I was reading US Weekly the other day in the grocery store, and almost felt sorry for Kim Kardashian. Poor girl has all of her life’s intimate details splashed across the pages of magazines and blogs. I often wonder, “Who the hell is this “Insider”?”—the hairdresser or lucky waitress blessed enough to be in the right place at the right time and overhear that Mr. Humphries slept on the couch last night. But, I won’t be disillusioned by a childhood spent almost entirely in front of the small screen. I know that’s just not how life works. I know that upon garnering millions simply by developing and maintaining a certain image, one doesn’t go around letting personal information fly out of one’s mouth and into the ears of the doorman or coat check guy. I know that “lowly hairdressers” don’t have tabloid editors or the local news on speed dial. I know assistants and those on payroll sign non-disclosure agreements. I know that the mysterious “Insider” is likelier Kris Jenner or Kimmie herself. And with that, maybe I can agree with the US Weekly writer who later suggests, “Kim [is] the hardest working woman in show business”. I’ll have to, first, breathe deep through my desire to spit right there in the grocery store.
Is Kim even in show business? Is reality television show business? When I think show biz, I think of a Joan Crawford mixture of insanity and glamour and getting invited to award shows because you’re actually nominated for an award. Kim just shops and faux-fights with her family in a whispery-sweet tone while the celebrit-E! Network rolls film. Her hardest business decision, for example, isn’t whether or not she should pose nude for W Magazine but whether or not she should pretend she didn’t know she was posing nude once the photos are released and her reality show is taping. This is all make or break. I mean, choosing between dainty tears and ugly tears is truly a decision only a master of their craft could make.
But, who am I to comment? I haven’t made a single lucrative move since just before deciding to spend thousands on an education. I’m still not sure it was worth it understanding that people younger than I, like Snooki, could also be placed on this yet-to-be-seen Top 10 list of Hardest Working Show Business Women. Kim took a $10 million shit on the institution of marriage* in a Vera Wang gown and is reportedly wiping her ass from said event with a cool $18 million. And I feel so stupid because I can remember when my MSN and Yahoo news pages first alerted me to the fact that Kimmie was spending nearly $10 million on the day and I rolled my eyes with disgust as if the money was actually coming from her bank account. Jesus! She probably doesn’t even have a bank account. Definitely not one like the kind I’m able to picture in my little ol’ head—the Bank of America kind where you can check to see if you have enough for a Chipotle burrito bowl on your smartphone app. Yea, probably not that kind. There’s likely a real life wall vault situation involved with her money. People in suits have to be called when withdrawals are made. The numbers on her debit card are comprised of teeny tiny diamonds.
The truth is that Kim practically got paid to get married and is looking to get even bigger checks from the divorce fodder to follow. Unlike most of us who will hire a photographer to take pictures on our special day, Kim received $2.5 million from People for exclusive photo rights. Her dress? Free. Really, Vera? Bachelorette party at Tao? Free. The cake, invitations, hair and make-up, champaign and second and third costume changes (provided by Vera as well) were also free. How do I know all this? Because she’s absolutely everywhere. All the time. With or without a wedding. Shopping bag in hand. Scouring courts and fields and perhaps next: hockey rinks, for her next “business partner”. With the imminent end to her second marriage, she’s already spread eagle (her fave) on my newsfeed and Twitter timeline with everyday folks piecing together their best puns in 140 characters or less. Bloggers and big name publications are taking their shots too while the getting is good (myself not excluded). Kim makes it easy. A 72-day marriage quickly tops any list of Hollywood matrimonial blunders.
With all that, maybe…just maybe, Kim Kardashian is not simply the hardest working woman in show business but the most renowned ring master the mass media circus has ever seen. Editing your life into twenty episodes with confessional narration, hair and makeup for every Starbucks run, getting paid to drink and party with your friends and aligning the rise and fall of your tumultuous love life with Keeping Up and Take New York shooting schedules all while somehow making the memory of your debut, gagging on a never-quite-famous-enough R&B singer’s penis, a bit hazy is indeed NOT amateur work. And Kim does it all while keeping her audience comfortably numb. No one invites her to discuss the economy or spell any big words. We know exactly what she’s good for. Even my father has fallen victim to a Keeping Up marathon when the time is right. Whether you think it’s real, fictional or ridiculous doesn’t matter as long as you’re watching.
Ringling Brother’s, Barnum & Bailey… & Kardashian.
*I wish I had it in me to discuss what all this should mean for the legalization of gay marriage everywhere. I don’t. But you get it.
I totally support the quest to broaden one’s vocabulary. And the real world application of any new word one acquires through daily goings-on or Word of the Day emails, apps and widgets is, of course, the best way to commit such words to memory with hopes of strengthening one’s storytelling abilities. HOWEVER, over-utilizing words typically outside of one’s chosen vernacular will have one out here looking like a rookie, son!
FOR EXAMPLE, how often does one use the word “gallivant” on the day-to-day?
“Gallivant” has a giant red flag on it. It’s too flashy. It’s the kind of word you notice when you read it twice.
NO HALF-DECENT WRITER WOULD USE A WORD LIKE GALLIVANT MORE THAN ONCE IN A PIECE!
Even if the piece is titled GALLIVANTING.
Especially if the piece is titled GALLIVANTING.
Can you tell I just read something where the “writer” chose to salt and pepper his work with “gallivant”?
CAN YOU TELL!?
It seems, since I decided this writing thing is what I wanna do, I can’t help but notice when someone really fucking sucks at it.
But, whatever. This has been a word from your sponsors.
I’ve kept this rant between my bathroom mirror and I for far too long. As I Captain Morgan the toilet*, delicately pulling a razor around and across my knee (determined to make it out of this unscathed), I complain, “Hair maintenance alone is repayment enough for all my bouts of crazy”. The mirror agrees. I mean, childbirth and menstruation aside—though, there are times when my period is nearing and my nipples have literally been hard for a week and burn with the heat of a thousand suns upon the harsh and unforgiving caress of a cotton T-shirt—chicks have it bad out here. I mean, I guess with great power (vagina) comes great responsibility, but sometimes I just don’t feel like “Saving the day!”.
Luckily, I’ve gotten to a place where doing my hair (washing, blow-drying, straightening/styling) isn’t equivalent to stubbing my toe repeatedly. I can go from start to finish in a record forty-seven minutes. I’ve gotten to a point where I’m really stinkin’ happy about my hair and newfound prowess. If only the hair on my head were enough.
In the fifth grade, before a bath, I asked my mom if I could start shaving my legs. And Bernadette, the precautious, don’t-even-stare-at-those-matches-too-long kinda mom she was, came in toward the end of my bath and shaved them for me. Masterful work. No cuts. No blood. It was the beginning of the end.
So, okay, I’ll shave my legs. Been doing it for elven years now. Well, sort of doing it. If you knew me in high school you remember that one (or few) time(s) I didn’t shave my legs from October to April ‘cause I wore uniform pants, had no boyfriend, entertained the lunchroom with a game called “Christine, eat this!”, blew bubble gum bubbles with my nostrils and generally didn’t give a fuck. But, like I said, I wore pants. You won’t catch me visibly hairy. My self-esteem ain’t that high.
So, okay, legs. Fine.
Armpits too? Well, shit, okay. I’ll slap a little of that extra shaving cream from the pits on my belly button while we’re at it, ‘cause I’m a fucking wildebeest. No lol. There’s hair everywhere. The hair on my arms could be used to make a scarf and mittens set with maybe enough for a muff too. Sometimes when I catch my upper lip in certain light, I realize that that’s indeed not a shadow but a sixteen-year-old boys mustache. Let’s not forget about the pesky little hairs on my chin that seem to pop up at full-length whenever I am in public and most without tweezers. We’ll file that right behind the singular hair on either of my big toes and whatever tribute to Planet of the Apes my knuckles are planning.
Editor’s Note: I wrote all this and completely forgot about the eyebrows. While I do my best to ensure no one confuses me with a Sesame Street character you can gripe all you want at my suggestion to let me pluck a few stray hairs. ‘Cause you’re a dude and it’s whatever.
So, after all this, I’m also required to strip my vagina bare? Hmph!
I agree with most men that “She” does look better without a sweater. And it’s more likely that lovers will be willing to please in more ways than one, but like, sometimes I don’t give a flying fuck about you and what your’e willing to do. I don’t mind shaving/waxing/maintaining Her. I’ll do it when I get around to it. I don’t need you harping on it or making any kinda commentary at all. This is my fucking vagina. Sometimes I just don’t fucking feel like it, okay? And it’s not like a pair of legs where I can do it half drunk with one eye open. There’s, like, twists and turns down there. A bitch needs to be alert and mindful.
Dudes, just get off our backs. We get it. You all need to understand that we have a lot going on. We’re doing everything you’re doing, while also being told (by the media) we are not skinny or pretty enough, bleeding monthly (our eggs rotting and dying right within us while you all giggle about what you believe to be mythical biological clocks) and remaining as silky smooth as possible…everywhere!
PS: This was in no way a personal attack on @COOLMRROGERS. He likes my blog and therefore I like him. I follow him on Twitter and find him both funny and ridiculous. I’ve thought on numerous occasions of doing a #FollowFriday inspired by him for the most ludicrous people on my timeline because there are times when I read his tweets and wish free speech wasn’t, like, a thing.
*coined by MARISSA A. ROSS in episode 3 of TANGENT & THE TIMES
So, I’m roaming the internets as I too often do, reading blogs and scrolling through every day people wearing clothes I can yet afford, when I stumble across a photograph of a cute, casually dressed man in cropped pants. Now, because it’s 2011 I’m learning to deal with the whole guys with style thing and get that there are many men—gay, straight and deciding—who understand not only the “rules of fashion” but are taking it a step further by creating their own personal style. So, cropped pants forgiven.
I have this thing I do sometimes when I come across an attractive man. I wonder, “Would he ever date me?”. There was this one guy in college (that’s weird to say, ‘cause I was totally IN college once) who was a member of a Christian fraternity that I had a fake crush on for like a week or something. But I always told myself that he would absolutely never ever go for a chick like me. I mean, I’m a Christian but not a stomp the yard Christian, ya know? I have no problem with you doing you but I’d hate to fight over how I’m “not really into Bible study this week” or that drunk dial from Thursday night. In all, I’m just not ready to come to grips with the fact that I’ve strayed a smidge from Sunday school’s past and could probably stand another baptism…or ten.
This all comes from a place of embarrassment and confusion. I stare at Casually Dressed Photograph Man and a slew of thoughts fill my head and rush out of my mouth:
He’s cute. I like his top. It’s like a lighter grade of cotton, I like tops like that. They flow. Wait. Hmm. Did he want it to flow? Oh wow! He’s probably gay. Yea, well..I mean, maybe he’s not. But those ARE cropped pants. And espadrilles? Straight dudes wear espadrilles though. But they probably don’t know that they’re called espadrilles. He probably knows that they’re called espadrilles. Yea, he’s gay. Oh geeze, can I not tell gay from straight anymore? He’s totally gay, Christine. You’re attracted to gay men. You like a man in culottes, don’t you? I should’ve known. His cropped pants are kinda snug. And his legs are skinnier than mine. OMG! His thighs don’t touch. He would never go for me. My thighs are biffles. I wonder if he works out. I really couldn’t handle that kind of pressure. God, he’s probably a vegan or something. Christine, what is wrong with you? You totally like gay-looking dudes. No I don’t. Yes, you do! But I don’t. It’s proven, Christine. You do.
It ends with me scream-whining “He’s just really stylish!” to my computer and a room full of other inanimate objects.
Gone are the days when women could use style as a means to distinguish homo and hetero. Men are like, wearing beaded bracelets now. Ten years ago you could tear a small ligament trying to talk a man into a paisley tie. Now, he’s wearing a paisley shirt while you talk him OUT of paisley pants. Whatever happened to getting scoffed at for suggesting a salmon button-up? Why, now, do men suddenly understand salmon as distinct from pink and peach? What ever happened to the days when he’d suggest you wear that blue top that’s actually turquoise? Really, when did a man’s understanding of color go beyond “red and blue make purple”? I need to know. And while we’re on the topic, I’m declaring right here and now that I don’t want any man I date to have a functional knowledge of ‘color blocking’. I don’t mind if it happens by accident but I refuse to help you pick out the perfect teal to off-set that orange. I refuse.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a man with a sense of style…and don’t get me started on a man in a suit and tie. Jesus save me! But I sometimes get intimidated when that style exceeds my own, which honesty isn’t too hard when I can most often be seen in twelve dollar Forever 21 jeans and a T-shirt. It’s just like, you’re making it hard for me, man. I mean, what do you really want me to think when there’s a fox tail hanging out of your left back pocket and you’re wearing necklaces and shit (like more than one…none of which is some kind of keepsake, none of which show any sort of religious affiliation)? Maybe other chicks don’t think on things has hard and long as I do. And I know for a fact that many people’s minds won’t see the far escapes mine have traveled. But I think most people can understand how it’s difficult to imagine your fingers in my panties amongst the jingle jangle of your accessories!
I’m grateful to Casually Dressed Photograph Man for making me further appreciate that the dude I date wears lots of Dri-fit and ignores me Thursday-Monday for football.
I decided the other day that I’m never having a personal conversation in public ever never ever again. EXSPECIALLY (said so tough it has to be spelled incorrectly) the kind of personal conversations where you end up recapping highlights fromlast night’s main event at the gym or something (the “or something” is for me, honey, ‘cause baby girl ain’t seen a gym). Those conversations where it just so happens he calls when you just so happen to be out and your vagina just so happens to thrust toward the phone in loving memory. And you talk in that whispery tone as if absolutely no one around you will be able to decipher it, saying things like, “Yeaaaaa ::giggles:: I liked it when you did that thing…you know, in my mouth…you know what I’m talking about”. Com’on girl! Either you think I’m in the third grade or that I don’t know the specifics of tea-bagging. I’m insulted either way.
This new lifestyle choice came about the other day when I found out just how painfully awkward “painfully awkward” can be. And, in accordance with the best of awkward tales, the story begins with “So, the other day I was in line at…”. So, the other day I was in line at Walgreens, minding own business when a young lady comes up behind me saying, “Yea, I seent it”. I smile because I can appreciate the joke in using the word “seent” in a non-joking manner. She went on to say, “I wasn’t surprised. I knew what it was when I saw ‘Multimedia Message’ pop up in my phone”. At that moment I had to suck in awkward giggles because I too have experienced the all-knowing feeling that comes with receiving a multimedia message from certain someones. But, I mean, it was noon in Walgreens and I was in a t-shirt and flip flops, ya know, just really unprepared for imagining someone else’s boyfriend’s penis. I like to at least have socks on for that. Oh, and I don’t know if you know but if you’re whispering on the phone right behind someone (close enough that they can hear your bf on the phone), you’re kinda also whispering to that person, which is just really inconsiderate when there’s only one register open and some extreme couponer lady making demands in Photo. And WHY CAN I HEAR THE PERSON ON THE OTHER END? Apparently, they’re sitting comfortably at home (comfortable enough to snap nudies) in which case THEY should be the one saying all the dirty inappropriate things whilst you simply giggle and respond either “Yes” or “No”. “Yes” or “No”. That is all. No cute hints that you think only he’ll understand. It’s likelier to go over his head and hit an innocent bystander. Really, lives are at stake.
While we’re on the subject, can we all agree that a woman sending nude photos to a man is different than a man sending nude photos to a woman? Different in whatever way you like as long as we can agree it’s just… different. I mean, even in my younger days when I thought pictures were something I wanted, upon receiving them, I’d look and that was it. Didn’t use it for masturbation inspiration and didn’t visit it on lonely nights. It’s actually more likely that I’d delete it than anything else. What men may not get is that women don’t sit around thinking about penis. Post sex, a man may find himself with the memory of very specific body parts swimming in his head (and an image of any would surely be welcomed) whereas a woman thinks about how the sex made her feel. Your penis doesn’t give us warm fuzzy feelings. If anything your penis reminds us of 1) the pleasure the penis can provide 2) the person attached to the penis. But in most cases, an isolated phallic image kinda leaves something to be desired. If anything, send a whole body shot—let me see them V-cuts shawty or those butt cheeks (I like athletic boy butt cheeks) or something!
…but then I think of any boy posing for a cell phone/mirror picture with his butt sticking out and I want to be beaten over the head with a meat mallet.
Editor’s Note: A survey from dating site Zoosk.com polled more than 5,000 members of its online dating community and 61% of females said it was “creepy” to receive an unexpected naughty picture from a guy. By contrast, 74% of guys in the survey said they would find it “sexy” to receive an unexpected naughty photo from a woman. (via @MHGirlNextDoor)
This SEXURDAY is an attempt to change the way men think about sex by offering up a little insight on the world of the female orgasm. This post will be unlike previous SEXURDAYs in that there won’t be tips. It shouldn’t be taken as a user’s manual but a few words from a wise old friend. Or a few words from a twenty-two year old, unemployed college grad with a computer and like, opinions and stuff. Whatever.
Men, let me be your Mr. Miyagi.
I was on the phone with my boo-thang earlier today and I ended up kinda (well, not ‘kinda’) touching myself. But it wasn’t your typical phone sex situation it was more like I was going to Walgreens later, remembered I probably needed to stock up on some “landscaping” tools, went down there to check out the situation and decided to stay. Yea, I just overshared, but since when is that a problem? Anyway, I discovered a new way of doing things today, some mystery spot that I hadn’t yet tapped into suddenly came alive this afternoon. I orgasmed in like, seven minutes and that just doesn’t happen around these parts (He had no idea until I cut him off mid-sentence with sounds I’m sure he thought came straight from heaven). So, at twenty two, after over tens years of masturbation and all-around sexual curiosity, I found a new way to get the job done. I shared that little anecdote with you so that when I tell you, in full confidence, that it is unlikely you know next to anything about the way a woman works, you will accept it as truth and use this post as fuel for your learning.
Men, I am telling you now, a lot of you have never seen a real orgasm. What’s worse? Most of you reading this are shaking your heads in disbelief, calling me crazy or saying, “She’s not talking to me”. Take this from a person you can trust. You know me. I’m not some man-hating bitch out here complaining about how y’all just can’t get it right (I mean, I complain, but I’m nice about it). I’m seriously staring you directly in your cyber-eyes and telling you with all fervency that you have probably not made a woman orgasm in real life. But, okay… okay, I’ll account for the few exceptions we have among us. But I can confidently say that any one of you that honestly believes he’s made every woman he’s ever been with orgasm, is sorely mistaken. Furthermore, anyone of you under the impression that every “orgasm” you’ve seen was the real thing, are also mistaken. I will be generous and give you one orgasm for every four sexual encounters and that’s being real real generous. Better yet, take whatever number it is you may have, cut it in half and divide by three. I made that up hoping most of you would come up with next to nothing so as to prove my point.
*Quick lesson on female orgasms: no matter the noises, when a woman really orgasms, the walls of her vagina contract. She will likely push you away in attempts to get your wang out her thang before she explodes and if/when she is unable you should feel it pulsing on your penis. This is 101, people, but I’m here for you.
Also, a note to women, if you’re going to fake an orgasm you should bust out those Kegel exercises so as to make the experience more authentic. You’re welcome.
I say all this so confidently because I’m a woman. I know women. These are not just my thoughts. These are the thoughts of dozens of my friends and their friends and their friends. We talk a lot..about A LOT.
So, young grasshoppers, let me try my best to explain to you what sex is really like from a woman’s perspective. Now, when you stick your penis in a vagina it feels like a warm, wet hug, right? Like apple pie, apparently (I ask guys all the time to describe what it feels like because I can’t even imagine how fucking awesome it is) It feels nice to us too, but in a different way. For most girls, there’s some obvious tension in the beginning, but once the penis is inside there’s this kind of full feeling. The cooch is a crevice and it’s nice to have something to fill the space. For the first few moments, sex is really enjoyable because the sensation is still novel and we’re all naked and sexy-like or whatever. After this point, though, the sex stays at “good” unless you take things into your own hands (or mouth). I hope I don’t discourage too many of you when I say that after the first few minutes, most girls would be able to look at you with a straight, expressionless face simply because the “penis goes into vagina” routine gets old (After a while, we just want you to finish so we can put ‘ranch dressing’ on the grocery list before we forget again). Our bodies will stop responding and the moans and pained faces are the act we put on because, well, we’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, right? This is why flipping and dipping us all over the bed, bathroom, kitchen is your best bet.
Most of you have the flipping and dipping part down, but the clitoris is where you miss the mark. Penis-meets-vagina does not fully engage the clitoris. Meaning you’re going to have to go in personally and say hello (Or perhaps a polite two-fingered “wave” for those of you under the “Ew, Vagina!” Act). For as long as you ignore this area, you are only engaging fifty percent of our sexual potential. What if I gave you a hand job, but never touched the tip of your penis (I just ran my hand up and down the shaft)? You’d say, “What the fuck is this?”. Right. That is exactly what you all are doing to us every time you don’t show the clit some love. There’s 8,000 nerve endings in the clitoris, twice as much as the penis. You could crush our world with this shit. So much untapped potential. Ugh! You guys piss me off.
*Note also, it would serve a lot of you well to spend some time on the “clitoris” Wikipedia page. Study the geography of the vagina. There’s no shame in it. Master your craft. Get serious about your art. I will share one small tip. A lot of you are doing much more than necessary down there. Again, it’s thinking that men and women enjoy the same things that’s tripping you up. Though it’s sometimes nice, there’s no need to put your entire face on my vagina, tonguing whatever and wetting things up half-hazardly. LIke I said, it’s cool sometimes, but you’re putting forth all that energy to get no result. If you take your time and pin point my clitoris, all you need is a stiff tongue and a varied cadence. Knowing what you’re doing down there is key. Like, do you even know that the clitoris has a hood and it behoves you to push that sucker back while doing your thing? Yea, check out that Wikipedia page, bro.
There are [few] women who can orgasm without clitoral stimulation. I only know one of these mysterious, endangered species personally.
I have friends who think they’ve had an orgasm before. Like, what? Ladies, let me tell you that there is no way on God’s green earth you could be confused about whether or not you had an orgasm. No way. It’s so interesting hearing different people describe what an orgasm feels like. Everyone will tell you something different, but most agree that it’s an all-encompassing earth shattering kinda thing that you would know if you saw. To me, an orgasm feels like you’re on the brink. Like, you’re about to lose your mind, but you really don’t know what you’re about to lose because your entire body is freaking out. And your mind is like WAIT! WAIT! and your body is like HOLY FUCK! And when I say your whole body, I’m talking down to your toe nails. Your legs are tight. Your abs are tight. Your back is arched. Your head is thrown back. Your mouth is open. And you’re just like PUSH ME OVER THE FUCKING EDGE ALREADY! You can’t even moan at this point, it’s all growls or shocked silence. And suddenly, BOOM! You’re shaking like a leaf, don’t know left from right, up from down. The most vulnerable I’ve ever felt in life. It’s such a carnal…I don’t know you just feel very…human afterward. Like, you just gave yourself to earth or something. I don’t know. I’m sounding crazy right now, but that should also be a testament to how insane the female orgasm is.
Watch these ladies talk about it below and notice how much UNLIKE the male orgasm it is. I promise the more you understand that sex for us is completely and utterly different, the more success you will have.
A change in mindset would do a lot of you some good. What you know, or think you know, about female pleasure changes with each woman you encounter. So, all that shit you’re talkin’ about how you can do this, that and the other thing, you can save for Betty Sue. ‘Cause what works on Betty Sue doesn’t necessarily work for me. Each time is the first time. You will do well being a constant student, learning from each vagina you’re with—taking care to know what makes her twitch. All this bravado and bullshit most of you bring to the table is simply not cutting it whether the girl you’re with is telling you so or not (We’ll talk about why the hell women fake orgasms in the first place at a later date). Know that just because you’re enjoying yourself, doesn’t mean we are. Know that the female orgasm is something you wanna see. And if nothing else, know that women talk and if you suck in the sack, you’re ripe for conversation.
Now, go crush some chick’s world. Make her think it’s the rapture!
So, I’ve had some weird dreams recently. Weird because I’ve been pregnant or nursing for about a week now…within the dream. And my dream architect is totally fucking with me. He’s so good. There’s been the same little caramel nugget of a perfect baby in every dream. A son with no name nestled perfectly in my bosom. And he always twies to wift his wittle head up to wook at me, but he can’t quite hold it up all by himselfs. Y’all! I was/am in love with this child —my child. I can’t even describe how I’ve been waking up with like, postpartum depression upon realizing I don’t actually have a baby and everything was a lie (I’m aware that there’s probs a little more to the whole postpartum depression thing). I’m like Sally Field in the dinner scene at the end of Mrs. Doubtfire. “The whole time? The whole time? THE WHOLE TIME!?” My hormone levels rage and I totally Hulk out. I’m surprised I haven’t grown a beard with all the cellular changes taking place inside my body. One minute I’m lactating and the next I’ve miscarried. Its insanity.
And let’s not even get into the actual dream. In one of the most recent, I was a part of some weird celebrity version of a Road Rules/Real World Challenge kind of show where we performed all the typical crazy stunts with our babies strapped to our chests like a day out at the zoo. Crazy times, right? I’m a whole celebrity! And then later that night when we were all discussing who we’d vote into the Gauntlet or whatever, our babies were in the jacuzzi with us. No worries though, I did not let Little Nugget have any of my wine cooler. Also, Kourtney Kardashian was there and we were biffles. I cannot vouch for the sobriety of her baby, however.
In case you were wondering, it was Kanye West’s child hence, the celeb status. He called me and the screen definitely read: “Christine’s husband, Kanye West”. Bow!
Moral of the story is, I want a baby. But not now…unless it’s with Kanye West. But really, now because I have nothing better to do with my life and secretly worry that after graduation I’ll end up working at a Foot Locker (I also secretly worry about Kanye’s romantic availability in the three to five years it may take me to reach the “top” and what have you). Which would obviously suck but much less so with a baby, right? No. I realize I’m being completely irrational. But in all my dream-deciphering glory, I concluded that my Little Nugget represents the future I obviously want and am worried about, Kanye West represents all my life’s most desperate dreams come true, and wine coolers represent tequila.
All this is just a nice segue into what I really came here to tell you today: I’m going crazy.
Literally, losing my mind. But not in an obvious, “seek help now” kinda way. In an “I really have a taste for syrup right now” kinda way. Yes, I’m stress eating. Yes, stress eating is a real thing. My friend and I didn’t realize what it was until we found ourselves chatting for a good hour about all the things we ate that day…at two in the afternoon! I’m a few months away from a TLC special: “The Girl That Used to be Pretty Until She Started Eating Hot Dogs For Breakfast”. But really, mentioning hot dogs just then is sending me into a frenzy. My brain went from hot dogs to nachos to garlic cheese bread. I’m currently envisioning a world where it’s okay to store pepperoni slices in the hollows of my cheeks.
I will say it again: I am losing my mind.
Let’s talk about how I’ve had maybe two meat ball sandwiches in my entire life, but ate one a couple weeks ago that I still rave about. My friends are going to roll their eyes as they read. Yes, that same damn meatball sandwich!! It was inspired. Sooooo delicious! If I speak on it any further I’ll have to change my underwear. I’ve never been the person that feeds into cravings. Food
doesn’t didn’t have much control over me, but now I will wait fifteen minutes for McDonald’s to make fresh apple pies and proceed to break up said pie and drop it into a caramel sundae (this happened after the meatball sandwich, mind you). And don’t get me started on how any mention of cheese will be Droolsville, USA. Oh, funny story! So, last night, my roomie said something about a Mighty Kids Meal and some hot tamales (we may or may not have been on drugs). Given what you’ve just read, you know I was all for it. I’m all inside my own head wondering whose Latina grandmother she knows or if we’re talking about a particular restaurant or some frozen swag like, what’s the move? Then I asked where we were getting the tamales from only to be disgusted at the fact that she meant Hot Tamales. As in the candy that all children agreed we disliked and would continue to dislike for all times.
So with that I suppose I haven’t completely lost it. Because Hot Tamales are gross and when I start thinking they’re ungross or decide shoving them in an order of Beef and Broccoli is okay, I’ll check myself in somewhere.
That’s all for now,
PS: With all the freaky baby dreams and weird cravings, some would suggest I see a doctor, but I haven’t had sex since King died and The Big Homie and I both know I’m not fit to be Mary 2.0. No worries, guys.