A few weeks ago, I found a new hobby. For an hour or so every night, I would collect a handful of the most illiterate and horrifying Craigslist personal ads imaginable. Then, I would send the links to my boyfriend and before bed, he would read them to me as phonetically as possible in order to really emphasize the I am so fucking desperate I can’t be bothered to spell-check this well and mostly because my internet access at the library is about to expire quality of each ad. As bedtime stories go they had everything – a fallen hero (or more realistically, someone who never got up in the first place), usually some sort of infidelity that required a clandestine meeting, and of course, the deeply disillusioned idea that their dick was worthy of a honey baked ham, much less a woman with an equally savory, but somewhat less edible, vagina.
Like many of my hobbies, it was short lived and able to be done from the couch. There are really only so many times you can laugh at the fact that an alarming number of people don’t know that there is a difference between ‘woman’ and ‘women.’ Oh, and not surprisingly, seeing the cock and balls of men who seemingly traded in all of their potential for extra hair on their taints can put a damper on your sex life.
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I am rarely ever able to take advice. And, despite what you may be thinking, this isn’t a roundabout way for me to say that I listen to Papa Roach and fasten my pants with a belt buckle shaped like a gun. Instead, it’s a way to express that sometimes I am just a different kind of moron.
When I was in middle school, I made myself look like Eddie Munster’s twin, only with more hair product and eyeliner. My dad, as delicately as could be, suggested I go the more natural route. However, that only caused me to increase the amount of hair spray I used, which curiously seemed to have a direct relationship with the number of people who would be willing to see my boobs.
When I was in high school, my parents pleaded with me to take driver’s ed so I could get my license and have a life outside of watching Shipmates and fashioning dildos out of tampons. I refused, mostly because I was too busy taking Latin online. As a result, I got my license at the age of 21.
When I was in college, I was urged to major in anything other than Art History in order to ensure that my degree would mean more than my ability to offer up the history of the paper it was printed on.
But, I own my mistakes. I would even go so far as to say that I cuddle my mistakes at night and seductively whisper in their ear that they’re not mistakes in my eyes and they’ll be all like ‘You’re just saying that’ and I’ll just kind of smile since they have no idea. Because for me, my mistakes comprise a chain of the happiest accidents I could ever hope for. I was hideous for years, which meant that it didn’t matter that I had no life in high school, which then led to me majoring in Art History because really, the only thing more tailored for losers would’ve been ‘Anime’, and here I am – grateful for all of it.
This is why I think Steven Ward should be hung by his scrotum from a meat hook and forced to drink Clamato while watching re-runs of Night Court. If you’re unfamiliar with the name, I don’t blame you. But, Steven Ward is a self-proclaimed matchmaker who asserts that he is, “on a mission to bring love into peoples’ lives one soul at a time.” Since bringing love into peoples’ lives goes hand in hand with having a reality show on VH1, guess how I know about this poor man’s Matt LeBlanc?
They're totally fucking.
He, along with his mother JoAnn, host Tough Love – a show full of so much bullshit, it makes Dick Cheney look like the kind of guy you’d go out drinking with and trust to drive your car back at the end of the night. The premise is simple – assemble a group of women who can’t find men because of commitment issues, career obsession, body image or all of the above. Then, he fixes them by instructing that they all stop being such sluts. With its assumption that women need to take it upon themselves to keep a relationship or risk being thrown away like an old pair of underwear because the elastic has broken, Tough Love is a feminist’s worst nightmare. Luckily, I’m not a feminist. I’m just kind of irked in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The differences may be negligible, I understand, but I don’t want to harp about slut shame or how this show, along with Tucker Max, hurts society.
My issue is that choice is stripped of these women all so they can find a man with just the right amount of tribal tattoos as to be bad ass, but at the same time employable. They are advised on how to conduct themselves in the company of men (usually this means that they don’t say anything at all) and since most of these women are both dependent on alcohol and estranged from their child’s father, it is not pessimistic of me to assume that they will make mistakes along the way. The biggest one most likely being that they signed up to be on a VH1 reality show. But they’re Steve Ward’s mistakes as delivered to him by the umbilical cord he undoubtedly still shares with his mother.
Point is – never take anyone’s advice seriously. Unless of course it’s coming from a 20-something who just ate a sleeve of Oreos in her Snuggie. Only then does it make sense.
A few years ago, I went to Las Vegas with my ex one month after breaking up. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but it’s not like I would’ve even considered it if we hadn’t still been living together and sharing the same bed. Come on, guys. I’m not an idiot.
Seriously though, we (I) had already paid for the trip before deciding to make the whole loveless no sex thing official and no amount of “I just don’t have feelings for you anymore…now please stop touching me” was going to keep me away from those buffets. There were also plenty of opportunities to get plastered and since I had it on good authority that my life was falling apart, I knew I could capitalize. Sadly, the closest I ever got was half a strawberry daiquiri at this raunchy little acrobatic show where all of the men let their cock and balls hang out while they juggle over-sized root vegetables. This is primarily because Cirque du Soleil grossly overcharges for their drinks and also because I didn’t want to be hungover for the next day because I had plans to go to an exhibit of Picasso’s ceramics at the Bellagio. Yeah.
The only thing that could’ve made my trip a little more Lance Bass would’ve been well…another Cirque du Soleil show, probably. But after two hours of low lighting, creaky floors and unnaturally rendered breasts, I couldn’t convince myself that I was plunging into a stripper’s fjord of glittery flesh instead of quietly assessing the influence of African art on Picasso’s work. Mostly because I wasn’t wearing my boner concealing sweat pants. But also because I was distracted by a nagging sharp pain above my rib cage.
There was no mistaking what this was, even though I had never technically encountered it before. The underwire in the bra that I bought for $11.99 and wore every day for at least one year had escaped from its garish weave of faded maroon lace. At that time, I didn’t wear bras based on how sexy they were (clearly), I wore them so that my nipples wouldn’t get caught in the waistband of my pants. After numerous futile attempts to reunite the wire with the fabric, I decided it was time for a new bra. Luckily, there was a Victoria’s Secret nearby and while the only thing I’d ever bought from them was a pink polka-dot pajama set for my first year of college (you can imagine how popular I was), I was determined to figure out how to house my boobs. I avoided their pushy and intrusive staff at all costs, not wanting to potentially come to terms with the fact that I would be better suited attaching two bowling ball shammies to a seat belt, and headed straight for their line of wireless bras.
Now without what used to be my boyfriend and what used to be my bra, I was left to weigh my options alone. It was a small step, sure, but it ended up being the first one in what eventually blossomed into an appreciation for my body and its potential to be sexy instead of simply utilitarian. It was also what turned me into a loyal Victoria’s Secret customer.
Even though I don’t believe in the first (and only) tenet of Victoria’s Secret that BIGGER BOOBS = BIGGER DOWRY, I can’t argue with their ability to make a bra that combines fit, longevity and boner appeal. Other things I can’t argue with? The fact that they have testicles so large that they make a Level 5 padded bra in 36DD. The only thing more illogical and useless would be a Broadway production of Kindergarten Cop. So of course I bought one.
This is my first padded bra and although it’s not something I plan on wearing everyday, I’m amazed at its comfort level and how dramatic the effect is. The bra claims to add up to two cup sizes, and from my experience, it delivers on that promise. Oh, and if you want to wear this with a freakum dress or something, the straps can be worn as halter or racer-back.
Left: Clown tits in VS Miraculous push-up, Right: Regular tits in VS Angels Ipex demi bra
The VS Miraculous push-up truly surpassed my expectations. I actually had a lot of fun turning my breasts into something comically large enough to appear in Cirque du Soleil, but still realistic enough to suggest that I just got it like that. With any luck, the next time I go to Vegas, I can be the stripper instead of making a halfhearted attempt to pretend that I touched one.
Can we talk about my pubic hair for a minute? If I had my druthers, I would grow a bush so big it would become a threat to national security. But as it turns out, that kind of plumage really cuts down on the toe curling when I’m grinding face. So I choose to keep it trimmed, and for special occasions like when I’m trying to fuck with Al Gore and use as much hot water as possible, I’ll shave it off completely.
Luckily, my hair is trimmed now, which means that when I found a way to dye it, I could. I’m not sure how I came across the Betty Beauty products, but since my days are usually like one long, aimless walk in the forest that end only when I stumble upon a patch of sleepy-time mushrooms, I’ll probably never remember. The important thing is that I found a way to get rid of my dull dirty blond pussy toupee.
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