...". Then she walked away and kept laughing.
10) If you're bloated, forget about it. With nothing up top to balance out your stomach, you might as well take advantage of those parking spots for expectant mothers.
11) On a more serious note, although I have come to a peaceful place with my chest and wouldn't change anything, it took a long time to feel good about myself. You always hear that "real women have curves", and for those of us who don't simply because we weren't built that way, it's difficult not to have moments where you don't feel like a real woman.
So, in conclusion, for all of my unsung flat-chested warriors out there- let's be proud of what nature forgot to give us! And also remember the best advice my mom ever gave me: "Alexis (feel free to insert your own name, but if you want to use mine that's cool too), never wear a padded bra because one day, a guy is gonna take it off and get one hell of a disappointing surprise".
Sunday, October 20, 2013
You've Got Some Crazy On Your Chin.
Read this first:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/this-is-one-of-the-most-brutal-responses-to-a-break-up-text
Ok, now for my opinions and observations, in no particular order, broken down into bullet points:
* From one blogger to another, get over yourself. You just turned 26; if you're already reacting this insanely over something so minuscule, you're in for a long looney tunes life of misery. You're making the rest of us, who realize that we're just starting out in adulthood and therefore use sarcasm and try to make light of any situation that bums us out, look bad. STOP MAKING US LOOK BAD.
* If you're going to attach a picture of yourself with your hand on your hip and an "I'm better than you" look on your face, at least wear a bra that doesn't make you look like you have 3 different sets of tits down your shirt.
* I don't know you but I think I hate you.
* BITCH, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!? Do you realize how LUCKY you are that this guy had the graciousness to send you a nice, complimentary, truthful text? That he realized you weren't the gal for him so he didn't want to waste any of your time, therefore giving you the opportunity to go out into the world and find someone who is actually interested in you? That most guys would just stand you up, or abruptly stop all contact with you, or be secretly banging some other girl on the side?
* Do you get a discount when you have a lifetime membership to the Crazy Store?
* Sending his boss screenshots of your sexts is just wrong. Grow up, Peter Pan.
* If you're this messed up over some guy that you went on 2 dates with, this leads me to believe that this is a common occurrence. Which means that, just maybe, you're the problem.
* Congratulations on your condo. I'm pretty sure every senior citizen in Boca Raton has one too. I actually have a condo as well, only I call it an "apartment"...I guess because my high horse can't fit through the doorway.
* For whatever reason, when I saw your picture I assumed you were standing outside of a Rite Aide. Which is obviously the sexiest place to pose.
* I highly dislike that your blog has made me write such a mean blog of my own. However, after reading the Buzzfeed article, as well as your original post on the matter, it is clear to me that every self-indulgent comment that you made was- for the most part- completely sincere and not stated in a way that poked fun at yourself, which would have been the only respectable way to approach this, in my opinion.
Here's her original post, for those that are interested:
http://littleblackblog.net/2013/09/24/im-26-whats-a-filter/
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/this-is-one-of-the-most-brutal-responses-to-a-break-up-text
Ok, now for my opinions and observations, in no particular order, broken down into bullet points:
* From one blogger to another, get over yourself. You just turned 26; if you're already reacting this insanely over something so minuscule, you're in for a long looney tunes life of misery. You're making the rest of us, who realize that we're just starting out in adulthood and therefore use sarcasm and try to make light of any situation that bums us out, look bad. STOP MAKING US LOOK BAD.
* If you're going to attach a picture of yourself with your hand on your hip and an "I'm better than you" look on your face, at least wear a bra that doesn't make you look like you have 3 different sets of tits down your shirt.
* I don't know you but I think I hate you.
* BITCH, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!? Do you realize how LUCKY you are that this guy had the graciousness to send you a nice, complimentary, truthful text? That he realized you weren't the gal for him so he didn't want to waste any of your time, therefore giving you the opportunity to go out into the world and find someone who is actually interested in you? That most guys would just stand you up, or abruptly stop all contact with you, or be secretly banging some other girl on the side?
* Do you get a discount when you have a lifetime membership to the Crazy Store?
* Sending his boss screenshots of your sexts is just wrong. Grow up, Peter Pan.
* If you're this messed up over some guy that you went on 2 dates with, this leads me to believe that this is a common occurrence. Which means that, just maybe, you're the problem.
* Congratulations on your condo. I'm pretty sure every senior citizen in Boca Raton has one too. I actually have a condo as well, only I call it an "apartment"...I guess because my high horse can't fit through the doorway.
* For whatever reason, when I saw your picture I assumed you were standing outside of a Rite Aide. Which is obviously the sexiest place to pose.
* I highly dislike that your blog has made me write such a mean blog of my own. However, after reading the Buzzfeed article, as well as your original post on the matter, it is clear to me that every self-indulgent comment that you made was- for the most part- completely sincere and not stated in a way that poked fun at yourself, which would have been the only respectable way to approach this, in my opinion.
Here's her original post, for those that are interested:
http://littleblackblog.net/2013/09/24/im-26-whats-a-filter/
Thursday, September 19, 2013
...And She Lived Uncomfortably Ever After
Once upon a time there was a pissed off little princess who carried the weight of the world in her lower back and shoulders.
While she didn't have an evil stepmother, she DID have a momma who bore a striking resemblance to Linda Belcher from "Bob's Burgers", and one Christmas, this wonderfully shrill woman bestowed upon the princess a gift card for an hour of relaxation being rubbed down by a stranger at a nearby spa.
The princess gleefully accepted this present, with visions of sugar plums, essential oils, and unfamiliar hands dancing in her head.
Six long months later, the girl finally found some time to cash in her gift card, and set up an appointment at the massage parlor. She eagerly counted down the days until she could disrobe and let a trained professional work the crap out of her knots.
Finally, the day arrived. The princess could barely make it through her day at work, knowing that in just a few short hours, she would be relaxed and feeling fly.
When the time came, she checked in with the gals at the front desk, and was led to a waiting area where she sat in a white robe, surrounded by candles, pitchers of water, and a flat screen TV turned to Action News, where it serenely broadcast a story of a double murder in North Philly.
Shortly after, a woman entered and led the princess to her room, giving her a few minutes of privacy to disrobe and slip under the covers of a heated massage table.
Then shit got real.
"You here for hour massage, yes?" The masseuse asked in a thick Russian accent, as she reentered the room and began rubbing oil on her hands.
"Yep." I replied, sticking my face in the hole in the table that never seemed big enough to accommodate my own giant Russian head.
"You want extras?"
I lifted my head and turned to look at the woman.
"Extras?"
"Yes," she said, "the extra services."
I thought that maybe she meant a manicure or an eyebrow waxing- something along those lines.
"Oh, no," I answered. "Just the massage."
Olga (that was her name), nodded and told me to flip over, as she apparently liked to start with the front of the body. I complied and she got to work.
It wasn't until she was sticking her hand up in my business that I realized what she had meant by "extra services", and that apparently "no" meant "yes".
There were only two places in the area that I had heard stories of them giving happy endings. The one was in Jenkintown (just a couple blocks from where I was, actually), and the other place was in Southampton. It never occurred to me that the gift card MY OWN MOTHER gave me would basically be a free pass to tickling my ivories.
I managed to shift my position in such a way that made it clear to Olga that shop was closed. Instead she moved to my northern hemisphere and pulled the sheet down so far that I was about to have a Lindsay Lohan nip-slip. I reached down and tugged up the sheet, again signaling 'Do not pass Go, do not collect $200".
When she had me turn onto my stomach, she pretty much just went for it and grabbed my ass. A full-on, two handed, double cheeked squeeze. As I was laying there, weighing my options, for a split second I thought about going for it. Why the hell not? It would make a killer of a story, right? And it would be bound to piss off my boyfriend- not because he would be defensive or protective, but because he'd be jealous I got a happy ending and he didn't. The thought of his face if I told him filled me with competitive joy and satisfaction.
As Olga removed her hands from my butt and actually started massaging my legs and back in a normal fashion, I continued to consider the variables in case she started in on the real deal.
If it were a dude doing this, there was absolutely no way I would let him go through with it. But it was a girl, and the bi-curiosity that had followed me since high school kinda dug the idea. If she were Latin, it would have been a done deal. But she was Russian, like me, and I stopped sleeping with my own kind back in college. Nothing good can come out of letting someone- especially someone who is just as bitter and judgmental as I am- stick their Kremlin in my Red Square.
So that was that. I dismissed the idea of letting Olga round the bases, and instead let her finish up the massage as usual.
After the hour was up and I put my clothes back on, I walked back to the front desk to leave. Apparently Olga had done a quick change, because there she was, talking to the receptionist, completely decked out in a one-piece, skin tight, denim jumpsuit.
And why yes, she was wearing matching denim stiletto boots.
So there it is. The story of how I almost accidentally got a happy ending. The good news is, when I went home and told my boyfriend, he still got jealous. So, you know, overall not a bad day.
While she didn't have an evil stepmother, she DID have a momma who bore a striking resemblance to Linda Belcher from "Bob's Burgers", and one Christmas, this wonderfully shrill woman bestowed upon the princess a gift card for an hour of relaxation being rubbed down by a stranger at a nearby spa.
The princess gleefully accepted this present, with visions of sugar plums, essential oils, and unfamiliar hands dancing in her head.
Six long months later, the girl finally found some time to cash in her gift card, and set up an appointment at the massage parlor. She eagerly counted down the days until she could disrobe and let a trained professional work the crap out of her knots.
Finally, the day arrived. The princess could barely make it through her day at work, knowing that in just a few short hours, she would be relaxed and feeling fly.
When the time came, she checked in with the gals at the front desk, and was led to a waiting area where she sat in a white robe, surrounded by candles, pitchers of water, and a flat screen TV turned to Action News, where it serenely broadcast a story of a double murder in North Philly.
Shortly after, a woman entered and led the princess to her room, giving her a few minutes of privacy to disrobe and slip under the covers of a heated massage table.
Then shit got real.
"You here for hour massage, yes?" The masseuse asked in a thick Russian accent, as she reentered the room and began rubbing oil on her hands.
"Yep." I replied, sticking my face in the hole in the table that never seemed big enough to accommodate my own giant Russian head.
"You want extras?"
I lifted my head and turned to look at the woman.
"Extras?"
"Yes," she said, "the extra services."
I thought that maybe she meant a manicure or an eyebrow waxing- something along those lines.
"Oh, no," I answered. "Just the massage."
Olga (that was her name), nodded and told me to flip over, as she apparently liked to start with the front of the body. I complied and she got to work.
It wasn't until she was sticking her hand up in my business that I realized what she had meant by "extra services", and that apparently "no" meant "yes".
There were only two places in the area that I had heard stories of them giving happy endings. The one was in Jenkintown (just a couple blocks from where I was, actually), and the other place was in Southampton. It never occurred to me that the gift card MY OWN MOTHER gave me would basically be a free pass to tickling my ivories.
I managed to shift my position in such a way that made it clear to Olga that shop was closed. Instead she moved to my northern hemisphere and pulled the sheet down so far that I was about to have a Lindsay Lohan nip-slip. I reached down and tugged up the sheet, again signaling 'Do not pass Go, do not collect $200".
When she had me turn onto my stomach, she pretty much just went for it and grabbed my ass. A full-on, two handed, double cheeked squeeze. As I was laying there, weighing my options, for a split second I thought about going for it. Why the hell not? It would make a killer of a story, right? And it would be bound to piss off my boyfriend- not because he would be defensive or protective, but because he'd be jealous I got a happy ending and he didn't. The thought of his face if I told him filled me with competitive joy and satisfaction.
As Olga removed her hands from my butt and actually started massaging my legs and back in a normal fashion, I continued to consider the variables in case she started in on the real deal.
If it were a dude doing this, there was absolutely no way I would let him go through with it. But it was a girl, and the bi-curiosity that had followed me since high school kinda dug the idea. If she were Latin, it would have been a done deal. But she was Russian, like me, and I stopped sleeping with my own kind back in college. Nothing good can come out of letting someone- especially someone who is just as bitter and judgmental as I am- stick their Kremlin in my Red Square.
So that was that. I dismissed the idea of letting Olga round the bases, and instead let her finish up the massage as usual.
After the hour was up and I put my clothes back on, I walked back to the front desk to leave. Apparently Olga had done a quick change, because there she was, talking to the receptionist, completely decked out in a one-piece, skin tight, denim jumpsuit.
And why yes, she was wearing matching denim stiletto boots.
So there it is. The story of how I almost accidentally got a happy ending. The good news is, when I went home and told my boyfriend, he still got jealous. So, you know, overall not a bad day.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Wait, You're In Your Twenties and Have Love Handles and Don't Mind Taking Your Shirt Off? Please- Tell Me How I Should Vote In The Next Election!
Ok, so this rant is a little late and may not seem super relevant right now. However, it's something that I've thought for awhile, and my frustrations resurfaced when I recently read an interview with Lena Dunham about how she's upset that there was recently a porn made parodying "Girls" (Really? She didn't see that one coming?).
Here's the thing: I get that Lena's not some sickly stick thin actress and she's not "hot" by the industry standards, and therefore everyone is proud of her for taking her clothes off on TV for 20 minutes every Sunday night. That's all well and good, and I think it's a well-written show (at least the first season was, the second season was kinda crap), but we seriously need to stop inflating this girl's head by telling her how much of a brave, feminine trailblazer she is.
Guess what, Lena? I'm an average girl too. I don't have a perfect face or a perfect body. But do you know what they would call me if I got naked in front of everybody all the time? A prostitute. And they would arrest me. And then you would have to come bail me out of jail with your pile of brave money. And I'll be damned if I have to sit waiting in a jail cell while Lena finishes getting her latest hipster tattoo of a corgi reading a Shel Silverstein book before she can come get me in her restored bright orange Gremlin with a COEXIST bumper sticker on the back.
That's all. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go shower with all of my clothes on.
Here's the thing: I get that Lena's not some sickly stick thin actress and she's not "hot" by the industry standards, and therefore everyone is proud of her for taking her clothes off on TV for 20 minutes every Sunday night. That's all well and good, and I think it's a well-written show (at least the first season was, the second season was kinda crap), but we seriously need to stop inflating this girl's head by telling her how much of a brave, feminine trailblazer she is.
Guess what, Lena? I'm an average girl too. I don't have a perfect face or a perfect body. But do you know what they would call me if I got naked in front of everybody all the time? A prostitute. And they would arrest me. And then you would have to come bail me out of jail with your pile of brave money. And I'll be damned if I have to sit waiting in a jail cell while Lena finishes getting her latest hipster tattoo of a corgi reading a Shel Silverstein book before she can come get me in her restored bright orange Gremlin with a COEXIST bumper sticker on the back.
That's all. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go shower with all of my clothes on.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Oooooh, Sorry, I'm Allergic To Virgins. No, Really, I Just Found Out Last Week...The, Uh, Allergy...Doctor...Told Me....
Do you know why Taylor Swift can't keep a boyfriend? Because homegirl doesn't put out.
I'm sorry, but I guarantee you that's part of the problem. She either dates these horny little 18 year olds or these men in their 30's who think that they can handle a sexless relationship because they're "mature", but after a couple of months they realize that if they don't get it in soon their balls are going to fall off.
Enter breakup, enter terrible break up song.
You know that girl's had more wang in her mouth than most of us combined though, right?
And before you start getting all bent out of shape about me being so vulgar about Taylor Swift, let's get something straight: She's in her 20's. She's a big girl now, she can take it. Plus, bitch can't sing worth a lick yet she's a bajillionaire. She wipes her tears with hundred dollar bills, she'll be ok.
This leads me to the topic at hand, though.
Does being a virgin cause problems in a relationship with a non-virgin?
Or, to put it in Carrie Bradshaw terms:
I couldn't help but wonder...why the rest of us gals are stuck being the bottom, is it really the virgins that come out on top?
Do I respect a person's right to withhold sex for whatever reason, whether it be religion, personal beliefs, or they just haven't found the right person yet?
Absolutely.
Do I think sex is an integral part of a relationship and coming of age and having a good old fucking time?
Absolutely. Plus one.
I do think it's unfortunate though that some relationships don't last, or even get started for that matter, because one of the people doesn't want to have sex. And let's face it, usually it's the girl that's holding out, so for sake of the annoyance of gender neutrality, let's just pretend in this article that the girl is always the one not down for the rodeo.
I myself have had experiences where once the guy realized I didn't want to have sex, they completely dismissed me, acted like something "suddenly came up", or just pretended that I didn't exist anymore.
Which, quite frankly, is fine because, well, fuck those guys. Like, figuratively. You know.
Regardless, these were times when it's not even like I was still a virgin, I just didn't feel like taking my pants off. Call me crazy, but I don't have the urge to bone every guy I meet. Having terrible sex and faking an orgasm with someone I've only met a couple of times does not make me feel special.
Although, most of the times it's just because I didn't shave my legs that morning.
Anyway, people need to realize that any day, at any given moment, they could ::gasp:: fall in love with a virgin. And this is not a bad thing. In fact, it's an amazing thing. Think about it:
When you finally get to deflower her, even if you have to suck it up and wait till your wedding night, you get to mold her sexual technique. She's had no experience, she doesn't know what she's doing, and she's looking to you for answers. You can make your preferences her preferences.
You are the fuckin Prime Minister of her vagina.
Just, you know, keep in mind that she is a person and not a blow up doll, and she will end up liking things that you don't, and all that blah blah whatever.
Oh, and if a guy ever does blow you off just because you're not experienced, it just means that he's so bad in bed that he can't handle the thought of having to be in charge. Poor boy :)
I'm sorry, but I guarantee you that's part of the problem. She either dates these horny little 18 year olds or these men in their 30's who think that they can handle a sexless relationship because they're "mature", but after a couple of months they realize that if they don't get it in soon their balls are going to fall off.
Enter breakup, enter terrible break up song.
You know that girl's had more wang in her mouth than most of us combined though, right?
And before you start getting all bent out of shape about me being so vulgar about Taylor Swift, let's get something straight: She's in her 20's. She's a big girl now, she can take it. Plus, bitch can't sing worth a lick yet she's a bajillionaire. She wipes her tears with hundred dollar bills, she'll be ok.
This leads me to the topic at hand, though.
Does being a virgin cause problems in a relationship with a non-virgin?
Or, to put it in Carrie Bradshaw terms:
I couldn't help but wonder...why the rest of us gals are stuck being the bottom, is it really the virgins that come out on top?
Do I respect a person's right to withhold sex for whatever reason, whether it be religion, personal beliefs, or they just haven't found the right person yet?
Absolutely.
Do I think sex is an integral part of a relationship and coming of age and having a good old fucking time?
Absolutely. Plus one.
I do think it's unfortunate though that some relationships don't last, or even get started for that matter, because one of the people doesn't want to have sex. And let's face it, usually it's the girl that's holding out, so for sake of the annoyance of gender neutrality, let's just pretend in this article that the girl is always the one not down for the rodeo.
I myself have had experiences where once the guy realized I didn't want to have sex, they completely dismissed me, acted like something "suddenly came up", or just pretended that I didn't exist anymore.
Which, quite frankly, is fine because, well, fuck those guys. Like, figuratively. You know.
Regardless, these were times when it's not even like I was still a virgin, I just didn't feel like taking my pants off. Call me crazy, but I don't have the urge to bone every guy I meet. Having terrible sex and faking an orgasm with someone I've only met a couple of times does not make me feel special.
Although, most of the times it's just because I didn't shave my legs that morning.
Anyway, people need to realize that any day, at any given moment, they could ::gasp:: fall in love with a virgin. And this is not a bad thing. In fact, it's an amazing thing. Think about it:
When you finally get to deflower her, even if you have to suck it up and wait till your wedding night, you get to mold her sexual technique. She's had no experience, she doesn't know what she's doing, and she's looking to you for answers. You can make your preferences her preferences.
You are the fuckin Prime Minister of her vagina.
Just, you know, keep in mind that she is a person and not a blow up doll, and she will end up liking things that you don't, and all that blah blah whatever.
Oh, and if a guy ever does blow you off just because you're not experienced, it just means that he's so bad in bed that he can't handle the thought of having to be in charge. Poor boy :)
Saturday, March 16, 2013
You Don't Know Me, But I Know You. Like, Intimately.
I keep having celebrity sex dreams.
Normally, this wouldn't be a issue. Everyone has sex dreams, whether it's about a famous person or your ex or your best friend or that kid you hated in high school. The thing about my dreams that is becoming a bit problematic is that they are so vivid, so in depth (bada bing?), and happen so often, that I wake up thinking the whole thing actually took place. And then the next time I see that celebrity on TV or online, I have a crazy internal stalker moment where I'm like, 'I actually know you. We had sex'.
But of course, we didn't. It was a dream and I'm insane.
The first sex dream I ever had (like, ever had, about anybody), was with Jackie Chan.
WHY.
Who the fuck has a sex dream about Jackie Chan, except maybe Jackie Chan's wife back when they first started dating and she actually thought she would be ok with being stuck with one dude for the rest of her life?
Regardless, it happened. And it took place on the floor of a van in between the front and back seats. And in the dream, it was awesome.
If you want to delete my number from your phone, I understand.
A few years went by before I had my next Hollywood encounter. This time, it was with Padma Lakshmi, that girl from Top Chef. She had always been one of those people that I hated for no particular reason. So imagine my surprise when I fell asleep one night only to find Padma on top of me, on a table with a white sheet over us, in the middle of a swanky rooftop party.
I'll keep the dirty details to myself, but I will say this:
I hope everyone, at one point in their life, get themselves a piece of Padma.
Then there are the dreams of Louis CK, which I have chronicled in past blog entries. Those I don't mind, as you all know he is my greatest conquest.
Recently though, the past couple of weeks have been filled with night time romps with Bradley Cooper. On one hand, yes please! On the other hand, uuughh, how stereotypical is that?
Last night he dragged me into a closet. It was pitch black and I couldn't see a thing, but I kept running my hands through his hair. Then other stuff happened, you know. The usual.
So this morning I woke up and, I swear to god, my stomach started doing flips because I was so nervous about the fact that I was going to meet up with Bradley again tonight.
Like, for a split second, I actually thought that I was hanging out with him later. In real life.
Then I found my way back into reality and got kind of disappointed. Disappointed because I wasn't actually going to hang out with a celebrity millionaire who has no fucking clue who I am.
If you guys could at least lie and tell me this has happened to you before, that would make me feel a lot better.
Maybe this whole Bradley Cooper thing stems from the fact that he's from Jenkintown and I'm 99% sure Emmett saved him from getting a parking ticket that one time. So if he was ever back in town one day and I actually ran into him at the West Avenue Grill or something, I would have a plethora of weird and potentially creepy stories to tell him. About us. Like, me and Bradley. Together.
This makes me miss the good old days of having dreams where there was some terrible monster coming but I couldn't move my legs to run away. Those were simpler times...
Normally, this wouldn't be a issue. Everyone has sex dreams, whether it's about a famous person or your ex or your best friend or that kid you hated in high school. The thing about my dreams that is becoming a bit problematic is that they are so vivid, so in depth (bada bing?), and happen so often, that I wake up thinking the whole thing actually took place. And then the next time I see that celebrity on TV or online, I have a crazy internal stalker moment where I'm like, 'I actually know you. We had sex'.
But of course, we didn't. It was a dream and I'm insane.
The first sex dream I ever had (like, ever had, about anybody), was with Jackie Chan.
WHY.
Who the fuck has a sex dream about Jackie Chan, except maybe Jackie Chan's wife back when they first started dating and she actually thought she would be ok with being stuck with one dude for the rest of her life?
Regardless, it happened. And it took place on the floor of a van in between the front and back seats. And in the dream, it was awesome.
If you want to delete my number from your phone, I understand.
A few years went by before I had my next Hollywood encounter. This time, it was with Padma Lakshmi, that girl from Top Chef. She had always been one of those people that I hated for no particular reason. So imagine my surprise when I fell asleep one night only to find Padma on top of me, on a table with a white sheet over us, in the middle of a swanky rooftop party.
I'll keep the dirty details to myself, but I will say this:
I hope everyone, at one point in their life, get themselves a piece of Padma.
Then there are the dreams of Louis CK, which I have chronicled in past blog entries. Those I don't mind, as you all know he is my greatest conquest.
Recently though, the past couple of weeks have been filled with night time romps with Bradley Cooper. On one hand, yes please! On the other hand, uuughh, how stereotypical is that?
Last night he dragged me into a closet. It was pitch black and I couldn't see a thing, but I kept running my hands through his hair. Then other stuff happened, you know. The usual.
So this morning I woke up and, I swear to god, my stomach started doing flips because I was so nervous about the fact that I was going to meet up with Bradley again tonight.
Like, for a split second, I actually thought that I was hanging out with him later. In real life.
Then I found my way back into reality and got kind of disappointed. Disappointed because I wasn't actually going to hang out with a celebrity millionaire who has no fucking clue who I am.
If you guys could at least lie and tell me this has happened to you before, that would make me feel a lot better.
Maybe this whole Bradley Cooper thing stems from the fact that he's from Jenkintown and I'm 99% sure Emmett saved him from getting a parking ticket that one time. So if he was ever back in town one day and I actually ran into him at the West Avenue Grill or something, I would have a plethora of weird and potentially creepy stories to tell him. About us. Like, me and Bradley. Together.
This makes me miss the good old days of having dreams where there was some terrible monster coming but I couldn't move my legs to run away. Those were simpler times...
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