Has-Been Whore

Before I went to college, I used to do a lot of webcam show-type shit, and now it is coming back to haunt me.

Whenever people bring up shit about "don't put that on Facebook, your future employers can hack it" I always brush it off because I don't drink that much, and the only times I do, I'm the one with pictures, and those are usually of everyone else. And they don't go on Facebook, they stay safely in my iPhoto. But I never think about all the nakey pics.

I used to have absolutely no problem diddling myself or prancing around topless on cam. I also used to send a lot of naughty pictures because it made me feel sexy to do what guys asked for. When I realized that was stupid, I deleted all the pictures off my computer (except the blackmail ones of my ex's junk and penguin jammies) and assumed the past was past. Except obviously, it wasn't.

It partly worries me because technically those screen grabs and emailed pictures of my cute butt in seasonal thongs are kiddie porn. I was 17 when I did a lot of that shit, and I either lied about my age or the guys asking knew full well and didn't care. I'm not sure the legal end of it, if it's just the guys who'd get in trouble or me, too. It still doesn't sit well.

Then there's the fact that those are pictures of me. I took them on purpose, sober as a judge. I wonder where my judgement goes on some days. It also makes me feel shitty that such a short time ago, my self-worth depended on guys thinking I was sexy, no matter what it took. And of course I feel awful for any guy who dates me afterward, thinking he can count on one hand the number of people who've seen me naked before he has.

People I don't even remember ever doing that shit for (read: because I mentally blocked it) remind me every now and then and each time, I'm completely floored. It's happened too often for me to be comfortable with. Sometimes they tell me the pictures are saved on their computer, or screenshots of camwhoring, and that just makes me feel skeevy. Then, after I've been reminded of my past life as a baby camwhore, I'm suddenly scarily too aware that my ex has/had mobile phone pictures of me naked.

I don't want to be defined by those pictures, or labelled a slut because I took them, or allowed them to be taken. I don't want my poor boyfriend, who was seriously hurt that I almost auditioned for a strip club, to know or have any idea that I used to show anyone who asked all the things he considers just his. I know I shouldn't have regrets about my past, but that's my biggest.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned in my feminism, but that sort of shit just isn't empowering. In any way. And perhaps it's half men's faults, for things like that being able to trap me. Yes, it isn't okay that I'd be judged by my boyfriend and the rest of society if anyone but me and the guys I camwhored for knew about it. Yes, it isn't okay for one scandal or bad decision to derail someone's respectability and life. But ultimately, I was the one to decide to take them, or to say yes to being on cam when I knew what was expected of me. And so I guess I'll have to sleep in the bed I made.

Textually Active

moi: ps. i am listening to Bob Dylan. is that better?

him: yes. =) have you met the man with the coonskin cap in a pig pen who wants 11 dollar bills and u only got 10?

moi: nah, i was in the basement mixing the medicine.

him: haha very good. i thought johnny was doing that? arent you on the pavement thinkin bout the government? =)

moi: nah. i was making out with johnny and then he made me do that for him

him: im gonna kick johnnys ass

I love my boyfriend.

Sucking Dick at Sucking Dick

I've always been told I'm really good at giving head. Not trying to brag here, just repeating what I've heard. So when my recent boyf told me he didn't like blowjobs, I became immediately alarmed. There goes my greatest power.

Of course, being me, I decided to change his mind. After begging him during our first sexcapade to let me do the deed (this boy is truly one of a kind), he realized that his former fuck buddy was just really bad at giving head, and so it wasn't the act of oral sex he hated, but the way she did it. Cool by me.

The next few times I went down on him, it all went rather well. I tend to have a churny stomach when going down on boys (I do a special deepthroating trick that involves me having to use my gag reflex in a way God most certainly did not intend), so I didn't swallow for him the first few times. But one night, he was feeling extra horny and I was on my period, so I thought I'd treat him.

The first time I swallow for a new boy (always a boyfriend.), I like to trick him into thinking that I'm not going to, getting the tissues ready, asking him to tell me when, etc, so that when I finally do swallow, it's a pleasant surprise. However, this boy is a gentleman, and thus he attempted to warn me several times when I didn't get off his junk to catch it in a tissue. This resulted in me coming up to yell something along the lines of "SHUT UP I'M GONNA SWALLOW" and my boy jizzing everywhere. Awesome.

Naturally, after this disaster, I waited a bit before attempting to even blow him again. When I finally did, I wanted to prove to him I can, in fact, swallow (I'd been bragging and had just fucked my game up). I pulled out all the stops on the act itself, and when it was showtime, I clamped my mouth down on the base and went for it.

It was absolutely flawless, the best I'd ever swallowed. I didn't even taste a drop. Until, of course, I underestimated exactly how much baby batter this kid had in him (he doesn't jack off, so it all just sits there. I am completely not used to this.). So, I choked on the large amount of man juice in my throat, and spit all over his balls. If ever there was a time for a CockBib... He later told me his thighs were wet, and everything else.

Apparently I have no right to brag after al.

The Best of Pot Psych

I watch Pot Psychology religiously. I freakin' love that shit. Tracie is my model for how I dress, she was the reason I started a blog, and I base my life off lessons I learned through Pot Psych. So here are some of my favorites (or at least my favorite ones that are still findable on the internet)

Can You Lose Your Virginity to a Dildo?

How Long Do I Have to Wait to Have Sex After an Abortion?

The Highest of Pot Psychology

My Roommate is Bulimic, What Should I Do?

And, of course,

Is Marriage for Suckers?

You're welcome.

And Now For Something Completely Nerdy.

I read Jezebel a lot, and I found this article, which made me stop and think. If you have any intention of ever reading the Twilight series, or think it's repulsive and hate me for even covering it, don't read this article.

Yes, Breaking Dawn has a lot of problems. I'm going to counter them the same way Jez did. First, "Bella's willingness to marry her vampire lover Edward, even though it means becoming a vampire, leaving behind her family, and sacrificing any hope of a normal life." Okay. We knew the girl was bizarre when she almost sacrificed her mother for this kid. There was no chance for Bella since the beginning. And she always wanted to become a vampire too, so that she can stop the craziness happening to everyone.

Second, her pregnancy. As much as it disturbed the Jez readers, I can't help but know I'd feel the same way if I found myself pregnant. As much as know I'm too young to have a kid, and also in college, with no way to care for the thing, if I were to accidentally get pregnant, I would no doubt have the baby. I have a really strong maternal instinct. I'd feel guilty for the rest of my life if I had an abortion. However, I am pro-choice because I know that the choice is the important thing, even if I don't make that choice.

Yes, the baby kills her from the inside out. But we must also remember that this is a fantasy novel. I've got no other excuse for this but that you've got to remember that vampires and werewolves and mutant babies don't exist, and also Meyer needed to toss some conflict in there. Bella's life can't stay normal for long, sheesh.

Yeah, it's heteronormative, too. Underneath all the criticism, we must remember that Meyer is Mormon. She is MORMON. A Mormon author isn't exactly going to throw in Nora Roberts-style sex scenes, or gay anything, or sex before marriage, or abortion. She's conservative as it gets. So I tend to forgive her conservative writing like I tend to forgive the fact that it's not written particularly well.

I just love that shit anyway. We all have our guilty pleasures.

Tatt-oo You Want My Opinion?

My style is self-described as "pretty in punk" (and no, I did not steal that from the Fall Out Boy song). So naturally I plan to decorate my body with many more tattoos than I have right now.

But whenever I bring up my tattoos or are asked about them, there are a few issues that people have. I've heard all the arguments by now. My mother is the queen of attempting to sway my decisions. She started with the standard. "If it's bigger than a nickel, you can't come home." Then I moved out, and so she elaborated.

"I just don't think it's ladylike or pretty. I think it's ugly and I'm sad that you would want to do that to your body." All right, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think it's pretty. You also told me I had "too many piercings" when I had three. All in my ears.

After she finally realized that nothing she could say would stop me getting tattooed, she switched tactics and tried to stop me getting certain designs of tattoo. I'm a huge Green Day fan, have been since I can remember, and she told me not to get a Green Day based tattoo because "you won't like it later on." Also, because I wanted it on my wrist, and "that wouldn't look good with a fancy dress." She cornered me in the back room where she works, and got a few girls she works with who have tattoos to tell me not to get it as well.

In addition to her arguments (which I respect, because she is my mother and I love her), I've heard the standard "What will you think of it when you're old and it's still there?" Well, considering I plan to have a sleeve, in addition to the twelve or so other tattoos that are in the works, I'm pretty sure one quarter-sized wrist tattoo will be the least of my concerns.

Then there was my brother. He informed me that ear piercing was "mutilation" and so are tattoos. Apparently body art and piercings are equivalent to "chopping your ear off."

And finally, today, there was this chick. (I'm pink.)

Yes, because I've always been a follower. I've studied tattoos since I was 13. I've seen hideous retardations and awesome works of art. I have never seen two sleeves that were the same, and I've definitely never seen more than one or two pirate sleeves. In addition to not letting me finish the entire sleeve idea, she just tells me I'm one of the sheep. Deliberately. Because she knew it would piss me off.

So I set out to shock her.

And so she sealed the deal on "intelligent."

Oh, Just Kidding, Everyone

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've just moved back into my dorm and gotten settled and all. Now posts should be more regular. 

This morning I got up at 7:30 for an 8:30 class. Got dressed, washed my face, trudged down to the dining hall, yadda yadda. Make my way, rubbing sleep snot from my eyes, to the classroom. I got there ten minutes early, as a good little student should, and sat there for ten minutes with the rest of my hungover, tired classmates. Then we all realised the door was unlocked, so we all went in, only to find another six or so of us in the room. We all sat down, stared round for another fifteen minutes, then left.

After I got back to the dorm, I resisted the urge to kill everything that moved, and instead went online to check my schedule. The printed one, which we all had in our grubby little fingers, said room 216. But the one online said room 126. 

Well that just oozes of "what the fuckery." 

The best bit is I don't have anyone's number in that class to text them and say "ZOMG we all went to the wrong room?!"

Things I Found In My Car

I cleaned my car this weekend, and here's what I found in it:

- small forms of life

- 8 jillion paper clips

- 7 bobby pins

- enough papers to fill one plastic bag

- 2 disco balls

- 1 Bucky pillow

- 1 monkey

- 1 pair pink/black striped gloves

- 2 pant legs

- 1 pink binder

- 1 purple notebook

- 1 shoebox

- 1 Magic 8 Ball box

- pine needles

- 3 cassette tapes

- 20 chocolate eyeballs (which had melted in my glovebox all over my registration papers)

- 3 receipts 

- 8 bank deposit slips

- 1 clothes tag from a tshirt which says "Luxury Tax" with the Monopoly diamond on it

- 12 hundred safety pins

- 2 "guardian angels" one on a keychain, one on a medallion

- 1 dreamcatcher

- 1 Our Lady of Guadalupe air freshener

- 1 cherry air freshener

- 5 pens

- several assorted official papers

- 1 car manual

- 1 Allstate pamphlet 

- 1 yellow emergency rain poncho

- 3 sticky-note pads

- 1 immortal soul

- a sticky substance in my ashtray

- 1 stick Wrigley's Spearmint gum

- $12.51 in change in the ashtrays.

Lovely.

Re: This Is Why I Don't Do Hookups

Recently I passed an old friend in traffic and decided to text him and find out what was up. We ended up hanging out in the same infamous cemetery as that other encounter, and just talking for a while. Then somehow we ended up kissing.

Laying in the grass, legs all tangled up together, feeling very much like the creepy Goth girl I must be destined to be, the kid suggests we go back to his place. I agree, noting to myself that it's ten of eight, and I should be home by nine to get enough sleep. He tastes like nicotine due to the cigarette he chain-smoked before we started making out. Bad sign number one.

We get back to his house, traipse up to his room. He sleeps in the attic of his house, and I can barely stand up in there. I shrug this off, figuring I'm going to be spending most of the time in various laying-down positions so it doesn't matter.

He's a huge stoner, and so he turns the lights off in his room and turns his fucking lava lamp on. Bad sign number two. Now I can barely see around the room, but I notice that the bed literally takes up the entire space. The bed and his piles of clothes. Fabulous. I note the Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Sid Vicious posters around his room. The Sid one is directly across from the bed. At least I'll have something to look at.

We get naked, I can't see, and he can't get it up. I move down to blow him a little bit, and I notice how incredibly small his dick is. Regret begins to seep in, but I hadn't had sex in a loooong time, so I just had to grin and bear it. I blow him, and think "at least I can deepthroat because it's so small." 

I roll over and we start to go at it. He immediately starts raving about how awesome my pussy is. I know. I've heard it all before. I attempt to find something to compliment him on and fall back on the "oh. oh. mm. that feels so good." shit for a while. Finally I ask him (three times. Apparently my vagina was that good that it impaired his hearing.) to give it to me doggy, in hopes that I might actually feel something and he can stop breaking my hips doing missionary.

No such luck. Doggy only gets my face smushed into his cigarette-flavored pillows, and still little to no feeling of much of anything downstairs. Internally I roll my eyes, wishing I hadn't gotten myself into this. Shitty sex blends into shitty sex until I convince the kid to let me get on top. He gropes my boobs like a horny twelve year old and then I somehow manage to come. At this point he flips me back over for some more hip-breaking missionary. I stare at Sid Vicious and wish for this to end. Just as he begins to lose his erection again, I realize I have an escape route, and ask him what time it is.

He groans, tells me it's around the time I have to leave, and I shove him off and start grabbing my clothes happily. He sits, incredulous, on the bed. He never came. I throw my clothes on, smooth down my hair, and apologize for the hasty exit. I'm half proud I managed to use someone, and half repulsed I chose ashtray-breath over here. He asks if I'm sure I have to leave. I vehemently reply that I do. He kisses me again, throws his own clothes on, and follows me out. Before I manage to get in my car he's kissed me about thirty more times. 

He then proceeds to text me the instant he thinks I might be available for the next few days. Finally I tell him I've gotten involved in a relationship, which is half true (I don't lie. The most I'll do is tell a half-truth, or extend the shades of meaning a word might have.). He lays off, and then asks me if he did anything wrong.

How does one politely say "No, it wasn't you, I just can't deal with a dick that small"? 

1:13 AM, Saturday night.

I just got home from cruising around with a kid I have a GIGANTIC crush on. He's sweet and sexy and tall and yadda yadda and he is also my best friend and therefore untouchable. Oh, and he's miserable over my best girl friend.

It's 1:13 AM on a Saturday night and while half my friends are getting drunk at a party I passed on and the other half are preparing for a girl's night I just bailed on in hopes of some awesomeness, I am home in my underwear, listening to John Mayer, thouroughly confused. I realize and accept that that is a runon sentence.

Basically I spent my Saturday night texting, watching Bride Wars, and coming this close ( ) to scoring the kid I've been drooling over secretly (very secretly. and very well played secretly. nobody guessed.) all year.

Everyone used to joke that we were "secret lovers" and sing that song to us, and I played it off and he just jokingly said things about it.

People come to me for life advice and I'm the one sitting here tonight juggling writing this blog entry, steering my male friend through a cougar situation, explaining my burning heart to my chick friend (the one that the boy has the crush on) and discussing how I should be drunk with another girl yet, who I probably will end up doing nasty unspeakable things with later on this week.

Don't you just love summer?

Trainwrecks.

I think I'm just drawn to women with highly publicized, insane, drug-ridden trainwreck lives.

I literally only use MySpace to keep up with Courtney Love's incoherent yet adorable blog/rants, and I stopped voraciously devouring what Perez reports because he puts down Amy Winehouse.

Maybe these girls' outrageous lifestyles so far surpass my own chaos that I feel better when comparing my life to theirs. Maybe Courtney's inability to move on from Kurt Cobain (and who would be able to move on, let's face it, Kurt is my ideal guy) minimizes my issues with finally getting over my ex. Perhaps poor Amy's distance from her husband (you know, given that he's in jail) helps me cope with the fact that I'm far from the "open" relationship I'm currently wrapping my head around.

Or maybe the moments when these women are strongest reminds me that we girls have the ability to overcome even the most ridiculous scandals or obstacles.

Because in the end, no matter how many times our beloved Ms. Love shows off her lady bits when falling over drunk, or how often Amy's handlers prevent her from playing a show due to a breakdown or total drug-induced disability, those girls just keep on truckin'.

Courtney's always wearing amazing Givenchy or Versace. She was a feminist riot grrrl icon in her day. Amy just keeps making music that (like it or not) gets quite a bit of airplay. She's been nominated for Grammys, too. They refuse to quit, no matter the adversity.

And don't even get me started on that Britney Spears.

Oh Good, Another Boob Joke

This week I was hanging out with a few guy friends, one of whom is doing a research project on body proportions. He's taking ages, heights, arm lengths, yadda yadda and seeing what he comes up with from all this data. He asked me if he could measure my arms and hands and forearms and whatever, and I said sure.

While he was measuring my wingspan (which just made me laugh) his buddy looked at me and says "Thirty-four." Being a little bit thick, I said "What?" He repeated it. Finally, it clicked, and I told him to stop looking at my tits.

The friend laughed and said "Am I right?" I frowned and teold him I don't know, I haven't bought a bra in a while. He told me he's gotten another girl's exactly right and he wants to know. I told him not to pad his ego and then I checked.

Of course he was right.

Re: Why I'm Not a Hooker

Let me just begin by saying that I completely respect anyone working in the sex industry, be it stripping, turning tricks, a Playboy bunny, a porn star, whatever you do. As a feminist (and I'm sure other feminists might not back me on this) I think it's a great symbol of female empowerment that we can make men pay for sex. It might just be my twisted self-esteem, but knowing that some guy is slobbering and whacking it to me (or thoughts of me) feels pretty damn good. But I digress.

There's one key reason I am not nor could ever be a hooker, and that is this. I hate planned sex.

There's something that makes me feel skeevy about saying "Hey, if you come hang out with me Friday I'll bang you" and then following suit. I get performance anxiety, or something. This exact issue is why one of my male friends isn't speaking to me currently. 

He's been wanting to bang me for ages, and I turned him down to date him because he simply is not my type. He flipped the fuck out, saying that that line was "the biggest bullshit a girl could ever come up with" and a few other tasty things. I rolled my eyes, blogged about it, then moved on.

We started hanging out again, and I realized exactly  how much he reminds me of my exboyfriend. Not a healthy thing to be hanging out with, or something I particularly wanted to do anyway. My exboyfriend's a douche, and I don't like douches. One day we were hanging out in a park near where he lives, and it occurred to me that the way he was acting towards me, and the way I was responding, made us look like we were dating. Some idiot part of my brain clicked in and said "why not?" so I told him I'd probably end up sleeping with him.

Then, a few weeks later, after incessant calls, the annoyed slut part of me turned on, and said "If you come down here Friday and use up your gas instead of mine for a change, I'll sleep with you."

Here's the bit where disaster struck.

During the week I tried out telling a few people "Yeah, Friday night I'm finally getting laid" and it almost sounded okay. Then the entirety of Friday I spent driving around, hunting for a good spot to have a quick car shag that wasn't my house (roommates home). I find one that's mostly suitable, and get the call that my friend/potential fuckbuddy is at the exit, lost. Armed with five condoms stashed in various hidey-holes of my wallet, I drive off to meet him.

At which point I immediately remember that he is (a) a more awkward incarnation of my ex and (b) not my type. But I decide to press on, and start leading him off in the direction of a place to go and fuck.

Somehow while driving around, I realize there's just no way to initiate this, he's that awkward. So I play creepy Goth girl and drive to a cemetery, hoping that the dead and my creepiness will kill his libido. Sadly, I'm wrong, but I figured it was worth a shot. After we wander around, looking at headstones, and I sharply rebuke his efforts to flirtatiously touch me, it starts to get dark, and he wants to relocate to somewhere to fuck. I try a few lame excuses which fall flat, and then I even text a friend in an attempt to get pulled away for a girl emergency.

Finally he gets pissy, because he's mad he drove all the way down here and walked round a graveyard for no reason (obviously my company isn't enough) and I drive off like a bat out of hell to get away from him. Let him get lost in downtown, for all I care.

It just drives me insane because I don't come off that slutty. It aggravates me that he explicitly wanted sex. I know, he's a guy, I'm a cute girl, he expects it of me, but please. I also know I said it. But there was just something so inherently wrong with the entire situation that there was no way (and deep down, he had to know this) I'd go through with it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a fan of drunken (or at least slightly inebriated)  hookups. If it starts with kissing and leads into whatever, okay, fine, I'll bite. But saying "Hey, come over and let's have sex!" makes me feel awkward. Maybe I just have stage fright. Maybe it's the spontaneity that gets me hot and bothered. Either way, I have major issues with telling someone I'll fuck them on a specific date and time. Which is why, my little awkward friend, I did not have wild crazy bitch sex with you. It's not you, it's me.

And now, your regularly scheduled high school-esque drama.

So last night my exboyfriend (who is in college) escorted a girl to her junior prom. This girl has been obsessed with him forever, including but not limited to when I dated him. Except then I was around to say "step the fuck off, bitch."

At any rate, they go to the prom. He immediately begins texting me, telling me how miserable he is, why can't he say no, etc, etc. I go to the Grand March at the high school with a few girlfriends because I know a senior who's going, and he keeps texting me FROM THE GRAND MARCH. If I was that junior girl I'd have shot him.

So he gets up on the stage, walks around with the girl, whatever. He's got this huge douchebag swagger and then his face is pure misery. My friend and I start to about piss ourselves laughing. He's still texting me when he lines up on the sides.

Finally he says "I think your friend doesn't like me." This is the senior who's going to the prom too. I replied "really. you think?" because that girl has made it plain from day 1 she can't stand him. He says "yeah. what's her beef?" I pause for half a second, then drop the bombshell: "she thinks you cheated on me."

I worked last night, and (in between giving the singer of the band the eye) I texted him telling him if he needed to escape prom madness, he could come to work to hang out, since my job was down the street from the hotel the prom was at.

He hasn't texted me since, but I saw on the junior girl's Facebook that prom was miserable for her. 

A messy breakup story for Sunday morning.

I have a Saturday night drama, but in order to tell that story I have to tell this one.

My ex and I had a hella messy breakup, and basically this is why.

About a year into our relationship, he had to move a few hours away. I was sad, he was sad, he promised to phone all the time, he'd see me whenever he could, all that. 

A few months after that, he phones me to break up. I'm sad, I cry, he makes a few idiotic decisions. First, he phones my father to tell him I might be suicidal over the loss of him. When my daddy tells him he should hold responsibility for that, the ex flies off the handle and says it isn't his responsibility or his fault how I feel anymore. 

Then, he decides that to ease the pain of losing him, he's going to delete me off Facebook, MySpace, whatever, block me on messenger, and also screen my calls/texts, in the event that I did call or text him.

This is the point when that Emotionless Handjob wanders into my life. The E.H. is a mutual friend of the ex and I, and before things had gotten physical he'd asked me about the ex. I said I knew absolutely nothing, I was being ignored, whatever. E.H. tells me the ex had been bragging to him about sleeping with an Asian chick. The glaring problem here is that he would have had to do the Asian either (a) when we were dating, (b) immediately afterward, or (c) he's full of shit.

My friend gets wind of this, and freaks the fuck out, because not only did he break up with me on the phone, BUT he may possibly have cheated on me too! She begins to hate him even more than she did when we were dating.

Ages after he first starts to ignore me, he sends me a Facebook message asking how my year's going. Completely confused, I tell him it's fine, ask him how he is, whatever. I'm not going to be a bitch to him because  of something I heard from an unreliable source. The friend is pissed he has the audacity to talk to me, life goes on. Then he starts texting me again. Regularly. For long periods at a time. I shrug it off, try to keep it to a minimum, and childishly label him "Fucker" in my mobile contacts.

And so it goes. We keep our distance, it all goes fine. There was a close brush a bit ago, when I went to a neighbouring city for an hour and he was there and called the kid I was with to hang out. It was hella awkward for the poor sod I was with, too. I ran away so as not to see him (I was sick and not totally hot) and that was that.

AWKRD Radio, who's this?

I have recently become a legend on local radio.

(note: I'm not telling you guys my real name, just in case you know me.)

I rung a local radio station (they ask you to ring and vote between two songs and one caller wins a prize) and when the DJ asked my name, I replied. His answer? "That's my favourite female name." Oh yeah? "Yeah, because all girls I've met with that name have been hot. Are you hot?"

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. Here it comes.

At any rate, I didn't win the tickets that night, but I tried again the next night, only to be greeted joyously. "Is this hot (my name here)?!" Yep, that's me.

My boss and my friend's sister both heard this exchange. I walked into work as my boss yelled "I heard you on the radio!!!" Facepalm.

And here's where it starts to get insanely bizarre, and an accurate portrayal of my life.

The next time I called (they were giving away a free CD of your choice) he asked me what my favourite male name was. I responded that I had a few, and he goes "Wow. You're loose." And that was where he cut off the clip on the air. Now I'm loose. Excellent.

Then I met the guy at a music festival the radio station sponsored, and we took a few pictures together, which became my Facebook profile picture. When I came up to him and said "I'm Hot ___!" he goes "YEAH you are!!" Fabulous.

Five seconds after the picture goes up, my friend comments it. That's her old neighbour. Of course it is.

I Facebook friend the guy, and he comments my picture too, saying something to the effect of "hellz yeah!!"

I just called in again to win a CD tonight, and the DJ shot the shit with me for a bit. He was all amped that we were Facebook friends, and then, during our little chitchat, he said "Tell me something I don't know." And I said "I think you used to be my friend's neighbour." He told me he was, and then this happened:

"Yeah, it was awkward because her window was right next to my bedroom window."

"Did you used to smoke pot? Because we could smell it in her room."

"Shut your front door."

"That's what you get for calling me loose."

He went on to describe how he did "smoke the left handed cigarette," and tell me to send his love to my friend and her family, because he missed them.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time, mates. All the time. 

Let's add "radio fame" and "weed chats with DJ's" to the list of things I have accomplished in my life.

(ps. I didn't win.)

Which crazy bitch am I?

You completed the quiz "Which crazy bitch are you?" with the result Courtney Love.

You are one wild bitch. You love trouble and trouble loves you. You like to have a good time and won't let anyone get in your way. Sometimes you seem like you are perpetually trapped in a childhood mentality and you take alot of flack from alot of people for your carefree ways. Nevertheless you care alot about the people close to you and if anyone messes with you or the ones you love, you will fuck them up. You can rock out with the best of them and won't let anyone tell you otherwise. You are this perfect balance between girly chick and tough chick. You are blatantly honest and sometimes people can find this a little hard to take but you really don't give a shit.

Of course. That would be the result I get.

Sexting

In super happy funtime news, I just recently began laughing at "sexting" people. The deal basically is, with this (in case you don't know) is that you take a naked picture of yourself on your mobile and send it to your boyfriend, girlfriend, significant other, or random hookup partner. They can send one back or not, whatever. The issue with sexting is that teenagers are doing it (horny bastards) and are getting caught and in trouble for possessing child pornography. Hah.

Obviously these naughty little kiddies aren't thinking their actions through enough. I mean first of all, naked pictures of anyone under 18 is still kiddie porn, even if it's you. But even before one should think about that, one should think about how sending naked pictures is the worst idea EVER, given that they will ALWAYS end up in the worst hands possible ever. I mean please. Keep your vaginas and dicks to yourself, thanks.

Don't get me wrong. I've totally sent a few naked pictures in my day. And I'm not condoning it at all, because the dick pix I got in return can (and might definitely be) used for blackmail later. I'm definitely stopping sending them though, because this whole sexting scandal has made me realize that nudie pics aren't always going to stay where I send them. And I can't control that. So, I'm just going to refrain from spreading my bits around the world, unless of course it's firsthand sight, or I get my life dream and wind up in Playboy. At least then I know for sure people are jacking it!

Besides, naked pictures are never half as sexy as the photographed or photographer thinks. Remember my shower scene? It was bad. That particular boyfriend took a lot of candid shots like that, and all of them were shitty. He even had one of me wiping my ass! So please, ladies, try and keep your men from taking pictures like that, and boys, don't take them of your girl.

A special note to the gentlemen: Don't send dick pix to girls. They're never as sexy as you think. D's (and v's) just don't look good on mobile cameras, regular digital cameras, what have you. Your bits would look far better in person. And also, if your penguin jammies are in the shot, it's DEFINITELY not the message you want to be sending.

I smell a rant.

So today I want to talk about this guy:


Can someone please shut Pete Wentz the fuck up? Seriously. First he was cool, and angsty, and emo, and adorable. Then he married Asslee Simpson, the ugly stepsister of the Simpson clan, and then he spawned Demonbaby With Generic Celebrity Name after the fact.

Now his music is positively shiteous, and he thinks the old, REAL Fall Out Boy stuff is like "musical diarrhea." Not only that (which is a heinous enough crime, kthnx) but he evidently lost the ability to spell and use grammar/punctuation. He used to write such nice blogs on buzznet, now he writes ridiculous, seven year old tweets and namedrops like a mofo. Fun fact. No one cares if you're friends with John Mayer, Kanye West OR Mark Hoppus. You're still a complete and total douche who let the fame go to your head. Deflate your ego a bit and I'll like you again.

I used to totally love him, too. He was my favourite FOB'er cos he was super emocute and I thought he had such great lyrics and could write so well, from where I read it on his blog, on falloutboy.com, on buzznet, wherever. And then he broke my heart by marrying a skank and becoming a total asshole. Lovely.

Oh, and his pedostache TOTALLY does not help matters.

In other news, I have a couple new followers, and I wanted to say hi to them, and also say that tomorrow I'll have a proper blog (about sex and boys, not about idiot celebrities), so forgive me for my digression.

<3 me.

Damn snow.

I was going to go to Needlewurks today to get my junk pierced, but it snowed last night, and I woke up to the sound of snowblowers and shovelling.

Excellent.

There go MY Sunday plans.

In other news, I'm conducting a poll. Female junk piercings: turn on or turn off?

Why Letting Your Boyfriend Take Naked Pictures is Never a Good Idea

Short post today, I feel like writing but I have a ton of things I should be doing (read: working out, I'm getting fat)

Once the boyfriend thought it would be a good idea to come over before I had taken a shower, so I told him he could hang out in the bathroom and talk to me while I got clean.

Because he was a flipping genius he thought it would be a good idea to take a picture of me in the shower. I'm sure his thought process went hot girl --> naked --> hot water --> sexy.

He was wrong. He showed me the picture later, and first he forgot to account for the rippled glass in my shower door, so I look all distorted. Second, for some bizarre reason I happened to have my hands over my face and be hunchbacked. I don't know what I was doing, don't ask me "who the hell washes their face like that?" I really have no clue.

So instead of this hot voyeuristic shower picture he got Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

In a nutshell, this is my life.

Revenge is a Girl's Best Friend

So recently I've been in a huge sex drought, which is driving me slowly insane. You know it's bad when you watch porn and are more jealous of the people in the porn than turned on.

I had friends over last night and we were all just hanging out, then after they went home I texted my friend K, who happens to be my ex's best friend as well. I told him to have fun for me, since he was out drinking and I was at home about to go to bed. He texted back and said he'd rather have fun with me. Interesting.

So I hatched a little plan. Doesn't Cosmo always say that the best revenge on your ex is to sleep with his best friend? Opportunities like this don't come along every day, after all... AND I've heard K is good, and I haven't gotten laid in months. Perfect, right?

Literally the only thing stopping me was the fact that I hadn't shaved and I wasn't wearing cute underwear.

So I sent a couple of sexy texts back and forth with him, making sure he was serious, and next weekend we might do it. Thankfully, that gave me a chance to shave and have better underwear. Awesome.

Maybe I can wear the new Playmate underwear I just bought today... I love it.

But what are your thoughts?

Fun in the Ford

The first time I ever tried anal sex, it was in the back of my boyfriend's dad's Ford Explorer, in a field, in the middle of the winter.

I remember he'd wanted to try it for a while, but I'd been iffy. To me, that's an out hole, and I was already feeling skanky enough just fooling around in the backseat of his dad's car. I was still getting used to the fact that I was having sex (a lot of sex), and so for him to want to try this new, scarier sex was weird. But, I agreed, my line of thought being that if it really hurt or was just too awkward, I'd tell him to stop, and let that one go into the "been there, done that" pile.

So we're out in this snowy field, he's taken me there because it's really pretty in the winter, and we're fooling around in the back of this SUV. He didn't use a condom, and he came in my ass, which felt absolutely DISGUSTING, let me tell you. And then, after he finishes and wipes his dick off in the snow, and I crawl back into the front seat, we realize we are stuck. In the mud/snow, in his father's truck, in a field.

I'm wiggling around, trying to get comfortable in the seat, because my ass feels turned inside out and wayyy too sensitive, and he's calling his father, who is at poker night, to come rescue us. Perfect.

His dad shows up, and we have to get out of the truck and walk to get the forklift. Walking felt even more repulsive than sitting, and I was hoping his dad wouldn't notice how tortured my face was. Thankfully, I seem to be a good actress. We get the forklift, and I have to ride the back of that thing all the way back to the truck, which also felt great.

And then, to put the cherry pop on the night I lost my anal virginity, my boyfriend's father dents the front of the truck with the forklift. He was driving it in loafers, and he and the boyfriend decided that the best way to get the truck out was to push the front with the forklift, and to put the truck in reverse and back out of the hole.

When bf's dad pulled the lift away, something flew off the front of the truck, which I thought was one of his loafers, but it turned out to be the Ford badge from the grille. There was also a dent. Super. I wasn't sure whether to laugh about the loafers, or cry about my poor stretched out, cum-dripping ass. I went with laughter and had about a stroke laughing at the sight of the badge flying off into the night.

I have that badge right now. I made it into a belt buckle. Just as a memento.

I need a man.

*He needs to have dark hair, light eyes, be at least 6'3", and of medium build.

*He needs to share his clothes with me.

*I need to be able to be completely myself around him.

*He needs to be musical or poetic, preferably both.

*He needs to be pierced and tattooed.

*He needs to be a wildchild.

*He needs to be playful and want to throw me in the pool.

*He needs to have similar musical taste to me.

*He should want to have sex to the Beatles, like I do.

*He should be a skater or a surfer.

*He needs to take me in his arms and make the bad parts of the world go away.

Idol Worship

Why do all the celeb rags insist on using pictures like this:

of Courtney Love, Amy Winehouse, and Anna Nicole Smith?

Honestly, get the fuck over yourselves, you don't look good all the time either. These are strong, beautiful, talented women. They're people too, y'all. They're celebrities just as much as Beyonce or Britney (who needed rehab, too, might I add, and you welcome her back in your good graces sooo easily) or Paris. They have fans. I'm one of them. Give me whatever shit you want for that, I can handle it. And I'll keep defending them til my fingers are worn to the bone and you're all out of arguments. No doubt you'll stoop to insulting me then, but whatever, I've still won, I'm still the bigger person.

Thankfully, the shit surrounding Anna Nicole seems to have gone down since she died. At least the vultures have respect for the dead, I guess.  Yeah, she was a porn star. Okay? There are a lot of porn stars. It's a huge industry. You make your money your way, she made hers her way. No reason to freak out. She was also a Trimspa poster girl, so her body was her temple. Get over it, she was beautiful and she knew it and used it to make money. Case closed. RIP, Anna Nicole.

There's been some shit lately about Courtney Love's blog, and the way she writes. Fuck off, she writes like Kurt did, and they PUBLISHED his journals. If people want to pay to read journals that "need to be translated," they sure as hell can read them for free online. You write the way you want. Courtney will just keep writing the way she does. She just throws her thoughts down in the order they go, so what? She lost her husband, people. The father of her daughter, the person she vowed she'd be with forever. Could you handle that? I don't think so. I know I couldn't. And even if you did get over it, it would not be pretty, and it would not be clean or quiet. She dealt with it in her way, with the paparazzi and people like you diving down her throat. I applaud her. You go, girl.

I don't get the Amy hate either. Yeah, she does drugs. So? So did John Lennon. So did countless other "heroes" of society. You let them off the hook, why not Amy? She won't go to rehab? Is that really your business? She doesn't want to upend her life any more. Her husband's in jail, she's deeply, passionately, crazy in love with him. She misses him. She's bored cooped up in her house all the time, we all know she can't leave her house without being attacked by the paps. And leave her alone for hanging out with Pete Doherty, they're friends. Must you be so fifth grade about it, that girls and boys can't be friends without dating? Please. If you bothered to look, it's obvious she's wholly devoted to Blake. She's not cheating. Leave Amy alone. She didn't do anything to you.

Let Courtney and Amy live their lives. Save your negativity. Hating makes you fat, you know.

2009.

My resolutions for 2009 are:

*stop shopping as much,

*locate more fun,

and

*keep my room cleaner.