Hamburger Fuckin’ Helper

The last thirty minutes of my life says more about me than I care to admit. Often people ask me to tell them about myself and I find that to be a complexing statement. Whenever I am asked, I fail to conjure up any sort of redeeming thing to say and once came back with, ‘I really like jeans.’

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Fortunately I said that to a boy who didn’t truly care about much other than my vagina so he ignored it and we moved on. Next time someone asks, I’ll consider telling them this story:

I came home from work rather hungry as teaching twelve year olds is more intensive than I could have ever imagined. I looked into the cupboard at my boyfriend’s house at the shambles of food I had gathered from my mothers. Teachers get paid at the end of the month, which means I am rollin’ in the dough of about five dollars. I saw pasta, and beef fried rice. I recalled that I had ground turkey in the freezer and thought I could make things work.

Everything I make tastes like shit. Seriously, unless its a PB&J or grilled cheese. It’s not even that I try to cook and suck, it’s that I honestly couldn’t give two fucks about cooking. I have head giving skills that top any chef (woah, big claim, not sure how I feel about it) so I’m not too worried. I wasn’t working with great materials to begin with. The beef fried rice box was Hamburger Helper. I know that even as a child I never really enjoyed anything that came out of one of those boxes, but I continue to eat from them on principle. When I was a kid my brand new step-father said, “No more of this ‘poor’ food from now on” to my mother and I was offended. Of course he couldn’t make anything, but he had no problem suggesting my Ma make something better.

I was annoyed that our ‘poor’ had offended him. He wasn’t exactly well off and he has been the sole reason that my Ma has never left the status of ‘poor’ ever since. With his minimum wage jobs, we ended up actually getting that box of beef fried rice from the food bank. For a time it was the only place we could get food, and I’ll tell you right now, 80% of what you get is expired. I also didn’t look at the date on the box and still won’t go look.

Oh my fucking god. Just now I was google searching images for Hamburger Helper trying to find something good, but really they’re lame. However, the single most embarrassing moment of my life happened. I got it: Hamburger Helper is shit you can throw in with hamburger to help it not just be a giant pile of meat. I’m disappointed even more than I thought possible in myself. 

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The ground turkey was frozen and probably had been for about 6-12 months. I bought it on one of my health kicks before I got real with myself and went back to pizza. I googled around and it said it would only taste best within four months, but it was my only resource so I said ‘fuck it’ to caution and taste right out of the gate. I decided to microwave it a bit being impatient and then head to the stove top.

About 25 minutes later I had done what I needed and mixed everything together. I took a few bites and hated it. It tasted like the one dollar cans of beef & vegetable soup at Wal-mart. Seriously it was awful and lifeless. Forcing myself to not waste food, I ate a few bites more before I threw it all out. Every last bit.

In the next five minutes I produced heavy sweats and felt like fainting and then immediately threw up. This is the main reason I refuse to go look at either of the sale dates because part of me just knows better. There’s a reason they created Domino’s and that reason is me.

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Five Tips To Attain The Unattainable

On Monday something strange and amazing happened to me. After sex I lay lifeless in bed, catching my breath, when I felt something wet on my cheek. No, surprisingly it was semen, it was salt water. I was crying tears of joy from my orgasms. Yeah, tears of fucking joy.

I couldn’t even form a thought, which is quite impressive considering I spend my every waking moment Nicholas Cage-ing my life. You know how Nick is always doing the voice over for all his movies? Well I’m basically doing a constant voice over of my life in the moment, every moment. However, after sex I could only form two thoughts, ‘Oh my fucking god’ and ‘Oh my fucking god’. I was envisioning myself walking through the emptiness within my own brain, like the forever encompassing whiteness in movies, and it was glorious.

Today I’m celebrating a year with my boyfriend. I know, it’s hard to believe right? I myself am a little perplexed on how I went from never managing a sleepover to successfully maintaining something so wonderful for so long. I’m rather lucky, and I think it goes without saying that he is too. I mean he’s dating the head giving champion of the world who is also a god of mankind. Seriously though, him and I are in a win-win.

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I’m sorry these are two of my favorite things so wrongly combined. I’m tingling. 

This got me thinking though, how does one attain the unattainable? Settle down with those who won’t? Capture the restless? Get a serial dater to be monogamous? and that is what I’m here to explain. Of course this advice is based on the idea that you’ve already got a girl who likes you and now you want her to stick around. I have no fucking clue how you’re supposed to pull off the ‘getting a girl to like you’ because you may be really ugly, or not funny, or stupid, or willfully ignorant, or a million different things that makes getting a girl to like you really fucking hard. I can’t fix that, but if you make it this far, this is what I’ve got.

Here are five tips to getting a girlfriend, and also how each can backfire if you fuck them up.

1. Eat Pussy. Do it as soon as she lets you, and do it often. If you’re good at it, most girls can’t get enough of it and everyone wants the boyfriend who is going to eat their pussy as if it’s their only source of food. There’s something magical about a tongue on your vagina that cannot be replicated by anything else.

Here’s how it backfires: If you only go down on a girl until you get her to be your girlfriend and then all of a sudden stop doing it she will find someone else who is eager to do so.

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2. Have A Life. Be someone who has passions, commitments, and goals. It’s never attractive to be free all the time as if you’re sitting around waiting to spend time with her and it’s only the second date. You need to do things so you have something to talk about, something to be about.

Here’s how it backfires: Too much of a life and she’ll find someone who can make more time for her. Faking a life and she’ll figure out your so called ‘desire to help the poor people in Africa’ was just a ploy to get down her pants and she’ll meet someone in the Peace Corps.

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3. Get All Up In Her. I mean this both physically and mentally. Yes it’s important to put your dick where she wants you to when she wants you to, but it’s also important to get inside her mind. Who is she? What kind of person is she? What does she value? What are her pet peeves? Goals? Driving factors? A girl likes to feel like her opinions and thoughts are heard and validated.

Here’s how it backfires: Get to know her and then judge her? She’ll find someone else who is less of a douche. Get to know her and then ask to change her? She’ll find someone who is less of a douche. Ask for her opinion and then don’t value it? She’ll find someone who is less of a douche.

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4. Embrace Independence. The reason it’s so hard to tie a girl down sometimes is because being single is the fucking tits. I know a lot of people complain about the cold lonely nights, but I think they’re forgetting the hot sweaty drunken ones. Single symbolizes freedom, and that freedom is key to a lot of people’s happiness. You need to recognize and respect it’s importance. No, I’m not suggesting you let her fuck some strange occasionally, but don’t tell her who to be, or what to do and she’ll respect you.

Here’s how it backfires: Tell her you don’t care what she does (which is very far off from just not telling her what to do) and she’ll assume you don’t care at all and move on. Tell her you think you both should have the freedom to do whatever you want, and she’ll put you into the category of fuck buddy.

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5. Know And Love Yourself. This might be the biggest factor out of all of them. Before you’re going to be able to even begin to express that you have the capacity to love someone else, you’ve got to love yourself. This takes a shit ton of work. You need to know your flaws and work on them. You need to know your strengths and use them. A lot of girls walk away from a good guy because he doesn’t seem sure of who he is, and it’s impossible to fall for someone you can’t get to know.

Here’s how it backfires: Love yourself too much and you’re like a walking orange character from the Jersey Shore. No one likes someone who ‘loves’ himself to the point where he can’t see his own faults. Pretend to love yourself and she’ll run screaming the first time you break down during a Full House episode that just really caught you off guard. No one is ever prepared for that. Ever.

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A God Of Mankind

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I often get haters because people mistake my overly aggressive and honest nature as me being a judgmental bitch. I am not judgmental in the slightest. In fact, I’ve even drank with pregnant women and helped people cheat on their significant others. Sure, you still might hate me and believe those things make me an indecent human being, but at least I’m not judgmental.

Often my purpose as a friend is to allow others to look at me and make comparisons. I’ve always been able to ease the guilt of a friend by assuring them that I’ve done worse things to better people. Guilt is useless and so is attempting to achieve moral perfection. You should tell people you think they are stupid when you feel that way, you should do what makes you happy in the moment and stop trying to please other people, and you should stop wasting your time judging others because it is a complete waste of energy. No matter how much you judge someone, internally or outwardly, they likely don’t give a fuck. Be someone who doesn’t give a fuck, not the twat in the corner throwing a tantrum over an uncontrollable circumstance.

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Life is sincerely too short for that kind of unhappiness. 

 

That all being said, here are some things you don’t know about me. (Feel free to get all hater-y about them).

1. I have never slept with a black man. Not because I didn’t want to, but because the opportunity never arose and I am sad about this.

2. My brother and I once engaged in a contest over who could sleep with more letters in the alphabet (with first names). Though I have nearly tripled the alphabet by number alone sitting at 62, I only have 17 of the 26 letters. This led me to almost sleep with an Xavier I met on a light-rail.

3. My family benefits from social security, food stamps, and unemployment. Without these government aids we would all be homeless.

4. My Dad belongs to Mensa, and also lives in a trailer park.

5. I once lit off firecrackers on a brand new Audi in the dealership lot. I am still unsure why I was not arrested.

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6. I can’t stand the sound it makes when someone eats a Whopper candy. It makes my skin crawl even thinking about it.

7. I often plan out the death of my step father. I mean sit down and try to figure out the best way it could happen without being caught. The best plan I have is to go on a murder spree so that way when he dies, they won’t suspect me, but the rampant killer around town (which is also me hahaha).

8. I have shown up drunk at least once to every job I’ve ever had up until now.

9. When I was a kid, my Dad used to pick us up for the weekend with a beer in the car. I told him drinking and driving is bad and he told me that the law referred to the physical act of drinking while driving. People spill their coffee on their laps, which is dangerous, but drinking a beer at red lights was just kosher. (This explains a lot doesn’t it).

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10. I once had sex with someone just because they looked like Macklemore.

11. I almost got arrested for stealing a bag of M&M’s from Coors Field during a baseball game. I hopped the turn-styles and ran into a bar after throwing the bag away.

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12. I once stole someone’s wallet at a bar, after taking away the tip they left the bartender, and then stole $20 before returning the wallet, and then stole a bottle of Patron.

13. (Most of you might know this) I once had sex with my ex boyfriend’s childhood best friend, at my ex’s parents house, on their pool table, while on vacation there. His best friend also had a girlfriend of seven years at the time, they are now getting married.

14. I spent most of my time in the last election going around and stealing Romney stickers off of peoples cars and other belongings. We made a collage in our home with lots of dicks drawn on the stickers.

15. I learned how to change a tire with a bald stripper and a state patrol officer while piss drunk at one in the morning, because I am a god of mankind.

 

I Visited The Worst Strip Club In America

I was recently told that Maxim Magazine had once rated Al’s Green Door the worst strip club in America. After reading about the pregnant and amputee strippers online, I decided to make the 90-minute trip from Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming to see it myself.

When we arrived it was about 10:30pm. There was a large biker gang parked out back smoking cigarettes. We went around the front entrance to take photos of the building when we were asked by one of the biker men if we had reached a tourist destination. Al’s Green Door is in fact one of the only strip clubs in Cheyenne, Wyoming so I suspect that the people who frequent it aren’t aware of its title.

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Me, twerking in front of the place.

In order to enter the club you have to walk through a drive-thru liquor store. The man running the liquor store told us that we could go right in and didn’t ask for any cover fee. Upon entering the bartender asked us for our IDs. She was an older lady with long graying hair who was kinder than one would expect. I ordered a gin and tonic and my friend asked for an IPA. I was quite surprised when the bartender managed to find my friend a Fat Tire and did it without complaint. For four dollars my drink was strong and made with Tanqueray and I was happy.

The place was large for a dive bar, but tiny for a strip club. There is a long skinny bar that extended the length of the room and directly opposite of it is the dancer’s stage. Along the walls are couches and plenty of plastic chairs. There is another room off in the distance that was empty except for a pool table and the women’s restroom. Every seat at the bar was taken and most of them seemed completely uninterested in the strippers. In fact, if you weren’t paying close attention it was possible to glance into Al’s and miss the stage entirely.

The stage is nearly ground level so the heels put the stripper’s boobs right at eye level when standing. The stage is maybe 5×5 feet and is placed in a corner that has mirrors on both sides. There is no stripper pole, but instead a pull-up type bar that hangs from the ceiling. The girls are each responsible for using their own money in the jukebox to play the songs they want. Each girl is allowed to dance for four songs and must be topless by the last song.

The first girl on stage was pretty enough. She had an attractive body except for a belly that stuck out and a rather small ass. Her face was nothing special and she also wore no makeup and had on basic brown-rimmed glasses. Her hair was long and still wet from the shower, but appeared to be somewhat curly and highlighted blonde.

An ugly overweight woman from the bar got up and went to the stripper with money in her mouth. The stripper took the money out of her mouth with a brush of a kiss and then stuffed her face in the woman’s boobs. The two of them laughed and it became apparent that the lady was quite the regular and nearly the ‘mom’ of all the strippers.

The second stripper was wearing what I can only describe as a 90’s swimsuit with a hood. She looked older than the other girl, but not by too much. Her face was charming and that of a cute punk girl with lip rings. Her body was tiny and frail looking; she probably only weighed 95lbs. The skin on her stomach up close showed obvious signs of having children and when she removed her top her boobs hung well below where one would expect. She also had both her nipples pierced.

My friend and I grabbed another drink and I asked the bartender if Al still owned the place. Apparently, Al had sold the place 40 years ago to the man who is the current owner who celebrated his 40 years this past April.

A group of boys who were celebrating a birthday came to join us at our table. The birthday boy was carrying a stack of at least 50 ones and said he was prepared to have a good time. We asked their opinion on the strippers and the general consensus was that the younger one was their favorite. She had been there every time they visited Al’s. The birthday boy told us about the girl who used to work there who only had one leg, and I told them I had heard about a girl with one arm. Unfortunately, it was confirmed that neither of them work there anymore and I was disappointed.

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Selife in the stage’s black-light

We sat down at a round table directly in front of the stage. We were the only women who took a table near the stage. Soon after we sat down, a group of late 30-somethings entered the bar wearing fedoras and screamed along to Ludacris songs. There was one woman in their group who tried to get on stage and was yelled at several times for playing songs on the jukebox. One guy in their group paid $20 for a lap dance. There is no designated place for lap dances so the strippers just pull a chair up on the stage. The younger stripper grinded on him for an entire song and at one point thrust him violently into a mirror on the wall and removed his shirt.

I was impressed with each of their stripping abilities. I have been to many strip clubs and found their skills to be on par. Both girls would grab onto the pull-up bar and swing their feet out over the crowd and clap their heels together to get attention. I watched both of the girls lift into the air, spread their legs into the splits, and do pull-ups. I was envious of their strength and control and threw dollars towards them.

I had the pleasure of talking with Kayla, the older woman with the saggy boobs. She taught a group of men how to make money darts. She was able to twist dollar bills into the shape of a flat dart to throw. Kayla then grabbed her purse, covered the end of the dart in lipstick and let the men throw it at her ass. On the second throw the dollar stuck and a few people cheered.

I gave Kayla two dollars to put her saggy boobs in my face even though the going rate is just a single dollar. I felt bad that I was wearing dark purple lipstick and didn’t want it to end up on her tits. This was when she told me that she often gets an imprint of eyebrows on her boobs and loves it. At some point she kept readjusting her thongs and explained to my friend and I that her tampon was bothering her and apologized if we happened to witness it.

Kayla liked to strip to death metal which caused her to make less money than the other girl who stripped to pop hits, but Kayla didn’t seem to care. When no one was paying attention to her she would jokingly head bang and grab her crotch while throwing up the ‘rock on’ symbol. After her songs she let me take a photo of her shoes. The stiletto part of her enormous heels was the barrel of a gun.

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I decided to scope out what the bathroom situation was like to compare it to reviews I had read claiming it was worse than the dumpsters outside. The sink was covered in cigarette ashes and each stall door had a poster with resources for ‘family planning’ as a result of unprotected sex. The place however is definitely cleaner than most bathrooms in New York City and I even took a piss. I made my friend bum a cigarette so that she could smoke it in the bathroom. It seemed like a right of passage for Al’s Green Door that I wanted to experience.

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We left after smoking in the restroom and both the girls waved us goodbye and thanked us for coming in. I thoroughly enjoyed my time there and if it was located closer, I could imagine myself hanging out there often. The people were nice, the strippers were talented enough, and the drinks were cheap and strong. I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for in a strip club, but if you just want to get boobs in your face for cheap, I’d recommend Al’s Green Door to anyone.

BETTER TO BE UNINTERESTED THAN TO BE TAKEN

I went on a date accidentally. I know that some people struggle to get dates and it probably seems unfair that I’m upset that I stumbled into one, but that’s exactly what happened. I’m not positive when a girl is supposed to tell a man she’s got a boyfriend. My boyfriend would tell you that the correct answer to that question is probably immediately, but I find that hard to believe. The idea of immediately paints a picture in my mind of a man asking if I need help finding anything in Home Depot and I’m just screaming ‘I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!’.

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It comes off as presumptuous and self-righteous. I’m not a believer of the fact that any man who talks to me, more than just a hello or job pleasantries, wants to sleep with me. My boyfriend says this makes me naive.

One of my coworkers gave me his number after asking if I wanted to grab a drink after work one day. I have been working there for two months and he’s probably the only person who has been nice enough to consider hanging out with me outside of work because the restaurant industry is full of catty bitches.

being a bitch

 

He hadn’t said more than a few words to me before the drink request and I thought I could at least text him and get to know him. Two days after he gave me his number we both had the day off and he asked if I wanted to hang out. I’m a fuck-wad when it comes to making plans and unless you call me and force me to come, I’ll usually avoid it. I’m truly an extrovert, but most the time I’m skeptical if the effort will be worth it to go hang out with someone I’m not crazy about. Luckily, my co-worker insisted to the point where I felt obligated to go hang out with him.

When I arrived he and his roommate were just casually sitting on the porch watching the rain, smoking a joint. I joined in and listened to their conversation. My co-worker had just moved into this house and I was witnessing a conversation between two people who also didn’t know each other. I figured it was as if his roommate was doing all the grunt work for me and I appreciated that. His roommate was this mohawked lesbian who didn’t shave her legs; she was refreshingly unique to me. With her help, I learned that my co-worker was studying to be a chef, had been in the military in Guam, seriously I’m not making my casual distance jokes, and was 28.

I couldn’t tell if he was trying immensely to impress me, or wasn’t fully capable of holding a conversation. He was constantly changing the topic either to show me he had broad varieties of intereset, or because he knew very little about each subject. I thought he was strange that way. I was getting ready to leave when he suggested we go get food. I would have bailed except that he wanted to go to this restaurant I’d been trying to go to forever to try their hot wings. I decided that as long as I paid for my food it wouldn’t be a date by definition.

hot wings

He ended up buying my food. I tried to fight it but he insisted and because I’m poor and need to save all my money for the strip club, I caved. Over lunch I learned I could never date a chef. I like my basic pallet. I like that I think good pizza is the extra cheesy greasy kind. I like that a good burger just tastes good. I’m like the Adam Richman Man vs. Food of food; I can’t describe to you the mahogany flavors of a sauce, but I can tell you that it’s awesome. I can also eat way too much of anything. The chef was mad that they had balled his hamburger meat before cooking it, how one would know that? I’m not entirely sure.

manvs food

Afterwards we got ice cream which I paid for to make things even. We talked about other good food and how to make liquor ice cream. He was spazzy and reminded me of a high school boyfriend who was a compulsive liar. He told me we could make carrot cake together one day and somehow referenced a future of him teaching me about food. I wanted him to know for certain I had a boyfriend at this point, but there was no place to interject without coming off like a bitch. It was at the point where I had waited too long as if I was hiding it until I decided whether or not I liked him when in actuality I was just hoping I would never have to mention it because he was uninterested.

He was interested. I hugged him goodbye and he said he’d text me later. However, after enduring our time spent together, I still don’t have to say I have a boyfriend, I can just simply say I’m uninterested.

no thank you

FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE

This past weekend I went to New Albany, Indiana. It is an extremely small town on the other side of the Ohio River from Louisville. I’m not sure that it has much charm, but it does have an enormous amount of Rally’s which is a burger joint that should be closed down in every location. In some sense it’s like every other fast food burger place, but it’s definitely the Totino’s Pizza of them all. I didn’t see a single one of their buildings that looked like it had running water inside. That’s the kind of town New Albany is.

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Doesn’t it look like they might serve gas?

I went to this small town because my boyfriend was taking part in a Superman themed wedding. I think some of you read that and it sounded cool in your mind, but we were quite certain we’d be witnessing a massacre. The couples engagement photos had the bride leaning over the groom, opening his buttoned up shirt to reveal his Superman shirt underneath. I think the part that bothered me the most was that instead of a white shirt, it was purple and blue stripes. Luckily for the groom and his obsession with Superman, his last name is Smith. Therefore all the invitations had ‘THE SMITHS’ with Superman logos imbedded.

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Truthfully I wasn’t originally invited. I have never been formally invited to a single wedding for what I believe to be good reason most of the time. My boyfriend was asked to be a groomsman despite the fact that he wouldn’t have even invited the groom to his own wedding, they sent him an invitation reserving one seat. One. We had to personally ask if I could attend and on the rehearsal dinner invitation, they neatly wrote in my name next to his. After I saw the engagement photos, I thought I couldn’t miss out on this opportunity for anything. If there was an event I was destined to arrive at and live-tweet, this was going to be it.

At the rehearsal dinner, I was introduced to roughly 100 new people and was fortunate enough to end up at the table with the bride and groom. I learned that she wanted a brightly colored wedding and suggested the Superman theme. He reportedly gave her three chances to say no and then proposed. I see what she did there. They were proud to be the first ever couple to have an all DC Comics themed wedding because all the others mixed DC and Marvel and apparently you can’t do that. I was told if I wanted to have some real fun, I could ask the groom if Batman was a real superhero or not. This was serious.

When I dropped my boyfriend off to take the photos for the wedding, I considered staying to watch them all unbutton their shirts to reveal their superhero identities, but decided I preferred to pre-game the wedding. After hearing about the promises of copious amounts of alcohol before the ceremony, I thought I would have to show up drunk to be even with my boyfriend when we finally got to be together again.

I regretfully chose to not drink before the wedding when I recalled that I had brought ankle-snapping high heels. I had seen enough episodes of ‘Four Weddings’ on TLC though to know that the cocktail hour after the ceremony would provide me with free booze and I thought I would catch up then.

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Ignore my hideous smile here and admire my shoes.

The ceremony was about to begin and luckily I had grabbed a seat in a back corner in the back row. Since I had never attended a wedding, I didn’t know really what to expect and because I half expected her to come out in a Superman cape, I wanted to be able to hide my laughter. The music selection was quite beautiful and her dress was stunning. The groom was in red, the bridal party in blue, and she had a red ribbon up her corset in the back. The theme was toned down to the potential of mistaking it as a primary colors themed wedding and it was visually appealing. The groom waited until the bride walked down the aisle to lay eyes on her for the first time and his tears brought out tears in most of the crowd.

It was all quite pleasant except for when the bride agreed to be a servant to her groom under the name of god and then the minister referred to the groom as ‘you people’ and I lost control of my laughter because the groom happens to be black. I was seated next to an older gentlemen and had to pretend I was sneezing multiple times. The wedded couple jumped the broom for the African tradition and then they played ‘Forever’ by Chris Brown on their way out of the ceremony. I think that was my favorite part mostly because it reminded me of Jim and Pam’s wedding from ‘The Office’.

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If you didn’t cry during this you’re not human. 

During cocktail hour I grabbed wine and started taking bets for how many glasses I could drink before I fell down in my heels. I assume that is one of the reasons I do not get invited to weddings. I began live tweeting about the placement of bets and the bacon wrapped sausages at the cocktail hour and then was misfortunate enough to meet the ‘girls who wear pink to weddings’ group.

When we returned upstairs I refused to sit at my correct table because it was with the bridal party who was absent and so I followed my only friends upstairs. I got the table to start playing ‘Four Weddings’ and there was much debate over whether the crayons and connect-the-dots coloring sheet added or subtracted from the category of ‘overall experience’. I obnoxiously was the only person standing when they announced the bridal party because I had yet to move to my actual seat. With each couple they played theme music specific to the superhero and mid-walk each ripped open their shirt to reveal their secret identities. A guest claimed they kept the Justice League theme classy, but I couldn’t get over the cheesy factor.

Over the course of the reception I live-tweeted my wine glass count, booty danced alongside the groom, chugged a beer with some old folks, asked the wedding photographer to take my photo, and accidentally drank all my wine and had to do the toasts following each speech empty handed. Everything felt like such a production. The bride had two maid-of-honors who both gave boring toasts and the best man’s was equally as disappointing.

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I had always thought I would never want to get married, but that I wanted to have a wedding, but I started to change my mind. The bride and groom consistently looked happy and enthusiastic, but as I watched them I didn’t see how they had a moment to breathe and take it all in. They were either thanking the guests, cutting the cake, listening to speeches, participating in specific dances, throwing the bouquet, talking about logistics of the after party, or the hotel, or the gifts, it was non-stop-madness. I don’t think I could do it.

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See they look really happy.

I lasted in my heels the entire time without a single fall. I even managed to get through all the hops of the ‘four hops this time’ without the slightest spill. I tweeted about this and then we headed to the after party where I somehow managed to freely partake in every shot with the bridal party and convinced the band to give me the microphone to sing ‘Billionaire’ by Travey McCoy.

I expected the wedding to be a disaster. I thought it would look hideous, I thought it wouldn’t feel genuine, I thought it would be a cheese-fest, but it wasn’t. Overall it was quite lovely and most importantly they looked happy and I realized that maybe that was all the mattered. Those of us getting blacked out drunk including the groom eventually are what changed the ‘classiness’ of the wedding, for better or for worse, I honestly can’t say.

WONDER WOMAN MEETS SUPERMAN THREESOME

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A Three-Dick-Foursome

I might be hanging out in the minority when I say that a three-dick-foursome is probably the least logistical kind of foursome. Unless of course the men are bi-sexual, then it seems things would be less demanding for my vagina, but alas that is never the case.

I’ll never forget that fateful night from what began as casual sex between two friends turned into a foursome I knew I wasn’t drunk enough to ever use my inebriation as an excuse. Of course, I didn’t think I’d need an excuse other than, ‘I do what I want!’ but it turns out that the expression on people’s faces when they hear the story suggests I need a better one.

Now I’ve seen plenty of porn, I get how this is supposed to go. It’s basically a gang bang. Speaking of gang bangs, did you know, 9 out of every 10 people enjoy a gang bang?

catgangbang

 

Or in this case, three out of every four cats. 

I have never experience double penetration, probably because I’ve never met two men who wanted to fuck me so badly they’d let their dicks rub one another. Sure, they’ve all stood naked around each other fondling their dicks, but I think the rubbing requires something special. If you’re not willing to get all three holes stuffed at once, then what you end up with during a three-dick-foursome, is an extra dick. I guess technically at once I had a dick in each hand and the other guy was eating me out, but his dick was still lonely.

lonely dick

If only men could do this too.

During my experience everyone took rotations being the odd man out, which I thought was sweet of them. At one point I was being fucked from behind while giving head and the third person was just standing on the edge of the bed going, ‘Hey isn’t that like the best head ever?’ only to get the response of ‘Yeah, I could probably fucking enjoy it if you weren’t talking to me’. Yeah, it was uncomfortable to say the least.

I’m not sure what it is about me that makes men want to dump their semen inside me immediately after someone else just did, but I think that’s a compliment.

flattered

I recently was discussing the logistics of a three-dick-foursome at Red Robin while getting hammered at noon and the family next to us asked to move tables. That’s power. I also was repeating that story to my tattoo artist when an 80-year-old man came over and told me he’d also like to hear how the logistics work. It’s a fascinating topic so I’m not really sure why the family moved seats in the first place. It’s Red Fucking Robin, if you’re not going to there to get drunk at noon, what are you doing with your life?

Now, while that foursome has given way to many wonderful conversations with individuals who probably will never look at me the same, I don’t know if I’ll ever have another. I’m actually writing to inform all of you about the changes taking place in my life, and ask for your opinions on the future of our friendship. (Friendship? I thought the Shit Show hated everyone. Yes, kind of, but I still love you all deeply and sexually).

I will soon be teaching middle schoolers full-time. In about two weeks I’ll start working nearly 50 hours a week in a corporate-ish environment and while I will love it, it will also make me want to rip my eyes out and go to bed at 7pm on occasion. I also will actually be celebrating a year with my boyfran next month and that’s never happened. It shouldn’t come as a giant shock that I’ve never really maintained my relationships. I’m usually much more interested in blowing drugs during foursomes in Vegas than cuddling up with someone to a Netflix series.

Therefore here’s the deal: The Shit Show That Is My Life might be turning into a Was. Now don’t panic. I still do crazy ridiculous things, and will always try to get drunk at Red Robin at noon when I can. In the last year despite being committed I’ve still managed to sell pictures of my feet for money and imitate the life of a homeless person. The Ke$ha in me will never go away. If you follow me on twitter you’ll know I started taking bets at a wedding on Saturday to see how many glasses of wine I could drink before I fell over in my heels.

drunk in heels

 

That Shit Show will never stop.

As far as I can tell though, I might never again do cocaine with a D-list celebrity, or have sex with strangers in parking lots or outside of movie theaters. None of this will happen mostly because I stupidly fell in love, but also because I’ll only have the weekends to get involved in trips to the worst strip club in America (which is really close to me and I’m going, because I hear half of them are amputees or pregnant).

We are at a crossroads my sexual friends, I can either continue to write, and promise to never write about my boring relationship or adorable cat, or stupid ass students unless one like pulls a knife on me. Or, I can stop this blog as you see it being the end of an era, and maybe start another? Or maybe hand you my book so that you can treasure me in paperback form for life. Just kidding, you’ll definitely all get a copy of the book because it comes with genital love pats remember?

Also, Red Robin has not responded to my requests to host a book tour. I might just travel to them anyways and invite people because yes. You can search your nearest location here.

red robin

Red Robin: Where the Classy folk drink. 

 

P.S. For those of you interested in my life and writing, I’ve been given an Ello.co  account which is in Beta right now and mostly for artists and I’ll be writing there indefinitely.

 

Bacon Cheese Pizza

Today my Ma told me that two girls took their friend into the woods and on the count of three stabbed her to death. My response? Why did they count to three?

Things have been a bit all over the fucking place lately and I have some stories to tell, but every time I sit down and write here I realize I could be finishing my book WHICH IS RATHER CLOSE (okay that’s a bit of a lie, but the first draft is nearly finished). Although maybe I should be getting drunk instead of writing a book as I hear from a friend it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.

Anyways, as I’ve been lurking in the shadows of your blogs as you know, today I saw this quiz that’s modeled after the Cosmopolitan quiz. I have to admit that I do get that magazine every month because on Christmas I bought myself a year subscription for $5 and I think it’s the worst magazine on the planet. I don’t think a single one of them has ever touched a penis and they manage to re-word the same 50 sex tips every month to make them seem different. That impresses me. I know you miss me, and I miss you too, so here’s this really stupid quiz so that we can all become close again.

Love to all your vaginas and dicks alike. xx

The Blogmopolitan Quiz 2.jpg