Packing all of my belongings into boxes has provided me an opportunity to look back on all of the things I’ve wasted my money on. So far, I’ve found a pair of shoes adorned with a tiny sterling silver fork and spoon, an overweight sex doll who goes by the name of ‘Fatima’ and this:
A ski mask that I just had to have to survive the Oregon winters. Aside from the fact that it’s thinner than most of my underwear, this ski mask just screams, ‘douche who doesn’t condone sweatshop labor but only cares enough to spend $15 on a useless and totally clever balaclava.’
Oh and the shirt proves that I will buy anything with a cat on it.
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.
Continue reading…
I bought a cupcake shake last night from Burger King. I didn’t get a picture of it because there isn’t a camera in existence that would’ve been able to capture it in the time before it was devoured. The cupcake shake mimics the taste of cake batter, but the best part is that you don’t have to worry about getting salmonella or diarrhea from the raw eggs (well…it’s Burger King so you probably still do BUT it’s totally worth it). There’s a dollop of whipped cream with sprinkles on top and what I think is ACTUAL CAKE at the bottom. Oh and it comes with what they call a ‘BK Pipe’ (straw) which is about the size of a hot dog. Full disclosure? I’m typing with one hand right now.
I had to fight for this shake. My boyfriend was skeptical and so was hesitant to take the plunge with me. But cake and I are total buds and since I’ve never been let down by anything that tastes like it, my faith didn’t waver. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Can we get a cupcake shake from Burger King?
Him: No, we have to eat dinner first.
Me: Ok, well can we go after dinner?
Him: Maybe.
Me: Ok so we’ll go after dinner.
Him: We’ll go a few hours after dinner.
Me: NO, AS SOON AS DINNER IS FINISHED. AS SOON AS WE PUT OUR FORKS DOWN.
Him: But we’ll be full from dinner.
Me: I’ll break everything you love and make you watch.
Conclusion? I was inhaling my shake within the hour. The point is – I know how to negotiate. Sure, I have to resort to petty threats and sometimes even pretend I have a gun, but I get results.
In a related and less violent note, I’ve been nominated in the 2009 Weblog Awards for Best Humor Blog. When I see shit like this I usually have an in-depth conversation with myself about the nerve of some people to ask me to stop refreshing Twitter for the 52nd time in the last half hour to leave the page and click on something else. Then I’ll egg myself on to say something and finally take these people to task, but talk myself out of it so I can listen to ‘Candy Rain’ again. So I know it’s a pain in the ass. But you have until November 20th to click here and vote by clicking the green button next to this comment:
I’m dropping all my weapons. I couldn’t ever threaten any of you because honestly, I love you more than cake.
I’m just now realizing that my birthday is one week away and that most of it will probably be spent trying not to cry. I’m paying my bills with birthday money (yeah, I’m 11) and I’ll probably either have to strip or fingers crossed find a guy who is willing to pay $20 an hour to brush my hair. So I’m bummed. Not in a hey that ceiling fan looks like it could support my weight way, but in a general why did I even go to college I could’ve been a nail tech way. I know, boo hoo, I don’t get to eat my ‘Best Birth Ever’ buttercream cake in front of poor people like I do every year. Mostly because I am the poor people. But that’s ok because I have something that tastes way better than sugar, butter and the tears of people I’ve never met. Giant Cheetos.
I tried to get a sense of scale with these by putting one in my mouth but it began to look like I was starting a new kind of porn so you’ll just have to take my word for it that they’re fucking huge. The only downside is that they have a built in Loser Detector that turns your tongue green. For me, this means that everyone has to know that I spent my night eating Cheetos larger than the average testicle and watching Gilmore Girls while convincing myself that my life could’ve been so much better if only I had gotten knocked up at 16.
Missed opportunities aside, I will never love another snack the way I love Giant Cheetos. Unless of course Frito-Lay decides to finally return my calls and take me up on my Doritos Stuffed Pizza idea because I am sick of making them from scratch.
