E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. The reason for this is because when that fucking desiccated tootsie roll RUSHED out of those corn fields like they were on fire, my four-year-old heart couldn’t take it and from that point on, I would only watch movies that guaranteed carbon based characters or ideally, plots entirely absent of science. For years, E.T. haunted me. Every dark hallway or stairwell was an invitation for him to come hurdling toward me. To do what, I’m not sure. The most diabolical thing he ever did in the movie was befriend a 10-year-old boy and dress in women’s clothes. And while that’s unsettling for some, it’s not necessarily scary.
Still, I was petrified of him. A few years later, however, I saw a behind the scenes special that revealed the means of locomotion for E.T. – wheels. Even at eight years old, where my world allowed a reality in which The Muppets were living beings, I knew what wheels were. I knew they weren’t scary and even though there was a screeching uterus with a nose attached to them, I was able to watch the movie and meet E.T.’s beady eyes without turning away until the Reese’s Pieces showed up.
Despite my victory over E.T., I was ruined for any future interest in the horror genre. Movies that depend almost entirely on the inevitability that something is going to be forcibly removed by a sharp object or vagina dentata are not something my anxiety has the aptitude to deal with. The only horror movies I watch, understandably, are ones so bad that they reveal their parlor tricks as they go along. Films starring wrestlers or Gary Busey, usually. From the beginning, they admit to the fact that they’re full of shit, instead of attempting to peddle the idea that corn syrup and red food coloring are worthy of soiling yourself or more importantly, real.
I’m not a fan of severity, which is why I’m struggling with the fact that in less than two weeks, I’ll be moving. Again. A little over six months ago, I moved from Florida to Oregon. It was my ‘fuck you Southeast I’m going to live in the Pacific Northwest and eat fresh sustainable fish not because I like fish since I really don’t but just because I can‘ tour. It’s been successful so far, but I’m realizing that more than anything, I was simply proving to myself that I could escape from the straight jacket that manifested itself from the familiarity of my former surroundings. Somehow, I did it. But the point is, I’ve done it and I need to move on.
It’s uncomfortable to stare into a future so fertile with doubt and the unavoidable truth that I will ingest Nyquil at least once to comfortably fall asleep before 9pm. But since I have a poor sense of impulse control and an insatiable need to challenge the limits of a rapidly dwindling savings account, I will be Danny Tanner-ing it into San Francisco before January ends.
The way I see it, if I can overcome that creep E.T., I can do just about anything. All I need is for the situation to reveal its wheels.
The other day, I was at Red Robin for what was at least the fifth time this month because I can’t just kill myself in one afternoon like everyone else, I have to do it as slowly and with as much ranch dressing as possible. While trying to pretend my turkey burger was something more than a feeble attempt to offer the illusion that I’m health conscious as long as there’s cheese, I was told that I should start writing about gender misconceptions but…in a way that’s funny.
I chewed on it, but couldn’t get excited about it. Mostly because repeating patriarchy over and over again or spelling ‘woman’ with a ‘y’ is never funny or even remotely enlightening. The last time I boarded that ship, I tried convincing my ex’s best friend that women are equal to men, but the response I got was something along the lines of, “Yeah, but that doesn’t apply in the real world.” I shrugged it off, because since this was coming from someone in their fourth year of community college, their concept of the real world was not one I was concerned with. But then I started thinking about what I could get excited about, and that, of course, is uncircumcised cock.
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In this installment of “reasons why I should emancipate myself from my vagina”, I just found out I have a yeast infection. My pap results came back, and it was a good news, bad news situation. Good news–I don’t have cancer. Bad news–I have a fucking yeast infection. I was instructed to cure it with an over the counter 3-day treatment, but I resisted since I didn’t think I had any symptoms relating to a yeast infection, and as was implied by my doctor based on the scant amount of yeast found, I figured it would go away on its own. Of course that wasn’t the case, and I’m clearly missing a few chromosomes for thinking that my doctor was just chewing the fat when she was on the phone with me, you know–trying to fill the awkward silence with a real conversation starter like, “you have a yeast infection.”
I resisted treating myself because I was convinced that my UTI was, as usual, still loitering. I stand by what I said a few months ago about legitimately having a UTI, because my urinalysis came back with a +3 reading of blood, which is apparently as high as it gets aside from “dead.” I was given a week long course of antibiotics, and even though I still experienced a very slight burning sensation when I peed, I shrugged and thought, “Can’t win them all.” I think what happened (and I DID pass Biology with a C so try to stay with me), is that my UTI and subsequent antibiotic treatment seamlessly transitioned into a yeast infection, which just convinced me that I still had a residual UTI. Since I’ve dealt with UTI symptoms for all of my adult life, I got used to it and started popping Macrobid , which considering that I actually had a yeast infection the whole time, was kind of like treating a heart attack with pizza.
It’s my first one (that I know of), and I’m surprised because I always thought having a yeast infection was kind of like having crabs but less taboo. Sure, everyone experiences the symptoms differently, but the Monistat commercials would have you believe that having a yeast infection is the modern way to have a child out of wedlock. This usually means that you’re required to wear cashmere lounge-wear, stare out of the rain soaked window pane of your beach house as you cozy up to a Danielle Steele novel and ride it out with a scarlet “Y” firmly affixed to the front of your Burberry Nova Check robe. Fortunately, I haven’t experienced any clumpy discharge (goodbye forever, appetite), and surprisingly, I haven’t even been afflicted with the meth-addict level itching. I admit to using the vulvar cream that came with my 3-day pack, because there was some itching, but (in keeping with the general theme here of “I’m a dumb ass”), I attributed it to the fact that a week of Spinning had my vagina making babies with a bike seat.
Anyway, I cheaped out and bought the generic drug store brand pack, because when I saw that Monistat was $25 I was like, “What the fuck, I’m not dying.” I really didn’t know what to expect, and when I got home to study the directions for 2 hours, I had flashbacks to the first time I put a tampon in or used a pregnancy test. It was just another one of those things that falls into the sickeningly labeled feminine care category where the commercials are put through a Disney filter and are therefore, so sterile that they could be selling car insurance or Mentos. I know there’s a fine line between selling feminine care products and…porn, but showing the box from 13 different angles and repeating words like “Fresh”, “Carefree” and “Gentle” is doing it wrong. Do you know how I know this? Because when I found out that the ovule had to be pushed into the vagina as far as it will go with a plunger that resembled E.T.’s finger, I felt supremely cheated, wondering why I had to lie on my back with my knees up near my ears to prevent leakage while it seemed that all of the other women who used this got to giggle and take their Yorkie to the dog park while they engineered a way to exercise their new found vaginal freedom by chatting up the cute guy with the Great Dane because of course he has to have a Great Dane since the size difference between the Yorkie and the Great Dane is charming and makes you really root for these two.
It’s the last time I buy generic, that’s for sure.
I’ll admit, I didn’t really have anything to talk about this week. I tried Pepsi Throwback and it tasted like…Pepsi. I used Goo Gone for the first time and it worked on all of the spots where I spilled syrup or caramel, intending to clean it up, but eventually shrugging it off figuring that I would just buy a dog to do the work for me. Oh, and Alka-Seltzer cured me of my cheesecake induced stomach ache and impending suicide. None of that is really interesting though.
Part (all) of me was tempted to just post a video of a cat and be like “look at this cat”, but then, I found this keyword pop up in my Google Analytics report:
how to tell if a vagina has been fucked a lot
Well, you don’t. This is like asking, “How many miles does this car have on it?” or “How many litters has this Labrador popped out?” It matters if you’re buying the vagina (dinners at Red Lobster don’t count), but otherwise, stop trying to be the Columbo of pussy. Vaginas (I refuse to use vaginae) aren’t property, although, on a more depressing note, sometimes they are.
I don’t know what kind of answer can be expected. It’s not like you can count the rings in a vagina in order to tell how many dicks have been in it, or scream into it and measure the frequency of the sound waves. Now that any possible scientific explanations are out of the way, I’ll tell you that vaginas can do anything. They’re like the potato of sex organs–delicious and versatile. I’ve never given birth, but I kind of want to so afterward, I can chest bump my vagina and buy it a drink, or something.
I remember having a conversation with a guy who told me he would be comfortable with swinging, but only if it meant that his partner wasn’t allowed to take a dick that was larger than him (in fear that it would stretch her out and he would no longer be able to climax in under 3 minutes, sigh, and roll over). Considering that he was 5 inches on a good day, this seemed to be what I would call an act in futility. But that’s the kind of bullshit at work here, that vaginas are supposed to be able to vacuum seal around any cock, and if for some reason they don’t, some sort of carbon dating needs to take place in order to measure whore factor.
So, if I could somehow pass a bowling ball through my butter boat, I would, because if there’s a vagina out there so stretched out that Ringling Brothers could set up shop underneath, I haven’t seen it.
I hope I’m not in the minority when I say that period sex is fucking amazing. Being on my period triples my sex drive, so I go from wanting sex twice a day, to wanting it six times a day. It’s as if Rick Moranis has engineered some sort of ray gun for my already hyper-active pussy, freaks out, and yells, “Honey, I blew up your libido”.
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