Dear madam,

Every time I look into your eyes I can’t help but think, “My god, those are gorgeous. Like the golden brown of a perfectly baked pound cake.” And while it’s safe to say that I notice the imperfections – one eye just a shade larger than the other, the scar over your left brow, the occasional dark circles – they don’t make me love you any less. In fact, sometimes when you look less than your best, I think of you as a tragic figure in a novel, that’s been hurt and is in need of tender love and care.

A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.

Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.

I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.

I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).

I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.

I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.

Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.

In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.

But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.

My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.

Always love,

Yourself

Blog-ish news and a new meme

It’s been more serious than usual around here lately, hasn’t it?

I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)

Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.

Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.

I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.

******

It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.

I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)

Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:

Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.

I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.

Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:

He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.

Now, vast arrays of women love Johnny Depp. He’s one of the most heralded hotties to grace the big screen. But in all honesty, even though I’ve always thought he was good looking, I never really gave two shits until he played the role of the devilish Jack Sparrow.

I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.

Savvy?

Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:

I love Vince Vaughn in pretty much everything, but his character in this...yum. He’s a womanizing, fast talking bastard and it’s hot. Everything he does is ridiculously over the top, but somehow it works. There’s one scene in the beginning of the movie, where he’s talking to his secretary who suggested setting him up on a blind date, which sums it up perfectly:

“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”

I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?

Character number three is an oldie but goodie:

Dear Rhett Butler,

I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?

I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.

This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)

James Spader, as the creepy E. Edward Grey in Secretary, turns – me – on. I get goosebumps every time I watch. I can’t deny that the setting, the plot, and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s sexual awakening help fan the flame of my interest, but he’s definitely the spark.

Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.

(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)

And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:

I’d like to be the filling in a Diane Lane/Oliver Martinez sandwich please.

There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.

So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.

Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:

Veg Ass

Sara

Erin

Jules

And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):

Jerrod

Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.

Hasta mañana.

Hypothetically speaking

Life is all about choices.

After your choice comes the inevitable ‘follow through’. You take some sort of action – be it passive or aggressive. And then comes everyone’s favorite part: consequences. Right or wrong, good or bad – everything has a consequence. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yes?

Alright then. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, you know someone that knows someone. And the someone you know works with a woman. Allegedly this woman is a nice woman, if a little nerve grating from time to time. However, as much as the someone you know likes this woman they cannot help but be a tad disturbed by her ... habits.

See, this someone you know was in the bathroom they share with this woman. They were a bit bored, because sometimes the gopher shits take awhile, so they decided to go through the drawers of a cabinet right in front of the toilet. Previously they’d only ever opened the top drawer because it’s where they store their feminine hygiene products, but that day they were curious. Upon opening the bottom drawer they noticed a box of wet wipes and they were pleased because everyone knows that wet wipes are the best invention ever, second only to The Bullet (The zzzzzzz kind, not the POW kind).

But upon further investigation they noticed several clear, plastic Ziploc bags stashed behind the wet wipe box. The bags appeared to have been there for awhile, condensation was visible on the inside plastic. Upon even further investigation it was noted that these bags contained wadded up pairs of women’s underwear matted together with, well, shit and mold. They then yelled, “Holy mother of gawd! *gag*”

Now, it’s safe to say that this someone you know got what they deserved for being nosy: disgust, embarrassment, and the hardship of keeping a straight face every time someone says “shit” in the office. However, you can also argue that this is a shared bathroom and the drawers are now communal property. (And by drawers I mean the pull out kind, not the shitty kind.)

Now, herein lies the problem: Does this person you know tell the woman that they know about her dirty little secret? Do they hint around so that she cleans out the drawers (both kinds, if we’re being technical)? Or do they continue to keep silent and check to make sure they are still there, turning it into a running joke with their friends: “Who had $20 on three months? You lose! It’s been 4 and they’re still there! Who wants $10 on ‘the collection will be added to by 5 months’?”

Whatever choice they make, there will be another consequence and another. Until eventually they’re old enough to understand what it’s like to lose control of their bowels and start shitting in their own drawers, though hopefully they dispose of them properly. Is life depressing or what?

How are some people so decisive when there are all these choices?

Let’s try another one. Something a little different.

Let’s say that, hypothetically, you haven’t had sex since New Year’s Eve. And even though it was sex, it wasn’t great sex. And the guy was a complete tool bag man whore masquerading as a nice guy and he stabbed your clitoris, repeatedly and viciously, like the Romans stabbed Caesar. Et tu Bruté?

Let’s also say that you’re trying this new thing called getting to know a person before you fuck their brains out. You’re trying to be mature. You’re trying not to act on a sexual whim or 8 liquor drinks and a bong hit. You kind of want to remember who, what, when, where, and how the hell he did that thing with his...whatever. You’re not slutting it up anymore. High five to well-behaved, classy you!

However, here’s the crux of the matter: You’re dying. Not literally dying, but seriously, if you don’t get screwed by something that doesn’t take batteries they might put you in a mental hospital and change your middle name to ARGHHHHHHHHH!, because that’s all you ever say anymore. Everyone thinks you’re bipolar or schizophrenic, but you aren’t. You’re suffering from NoDick Disease. To complicate matters, you’re actually about to get more alone time than you ever get. Also, you may or may not have a ridiculous crush on someone that you totally shouldn’t have a crush on and you couldn’t sleep with them right now even if you wanted to.

So do you go back on your promise to yourself, go out and pick up a six foot, green eyed cure with a David Copperfield complex (Surprise! He’s in there!)? Or do you continue biting the heads off of random passersby, because they look like they just got plowed, until you finally meet someone, date them, and then fuck their brains out?

If you just do it you may get satisfied, but then again you may not. Either way, you’ll eventually be slapping yourself silly because you totally ruined your well-behaved, classy plan.

The consequences are a motherfucker on this one either way you go, right? Maybe you should just go back to your old routine: Do it. Like it. Don’t care. Suffer the consequences. Still not care. Do it again. But no, it’s still a cycle! Sigh.

Last one. This is super hard, you guys. I know. My head hurts too.

Let’s say that, hypothetically, you and your five year old kid live with your mom and teenage sister. Said teenage sister is, like, ohmigawd, so perfect! You’ve always tried to relate to her, but it makes your head hurt. Until recently you never really had anything to talk about.

But now all of a sudden you’re being sought after for sexual counseling and advice, and being asked to fill the role of the mom that's popping Xanax like skittles and sticking her head in the sand because “no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-has-sex-no-one-in-this-house-will-ever-have-sex-nononononono” by taking said teenager to the health department for birth control. And then your nosy nature, combined with all of this sisterly bonding, suddenly culminates in the form of a cell phone video you wish to gawd you had never opened *gag* vagina *gag*...hold on a minute, please.

Ok. *deep breaths* Lalalalalalabia. In-out-in-out. *gag*

Sorry. Let’s continue.

So now you’re supposed to be the cool older sister that’s completely ok with this pimply fucker hanging around all the time and railing your sibling and talking about it to all of his friends, but you aren’t allowed to talk about it to your friends because she’s, like, ohmigawd, so perfect and no one can ever know. And she starts fucking up all the time and getting caught doing stupid shit, but everyone brushes it under the rug and she never gets punished, unlike you at that age, who totally got locked in the guest room and bitch slapped into next week.

So you take all of that angst and confusion and combine it with this most recent issue.

You’re in charge while the teenager goes to the prom. You’re supposed to monitor the time she comes in and make sure there’s no funny business going on. On one hand, you were totally doing funny business at that age and thoroughly enjoying it. On the other hand, you totally got knocked up and had to move back in with your mother. You understand the shit she’s going through, but you feel like you have to be the adult in this situation, ok.

She actually comes home at a decent hour, boyfriend in tow, to watch movies. She’s also brought along a friend and her friend’s date too. You’re completely fine with this because: A) you’re sitting on your porch getting shitfaced drunk on wine while having a fascinating four hour long phone conversation with a stranger and B) what are they possibly going to do with you RIGHT there and with their friends RIGHT there.

Everything is fine. Everyone leaves. You pass out. You wake up the next morning, pick up the kid from the non-in-laws, and park her in the other room to play while you nurse your killer headache.

But that evening you’re cleaning up the kid’s playroom and there’s a bright yellow wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and it’s an empty, torn open Trojan condom packet. You gasp and yell for the obviously guilty party. She comes in, angry at being interrupted from staring at herself in the mirror. You hold up the evidence and she immediately claims, “That’s not mine!”

“Who the fuck does it belong to then”, you say.

She rattles off the names of her friends that were there last night.

You blanch. “You mean to tell me that you let them fuck on my daughter’s playroom floor?”

“I didn’t know”, she whispers.

You are livid for many reasons: How dare someone else get laid in this house when you aren’t getting any? How dare some teenage kid deliberately bring her boyfriend over and secretly have sex in this house? How disrespectful is that? How dare your sister let them do it? IN YOUR KID’S PLAYROOM where she’s been playing ALL DAY! There could be jizz hiding anywhere! In her kitchen set teacups! You were sitting on the porch. Right there!

Before you have time to think about anything else, you decide not to mention it to your mother. Then later, once it’s percolated, you realize a few things: You’re an adult. You were technically responsible for these kids. Maybe you should say something and let them suffer the consequences, just like you had to when you were a disrespectful little shit. Or maybe you should continue to be the cooler, understanding older sister.

You demand an apology from the teenage friend and force your sister to listen to three, randomly spaced, thirty minute monologues about how much she sucks, her friends suck, her boyfriend sucks, and it sucks being an adult that has to deal with this shit and FUCK, you don’t want to think about it anymore.

And yet you continue to wonder, even after its pretty much over, if you should have done things differently. Because right now the consequences you’re suffering from are a slightly guilty conscious and the urge to vomit.

What kind of choices would you guys have made?

Of course, this is all completely hypothetical.