Posts tagged as:
I dyed my hair. I’ve never dyed my hair.
I’ve also never had a breakup as painful as the one I’ve been going through for the past month or more. Or lived alone. Or been this scared. Or lost. Or inarticulate.
But one day, I’ll be okay. I know that much.
{ 16 comments }
I lived in Alaska as a kid and while that alone borders on child abuse, I did get out eventually. Before leaving on what ended up being hours of precarious mountain driving in a Cadillac Caprice with a transmission on the verge of signing its Dear John letter, I rifled through my mom’s cassette collection. Since I was nine-years-old and really only familiar with The Lion King soundtrack, much of it was lost on me. With an uncommitted gaze, I dismissed Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and The Rolling Stones as if they were hanging on a sales rack at Old Navy.
But I was able to recognize one – Michael Jackson’s Dangerous. Its contents tore through the foam of my headphones throughout the entire trip. The only exception being “In the Closet,” when I would lower the volume because even though I didn’t know what it meant to “give it,” I figured that whatever it was would result in a conversation that I was too young to understand but old enough to feel embarrassed about.
Luckily, I’ve since grasped the concept. Which is why I’m able to appreciate Majela’s position on bearded men tickling her vagina:
After spending my afternoon perfecting the casual way in which she strums her vagina, I noticed the impressive cassette collection in her living room, or rather, shrine to the day that someone graduated from something. I can only hope that Dangerous is buried there somewhere and that, if given the opportunity, I’d have enough sense to swipe the cassettes that inspired her to sing about her “wet, wet, wet juicy vagina.”
{ 3 comments }
Earlier today, I was on the hunt for a lunch box I had a few years ago. It carried my handcrafted and snack cake heavy lunches from grades 10 through 12. So yes, while I was one of those quirky assholes in high school who toted around a lunch box appropriate for a 6-year-old, I at least had the decency to eat alone and delude myself into thinking that my peers would probably consider me a friend if I just stopped using so much hairspray in my bangs. Then I’d rebut the imaginary argument by explaining to myself that since my face is chubby, I need to cut down on as much extra volume as I can and it’s not like you have a better idea. Stop crying.
It was a plastic yellow rectangle showcasing Sesame Street’s Snuffaluffagus and Big Bird, along with the claim that they were ‘Best Friends.’ Now, even though I had about 16 years of exposure, I never thought of those two to be best friends. I considered the claim to be dubious at best but, knowing that ‘tolerant neighbors with palpable sexual tension’ was too wordy, I reluctantly accepted it.
My search was fruitless. I did, however, find other Big Bird items ideal for alienating everyone you know.
Sexy Big Bird? Seriously? Sexy Mr. Hooper has a better chance at getting laid. But forget about the fact that Big Bird lives in a giant nest and has an unnatural attachment to a teddy bear, check out those fuck-me pumps.
Now, this doesn’t work very well for a costume since it’s technically a sweater, but it is the perfect way to say, “Hey, it’s not like I want to take a bath with your kid, I just kind of have to.”
Speaking of children:
Take away the giant beak and imagine, for a moment, that this child is masquerading as a giant yellow penis. It shouldn’t be too hard because that’s exactly what’s going on here. Whoever photographed this despite the I’m so excited/I’m so scared facial expression is one sick fuck.
My guess is that it was Mr. Jazz Hands up there.
{ 1 comment }
I waxed my vagina. At home. On a towel. In a room with one 60 watt light bulb. The scene was just one step up from what would typically be provided for a dog before giving birth. About the same amount of blood though.
I’ve had an issue with body hair since I was about nine years old. That’s when I let my own paranoia falsely convince me that other girls my age were shaving their legs, so I should too. For weeks I went to school with noticeable cuts around my ankles and in the government subsidized light of my classroom, noticed that without their dusting of blonde hair, my legs looked a lot like discounted lunch meat. From there I moved on to my arms, 60% of my eyebrows and, soon after learning about nocturnal emissions and birthing hips, my pubic area. My endeavor to turn myself into the surface of a bowling ball came with very little conscious effort. Most of it was simply motivated by the need to be consistent.
However, my pubic hair was an entirely different beast. I vacillated between a bush so voluminous it was noticeable through jeans and Barbie crotch. I could get away with it because, other than my tracings of rare dog breeds, no one ever saw me naked. Still, I preferred to be completely bare. Years of trial and error informed me that orgasms were easier to come by when I actually had direct access to myself and not something akin to a squirrel pelt. But since I had no real reason to be fastidious about maintaining a vagina suitable for moonwalking, I slid back into indifference.
Then I discovered oral sex and the details are hazy from there. But from that moment, I became nearly obsessed with what I could do to make my vagina more welcoming for someone’s face. I knew that my pubic hair could grow to almost inhumane lengths and I never wanted to go back, fearing that both the frequency and sensation would wane. Luckily, not even my ham-fisted attempts at shaving around my ski slopes could dissuade the shared inexperience and desperation of 17-year-olds.
Eventually I found myself in a relationship where cunnilingus was nearly a daily activity and not just something that was done when his parents left to go grocery shopping. I soon realized that my razor could no longer keep up.
Which is why, when my boyfriend suggested that I wax my vagina, I agreed. He even said he’d do it for me, all I needed to do was order the wax. The first sign that I was absolutely fucked came when he decided to slather wax on my cunt like he was buttering toast, instead of applying it in strips. By the time I looked down, the wax had already hardened and I was left there wondering why I let him do this to me, considering that I still have to find socks for him in the morning. I started panicking because I knew that, outside of melting the wax off with an iron pressed against my labia, I was now committed to having my pubes torn out en masse. Aside from being unable to find even one sock out of a collection of 50, he also lacks manual dexterity. I learned this when it took three or four pulls to successfully emancipate each portion of flesh from the wax puddle he created. The pain was immense, but I couldn’t really be too angry because I probably would’ve stripped myself of the ability to urinate if I tried to do it myself.
After each abortive yank, I had to ask him to stop so I could drain the tension out of my muscles. I also needed to make sure I still had a clitoris. During this time he would apply ice to the area that now had its own heartbeat and remind me that I could hold on to him to help with the pain. If I hadn’t been busy wiping the torture-induced tears from the side of my face, I would’ve asked him if he also goes to the Burn Ward to offer patients advice on how to crate train a new puppy. Because unless he was going to spontaneously secrete morphine, that offer was useless to me.
Somehow, after many suggestions that I pet my freshly removed hair because, ‘it feels like a cat nose,’ I got through it. I couldn’t argue with the results. My vagina felt like a handful of baby powder, but it would’ve had to start whistling The Best of Bobby McFerrin for me to consider it a winning value proposition.
I resented my boyfriend for a few days after that. I took most of it out on his face, seeking solace in the fact that he could hardly breathe. Yeah, it’s a weak victory – I go through a medieval level of pain, he gets to eat pussy. But just give me a few months, when I welcome back the Barbara Bush. And force him to formally address her. And remove her smart little skirt suit with his teeth.
{ 6 comments }
I found this ‘Heart in Oregon’ sticker today while packing. I bought it weeks after moving here with the intention of putting it on the rear window of my car just to show everyone how not insecure I was about being an outsider. Since I still had Florida plates, it sat unpeeled in my nightstand for months because I didn’t want to illicit any ‘wait a minute’ epiphanies from cops who could pull me over for not registering the car 30 days after relocating.
Eventually, I registered with the state of Oregon. The plates came in the mail a few days ago, nearly hours after making the decision to leave.
I’m still debating whether I should use the sticker or put it in my ‘what could’ve been’ box along with my unsent letters to Tucker Carlson and a VHS tape in which I perform the voices of a googly eyed banana and a unibrowed jar of Pace Picante Sauce in order to explain the dangers of drunk driving. It seems hypocritical to claim that my heart is in a place where I lived for less time than the duration of Freaks and Geeks, but in a lot of ways, it’s accurate. Oregon represents the first time I drove across the U.S. as an adult, the first time I irresponsibly blew a significant amount of money to go overseas, and the first time I realized that people will put venison in anything.
I hope we can be together sometime in the future, Oregon. Just know that I’ll always remember you for your fondness of seasoned tater tots, more breweries than I’ve had orgasms, and the abundance of unkempt but practical facial hair.
{ 1 comment }
