There are stories we tell and stories we don't tell. Here are some of those.
My earliest memory is probably of when I was around two years old, I was unabashedly chasing a cockroach down our pumpkin-orange linoleum kitchen floor. I must have been barefoot, wearing only a diaper and ecstatically giggling while doing so. Then, out of nowhere, the cockroach decided to stop, turn towards me and dart my way. My laughter turned into a scream of panic. I started running away from the cockroach, crying hysterically and afraid for my life.
Read MoreSo…you guys are just rippin’-’n’-dippin,’ right? It’s getting hot and heavy, and you finally are able to let go and allow yourself to be in the moment and feeeeeel the magnitude of pleasure and passion all wrapped up in a thrust or a gentle nipple twist. The desire between you two is all-consuming. His breath is heavy as he grabs your hips and pulls you in. You can’t help but let out a moan. A squeal. A scream. You don’t care. Nothing matters in this point in time. You’ve surrendered all considerations of your body, anything that jiggles. Every concern about your life is put on hold and fuck that to-do list anyway. The only thing that matters is the two of you giving freely to one another. No boundaries. No barriers. It’s that fucking primal bliss that just feels so right and irrefutable. As he fervidly climaxes, you feel like a goddamn sex goddess. You both take a moment to just exist in that shared mutual euphoria. You now need to lovingly and gracefully undue your sweaty body after that heated sexual experience that’s almost impossible to put words to since all words fail to describe this type of exhilaration. Then it happens. The always unforeseen, ever explosive…queef.
Read MoreOh yeah. 2018 is when this prune blooms into a plum…which I know doesn’t make any sense but neither does any of this. Because that’s basically what we’re doing here on Earth. We’re relearning everything we’ve ever been taught. To return to ourselves before we got fucked over and enveloped in heartache and debt. Before all the twisted ways our parents and society has taught us to see ourselves and others. Before the tweezing and coloring the grey away. Let’s not let anyone know that we’re aging. Either that means we’re one day closer to death or another day that we luckily get to live on this beautiful planet. But we’re pessimistic and narcissistic, so let’s take the fat from our ass and inject it into our face because that’s the logical thing to do. But I digress…
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I don’t feel like doing shiiiiiiiiiit. I guess that’s the real holiday spirit. I’m expecting blood to gush out of my vag any minute. Well, more like a sporadic drip. I’m not ready for the holidays, yet I’m fine with just throwing up my hands and calling it a year. The days are short. Nights are long. And I want to exist somewhere in between.
Read MoreI want to write about this new trend of murder shows because it seems murder is annoyingly the hot topic nowadays. Perhaps it all started with the Serial podcast that everyone obsessed over followed by Making a Murderer. Now Netflix is nothing but documentaries on serial killers and real unsolved crimes. There’s an actual podcast called My Favorite Murder that’s trending. Ewww. A murder obsessed epidemic is going on. And it’s pissing me off.
Read MoreI’d rather have sex with a guy I barely know or even a guy who I know, but I can’t stand, than to masturbate. Sitting on some annoying guy’s face is easy, but being alone with my body and exploring me? Now that’s hard.
Read MoreWhat do you do when your family sucks? And not just like... “Oh, I don’t like my parents politics.” But more... “Oh, wait a second, my parent is a sociopath and did some serious damage to me growing up, and I’m kinda fucked up over it and have to work on healing myself till the day I die.” Like…that kind of sucking? Yeah, what do you do then?
Read MoreRaymond was a 34-year-old man, separated from his wife and daughter. He had bug-eyes, a large beer belly, and used copious amounts of gel to pretend that his blond hair wasn’t thinning. He wasn’t handsome, by any means, but was quite likable and energetic. He often talked like Chris Tucker and wanted to be part of the black culture so badly that he nicknamed himself “Redbean.” He had a corporate day job that he hated where no one would even think to call him “Redbean.” Once a week, he hosted a popular stand-up comedy open mic near the French Quarter in New Orleans where people only knew him as “Redbean.” Oh, and I should also mention that he was my boyfriend… when I was a senior in high school.
Read MoreI want everything to be perfect. This blog, my bikini line, my… life. But it’s not and it never will be.
Read MoreDear 5th grade assholes,
There are a few of you, so I’m not sure who to address this to and I’m not even sure that you remember me or even think of me at all. I struggle with that, knowing that I don’t even matter to you while your behavior mattered so much to me.
Read MoreThe stand-up comedy scene is a dark world filled with miserable human beings that hate themselves. So naturally I’m drawn to it like a lost cub who just found her herd. Except, the herd are a bunch of dicks who want nothing to do with the cub other than fuck it. Let’s get out of this cub metaphor, because having sex with a baby cub is quite disturbing.
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I’m pretty laid back… and possibly lazy. Sometimes I blame my laziness on being from the South. There’s something about the humidity and the deep roots of racism that weigh on people there. I’ve also had a dead-beat dad that wasn’t a good role model. I’ve never had a mother so there wasn’t anyone to tell me to do chores. I could go and on, but in honor of this blog, I won’t.
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A thing or two about me is that, I love anything with tomatoes and…I grew up without a mother. Even though I know you’re really intrigued about my love for tomatoes. (All tomatoes? Like in everything? Tomatoes as a topping on a pizza? But it already has marina which is tomato based. What about ketchup? Do you count that? It’s mainly just sugar). But this piece isn’t about tomatoes. (And yes, I group ketchup in as my love for tomatoes obviously). < Sigh > It’s about the latter.
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First of all, can we change the word “blog?” There’s something humiliating about that word. I’m embarrassed to admit I have a blog. I confess to people about this like I have an STD. Not that there is anything wrong with having an STD. I read that Jennifer Garner has herpes. Anyway, this blog isn’t about herpes or Jennifer Garner unless Jennifer Garner gives me herpes. Then yeah, of course, I will be dedicating my blog to that. But that hasn’t happened…yet.
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