Mastering the Art of Living IRL (In Real Life, duh)


It’s Springtime here in the Big Smoke, my pretties!  Except it’s still as cold and gross as the mysterious crusty smears on the sleeves of your parka that you need to get dry cleaned and thrown in the back of the closet. Like today. It’s your fault it’s still cold outside, you keep wearing that wretched thing and the weather complies. My friend from another village a five hour train-ride away came to visit last week and remarked, “Why is everyone here so fucking ugly?” That’s a good question and you can blame the wind and the baa-baaa black sheep wearing the same goddamned Canada Goose parkas but I think the ugly runs much deeper. It’s so metaphysical that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact root of the pustule but I’m sure it has something to do with mass sucking of The Man’s D (whoever that is) for the sake of obtaining granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Everybody in this sad town strives for the same thing while whistling the same tune, and it’s all so disparagingly mediocre.

I guess I’m ugly, too, since I live here. But! At least I stopped with the black parka and now I’m layering it up with a charcoal grey hoodie. Baby steps. It’s not THAT cold, pussies, we can keep warm if we huddle and stop ignoring each other. I’m staaaaarved for the human contact. I’m ready to step out of the hermit-mode and fraternize with the real flesh beings, those who enjoy eating fried chicken and actually bleed real blood when you stab them. As opposed to the tricky internet motherfuckers, the ones you meet from OkCupid and Tinder, who scurry into The Cloud (wherever that is) like veiled chameleons because they spook easily. Although,there’s a certain appeal to that, I must say, because when they go silent farting into the ether, they simply cease to exist. Or they become fodder for your screenplay.

I’ve officially decided that I finally had too much Internet over the winter. Not because of my OkCupid addiction, I’m still working on my own personal Kinsey Report, and it’s a never ending scroll of fascination for moi. I have some more wild oats to sow before I settle down with my collection of Magic Wand attachments. It turns out In Real Life (IRL from now on) my heart more resilient than I originally thought, so this is good Internet usage for my research, otherwise known as vagine fieldwork. Let me have this one vice and I’ll cut back on the Facebook, I can’t handle it all the poop anymore (more on that later).

No, there are 3 distinct things have made me realize I need to reduce the hours of screen time and snap that MacBook shut and here they are:

1. I knew how to make “Truffle Butter” without having to google it. It was like the knowledge had been implanted in my brain by osmosis. The song came out and I’m like  “Oh yeah, truffle butter,” and thought nothing of it, where everyone else was all “Ewwww, I just googled “truffle butter” and it’s nasty.” Whatevs. Now, don’t get excited, I have never made truffle butter IRL but if I did, I would doctor the recipe and add some low-fat Cool Whip to lighten the flavour, it’s less sticky than the other brands. Still, it’s a bit disturbing that I am a walking urban dictionary, and I long for the days of innocence of when a bible study was just a bible study. And did not involve so much liquified solid waste.

2. I have komplicated and konfusing feelings toward Kanye West. A good chunk of my Internet time is spent on celebrity gossip sites even though I am proud to say I still could not pick Ariana Grande or Rita Ora out of a line-up. But! When I see the name, Kanye West, my heart rate goes up. And I feel I am discharging some potent hormones from various pores. When Kanye West does or says something douchey and the whole world is tweeting “Kanye needs to be banned from the Grammy’s 4evah,” I nod my head in agreement but deep inside, I am thinking: “Oh, Kanye” like the way a mom is pretend-mad but secretly tickled when their toddler does something charming and Instagram-worthy like putting lipstick on the dog. Sometimes when I’m not on the Internet and out IRL, like at the grocery store or hanging out in a yoga pose that doesn’t hurt, I find my mind happily wandering and my thought path always ends up at Kanye’s doorstep. SIGH. I wonder what he’s doing, what’s he wearing, is he keeping warm? What did he have for breakfast? Does he wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom and apply cocoa butter hand lotion? They get so dry. Is he flossing? Did he remember to pick Kim’s flesh-coloured sausage casing from the dry cleaners? Is he reading “Goodnight Moon” to Nori? I think if I ever saw Kanye IRL, I would spontaneously lactate. What is this unconditional love I feel? Am I his mother? See, what I mean, isn’t this krazy? And embarrassing?

3. Okay the third thing is the clincher, as if truffle butter and wanting to be Kanye’s mom wasn’t enough to send me to rehab. On the Facebook, I’m in a closed group that I don’t remember even joining. It’s all about my neighbourhood and the informative goings on that individual citizens post, like as examples: the Tim Hortons is closing down but a new one is opening up, a certain naturopathic doctor is a charlatan (umm, duh), lost dog, found dog, etc. Some people randomly post antiquated memes and that talking dog video from the middle ages. I figure these folks are lonely shut-ins and want to feel the gentle rush of “likes.” There’s nothing wrong with that, I can scroll by most of  those and enjoy that talking dog video for the billionth time because it never gets old. But then something happened on the page when the weather got (only somewhat) warmer and the snow started to melt/evaporate. The citizens began posting pictures of exposed dog shit that they found on the streets. Whoa.  One particularly righteous woman wrote about how she was walking down the street with her precious baby in a fucking stroller, and she saw countless dog turds as though she was the fecal police writing a report of the most heinous crime since Sandy Hook, she clearly needs to lock her stupid family up in a panic room until all the shit gets scooped up.  HELLO, BITCH,THIS IS HAS BEEN THE NATURAL PART OF THE FOULNESS OF SPRING SINCE WAAAAY BEFORE THE INTERNET, WE’VE ALL BEEN AROUND THIS BLOCK FOR GENERATIONS.  What kind of thought process makes someone go for a walk outside in the fresh air, get so incensed over some random dog poops that she comes home, gets her sleeping baby out of the stroller, goes in the house, shimmies the squirmy baby out of the snowsuit which takes approximately the better part of an hour, dumps the screaming baby in Neglecto-matic swing, stuffs a binky in its mouth, pours herself a glass of boxed Chardonnay, then hops on the Internet to express her outrage? Her outrage becomes my outrage, but for the opposite reason. The Internet is a sacred place for cute kittens and porn, and maybe some recipes, not a forum for a bitch’s whining over a few innocuous mounds of dog shit that will turn into green grassy splendour come May. It’s all biodegradable, you dumb twat, just shut the fuck up and stop complaining, I want to write on her post but I don’t, I shut my pie hole and blog about it instead. Which I realize is another big fat waste of interweb energy that I am foisting upon you and we are all a part of the never-ending circle of ridiculous Internet pettiness.. As an aside, just a quick life hack tip for dog owners: If your dog is on a raw food diet, and really why would you want to feed your beloved dog anything else? The turds are much more compact and dry up and then turn to innocuous white dust within days if you neglect to pick them up. Sweet. Anyway, I hate this neighbourhood mom with the same fucked up intensity and passion that I love Kanye West. And I know it’s crazy but the feelings are real. So yeah, that’s enough Internet for moi.

I think we all need to get outside and get lost in the wonder of living IRL. And look at each other straight in the face and stop letting our fingers do our communicating because things go awry so easily. Let’s use our actual voices. We should be like the girls on “Broad City” stand on top of the hill and yell out at the top of the lungs: “WANNA FOOOOOOOOOK?!” I double dog dare you. We can always run away.







Mastering the Art of Burying the Body


I’m not even being metaphorical here. We’re going to totally talk about burying a real life hypothetical dead body. Stay with me and maybe I’ll hand you a shovel and we can drive into the woods, dig a grave, and hold hands and skip afterwards.

I FINALLY finished listening to that fucking podcast that was all the rage once upon a time, like 4 months ago, Serial, that “This American Life” spinoff about a true story teenage murder that took place in 1999. Okay, I don’t care if I’m giving you a spoiler, whatevs, if you haven’t already listened to it, you won’t now, it’s a time consuming commitment that is basically a series of interviews, and journalist Sarah Koenig’s speculations of why the convicted killer, Adnad Syed, may or may not be innocent of the murder of his ex-girlfriend, Hae Min Lee. It all takes place in Baltimore where the girl’s body is found shittily buried in a place called Leakin Park, which sounds made up but isn’t. The very last episode comes a convenient theory of who else could have killed Hae which makes you mad that you bothered to listen to all 12 episodes when you could have just wikipedia’d that shit and be done with it.

It’s all so real that it seems fake. But it’s true and tragic, for the family of the murdered girl and especially if Adnad is actually innocent, what a waste of a life.

Koenig’s voice is the true star, I can listen to her yap doodle all the live long day and be in a zen state, she’s just like all mellow and I bet smokes pot before she maunders her spiel into the microphone. Her cadence is soothing and she goes off on tangents and even though I sometimes zone out, I’m more or less riveted. Every time she says “Best Buy” take a shot! It’s a drinking game!

No drinking for moi, though, I listened to it at the gym! Okay, I do not have one of those bicep strap-on-audio device holders, that would be far too practical, I could probably get one at the Best Buy, speaking of which, if I had the wherewithal but I don’t…Anyway so I need to hold my greasy iDick in one hand and stuff the testicl-ay headset in both ears because cramming it precariously into my bra, with all its moist hooter sweat, causes too much static and the wire to unplug. So! I developed an entire 45 minute work out routine, laying on a mat and rolling on a ball. It’s what I call the Starfish Workout, it works! I’ll post it below, trust me, you can actually bounce a quarter off my ass right now. By the way, I don’t believe in modern-day cardio machinery, especially those ellipticals, I think they actually make you spongey and complacent. And I love the idea of a workout you can do in a 4 by 8 prison cell cuz you never know, you could be as unlucky as Adnad Syed too.

Anyway, I’ve been listening to this podcast week by week…it’s hard to follow the plot because nothing happens and I have a low attention span and in the process, I developed a new gym crush, #fml. Yes, I know, all my ridiculous gym crushes, Sweaty Man, The Oaf, Kettlebell Jesus, Turban Dude (still makes mine heart flutter so), have been pathetic chimeric illusions that I have pined over ad nauseam so I hold no emotional attachment on this one. I have evolved somehow, having lived and finally learned BUT! He is TO DIE FOR! While I roll on my bouncy ball and try and absorb the Serial plot, new gym crush, let’s call him The Viking, does this crazy caveman circuit right before my very eyes. Uurgh, I am weak in the flesh fo sho, and brace yourself, Spring is coming. The Viking is a study in dichotomy: From far away, he looks stocky and short because he’s muscly and bunchy-butt and has that compact running back swagger but when you shimmy yourself near him at the water cooler, he is fucking TALL, holy shit, and you feel like you’re in a fairy tale, it’s amazing. His face though. It’s kind of rough and weathered and his teefs are all busted up like he chews on bones and nails and maybe I don’t want to kiss him with my delicate lips and tongue and stuff but I definitely want to sit on him, ladymeat to fugmug, and, oh my god, you know he’d be good. It’s just the way he flips the tires and pulls on ropes, heaving and hoeing, he is strapping and capable… of flipping and pulling big ol’ starfish me all around and upside down. SIGH. And it occurs to me, he’d be the perfect dude to help clean up a crime scene.

Anyway, what I take away from the podcast aside from how flawed the American justice system is, is that if you actually commit a murder, you better be careful who you ask to help bury the body with you. If Adnad actually did it, getting his stoner compulsive liar buddy, Jay, to be his partner in crime, then that was his big mistake.

Who would you ask to help bury a body if you murdered someone?

I asked this question to my son, Freddy, and he, without missing a beat, answered, “You, mommy.” And my heart swelled up with emotion. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing anyone could say?

Later on I asked the same question to my daughter, Evangeline, and she was at first all shocked and appalled,”What do you mean, I murdered somebody?” And I realized how telling it was that Freddy and I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the hypothetical prospect of having committed a murder. So I had to make up a scenario where she actually accidentally murdered a crazed doggie killer who broke into the house to kidnap Betty and make a catsuit out of her exquisite hide and secretly disposing the body herself would save the taxpayers’ money, blah blah blah, which let her wrap her head around the moral dilemma, but anyway, she chose me also! I am so proud!

I wouldn’t choose them, though, I wouldn’t want to burden them with a crime on their delicate consciences. My first thought would be I would run over to the next door neighbours, they are always my first stop when I have a sticky problemo that has turned into a conundrum that needs some slapstick…or I simply need to borrow a cup of wine, they are my touchstones. I know they’s be all like “YAAAASSS, Peterson! Let’s do this!” And then they’d make a day of it, and get a cooler full of Coronas, some chips and guacamole, and start Instagramming that shit. Then we’d all be in a fine mess on social media, no less.

Then I have a list of lady friends and sisters but they are small and petite and have bad backs and tiny cars and that leads me to the obvious choice of Bob and his junk trailer that he parks in my backyard. But he is sometimes so unreliable, he’d be like, “Okey doke, Starfish, I’ll swing by on my way to the dump,” and he’d really be eating chicken wings and forgetting all about me on his fourth pint on the other side of the Beach at the Filling Station while I’m waiting tapping my feet with blankie-wrapped stiff on my front porch.

I briefly considered the hot dudes at my butcher shop, they have knives and a power saw and they always take care of me when I am bordering on hysterics, the shop is my “safe place” so I wouldn’t want to tarnish it with a felony and risk them getting a bad Yelp review.

Then I thought of the perfect person! My ex-husband would totally groove to this…CHALLENGE ACCEPTED…and do it with the prowess of a ninja. He is a one hundred percent law abiding citizen, trust, but he has a clever criminal Heisenberg-type mind and not only would he surreptitiously dispose of the body, somewhere, somehow, he would do it without me so I wouldn’t fuck up. Phew, that’s a relief. Everybody needs a friend who can keep a secret.

Okay, here’s one ball exercise I’m sharing with you, I’m going to keep some secrets to myself, this is where you can attack that problematic lady part where ass meets leg…you’re welcome. By the way, I saw The Viking out on the street in his civilians, he really should have his own Tumblr blog of his outfits…he was wearing a pink cardigan and he managed to make it look all testosteronic (yes, it’s a word) because he paired it with classic cut Levi’s, I wish all men knew this trick to showcasing a traffic stopping bubble butt…anyway, I nearly ran over his dumb wife with my car,but  at least I know what I’d do with the corpse.

Here you go, Bubbles, roll on this and daydream:









Mastering the Art of Modern Suffering


It’s Lenty-times, did you know? In case you missed the cue, which was your uber-annoying skinny-ass bikini-selfie Facebook friend, Fallon, posting on Ash Wednesday (yes, that’s still a thing) that she’s “giving up chocolate!” after “devouring” her giant box of Godiva truffles that she got from her “amaaaaaaazing”  Latino boyfriend (now fiancé!), Jorge, on Valentine’s Day along with a giant fucking engagement ring while they were in a five-star! resort in Cancun, “just in time for  Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs to hit the shelves,” she cyber-lols and 8 million “likes”  ensue. By the way, dem eggs were lined up in boxes by the checkout on February 15, proving she has an eating disorder or she would know that. She obviously never eats chocolate anyway, what with that thigh gap the size of a wind tunnel. So much for self-sacrifice. What a fucking bitch. Even the Pope thinks she’s a tool.

I wasn’t raised with the tradition of Lent but I enjoy watching y’all suffer, and this year I’ve given up hooch for the sake of solidarity. I learned about this oddball practise as an adult from one of my roommates who struggled with it earnestly every year: No meat, no cheese, just white carbs like bread and rice, for weeks! Except on Sundays, which were free days, when she would get a Licks burger with cheese and heaps of shit and extra garlic splooge, chili fries, and wash it all down with a diet Coke, and then pass out from more self-loathing than her Catholic guilt could handle.

I admire the symbolism of some religious practises but this one seems paradoxically more self-indulgent than noble.  Like what good does it do for the community if you starve yourself? Self-deprevation for the sake of what? Atonement? Really, does it work? Or does it just perpetuate some kind of cycle of shame to penance to faux-humbleness?  I, without the help of any kind of religion whatsoever, am full of natural self-hatred that stems from the simple embarrassment of being alive. It comes and goes in waves, though. I’m currently riding high on my own foulness, as is everyone else in this deep freeze. Don’t you feel the collective energy of all the lonely people in their stained sweatpants enveloped in the blue haze of Netflix (or Pornhub)? I think it’s a normal part of the human condition unless you are a sociopath, but it would never occur to me to cut out chocolate for 6 weeks, like what good would that do? I should cut out cheese entirely, seriously, I think I am lactose intolerant in my old age. If I was going to be doing any favours for the sake of religion, depriving myself of Toblerone would not be it, I think the sensible thing would be to go out it and help the less fortunate, even though it’s occurred to me that I AM the less fortunate, but it’s all relative. I shall find a cause, and so should you. And as for your stupid Facebook friend Fallon, we should report her for spamming (and her insufferable Instagram too!) and shut down her cyber pie hole once and for all.

It’s been a looooooong winter and a bullshit February. I found myself in a rare state of perpetual boredom. I’m hardly ever bored but I figured out recipe: In a giant bowl made out of helpless inertia, mix in piles upon piles of exasperation, sprinkle with rage, a dash of sadness, and a dusting of despair. I even went and got my hair did and nothing changed. Same shit, different day. I should really dye it, I’m questioning the silvers now but I don’t care enough. Apathy, it’s a silent killer.

I don’t got 99 problems, so I’m not whining *per se*, so you internet trolls can go fap your fingerling floppy drive on Facebook Fallon, but I have 2 and half, or maybe 3 whole annoying fucking issues that I won’t bore you with, and they only partially in my control. I definitely need more therapy and clarity (hence no more booze for moi, Lent or no Lent)  but in the meantime, I kind of got a lot out of this Ted Talks which is about “shame being an unspoken epidemic, the secret behind many forms of broken behaviour.” I cried when I watched it, holy shit, I’m breaking down, which is what you’re supposed to do in order to achieve vulnerability, which is a strength, by the way.

But! In the meantime, sometimes you have to take your head out of your bellybutton and live amongst the people who you hate. I don’t really hate anyone in particular, just everyone in general, BUT NOT YOU, don’t worry. So I composed a list of some modern life hacks to help us (I know  you’re in a funk, too) get ourselves a few more feet away from the ledge.

1. Get a white board and write a list of goals. Okay, I really don’t know what I’m talking about here but yesterday my friend called me all excited that she had bought a white board (?) and wrote a list of goals on them. I don’t think I will actually do this out of sheer fear but I was very happy for her. Topics include: Health, Finance (UGH NOOOOOOO), I can’t remember the others, that’s when my brain bailed but! she did say after writing everything down, she felt a) things were not as bad as she thought and b) she is more in control now and c) she’s going to be checking things off week after week while another friend of hers makes sure she’s not slacking off. A white board. I don’t know where you get those but I’m guessing Staples. I’m not doing this but you do it and report back.

2. Yoga.  Yes, shut up and just do it. I don’t care what kind, even that sweaty bullshit Bikram-style will work, I might even psyche myself up to go back. I haven’t gone to a regular class in a while because I can’t bear to be stuck in my bloated thoughts without the disco distractions of tv screens and whatnot. But yesterday I did a class with my beloved David, who should be the Pope of the entire universe and for at least an hour, all was right in the world. I’m definitely going back next week. I don’t know why I have been avoiding it AND! he said something very profound that made me almost cry but I forgot what it was, oh well.


3. Bake some cookies. This is something Martha Stewart would do because she doesn’t get all depressed and cry over a Ted Talks, I bet. Too much shit to organize and clean and iron and fold and fuck. I wish I had the busy gene like Martha and get satisfaction out of sorting socks. I only suggest baking cookies because you can eat them if you’re not doing a Lent cleanse, or whatever you’re calling it. You know, I used to do this all the time, bake a double batch of chocolate chip, and give them to boys I had crushes on. And I was not so lonely then. Huh.

4. Read a book out of your comfort zone.  I’m used to reading all the hand-me-downs from friends who toss a book at me and say “read this, it has your name on it” and it’s “Gone Girl,” or “The Goldfinch,”  I don’t know what that means but usually this kind of literature is ladies’ book club type fodder. If it’s a pristine hardcover, I will read it out of guilt, propped up in bed and finish the whole thing. If it’s all dog-eared and soft covered, I’ll toss it around with greasy fingers and read it casually in the tub and maybe dump it midway. I’m such a princess. The other day I ordered a book off Amazon on my own freewill “Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind” by Yuval Noah Harari because hello, if that doesn’t have my name on it, I don’t know what does. It’s soft covered though, so we’ll see how it works out.

5. Smile at a stranger.  The zombie apocalypse (ugh, I can’t believe I even typed that) is here and we are living it. Everyone walks around in public with a puss on all dead inside, never making eye contact, then get in their cars and yell obscenities at each each other behind closed windows. It’s sad really.  Every so often I become acutely aware of this and I randomly make eye contact with a stranger and smile…and they always smile back! It’s so cute! It’s like a zoo trick. Of course if you’re a woman and you do this to a man, he will automatically think you love him, want to marry him, and bear his crotch spawn. But that’s okay to feed a dragon’s massive ego once in awhile, he needs perk now and again too. If he smiles back and holds your gaze for 1-banana, 2-bana-, get his number AND BAKE HIM SOME COOKIES and maybe you’ll have a friend for life.

So that should keep you busy til Spring rolls around and the only thing I can say is every thing is in constant change, and this, too, shall pass. And! if it makes you feel any better, Facebook Fallon and her amazing Latino boyfriend-now-fiancé, Jorge, probably won’t last, he still has his profile up and active (with dick pics!) on Adult Friend Finder and she can’t even bake those cookies from a tube, it’s all downhill for her.






Mastering the Art of Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition



Valentine’s Day countdown, kittens! You know I love this day even if you think it’s just an excuse for the charlatans that run the diamond industry to peddle its lies. Whatevs, me likey shiny things, even the fake shit. I just went through my giant fishing tackle box filled with bling memories, all tarnished and busted up. Why does conventional society insist that earrings have to come in pairs?  Hardly any of mine match and if they do, one of them is missing a rhinestone or an essential dangly bit, that makes me so fucking sad. I found a pristine pair of gold Playboy bunny earrings, I bought them them for myself, ironically style-wise even though I am actually a cheap whore (no, I’m not). But! I can’t shove them in my ears because MY HOLES HAVE CLOSED, is this some sort of natural metaphor that has the gods of fertility laughing at me? I shall show them, later on today I will slam down a bunch of vodka and thrust them into my ears whatever it takes. There will be blood. By the way, you know that the original Valentine’s Day was to honour ancient Christian martyrs but that whole dance got tiresome so that in the High Middle Ages, Chaucer and his poet hos decided to make it all about boning, although they called something else back then, like “bownyng.” These were simpler times, when the one you wanted to betroth your boneage into was the one that had your heart in a romantic way. Now all our modern feelings are repressed by constant communication punctuated by those diabolical emoji emoticons and everyone is so fappingly confused. And afraid. And there’s no boning, not even for the wicked. SIGH.

I like chocolate, too, even if I have to buy my own Toblerone bar. The giant one, the size of a quonset hut. Fuck and ouch.

This Valentine’s Day, my fantasy would be to take some olde tymey ecstasy and go see “Fifty Shades of Grey” with an audience full of bitches also on chemical drugs.  I think it would be epic, let’s make it happen. This has got to be one of those times when you can honestly say the movie is better than the book, but judging by the trailers, that’s not saying much. I’m not sure even that awesome Beyonce song can save this mess. But drugs can!

I’m trying to read the book right now. I am actually charmed by how badly written it is. It reminds me of the sardonic stories based on Harlequins I used to write as a hobby when I was a teenager. I used to give them to my English teacher, who looooved them, but I always wondered if she got the joke or she got swept away by my jacked-up romance bullshit. Anyway, I think even in grade 9, I was a better writer than E.L. James and that’s not saying much. If you made a pie chart out of the content of this book, 75% would be descriptions of breathing. I get so bored, I can only flip through it, trying to find the juicy bits. I can’t fucking find them, SO MUCH BREATHING. And eating, which I am pro.

I don’t think I respond to contrived erotica, it’s kind of like watching professional porn, it’s just too slick to feel real. Even trying to make Barbie and Ken hump (when you were a kid because no, you did not do this as a grown-ass mom when you were cleaning up your daughter’s room while she was in kindergarten) is more titillating cuz Ken doesn’t actually have a weenie much less a boner and Barbie is so rigid, she can’t even starfish. The thrill is in frustration. GRIND DAT PLASTIC! Remember?

Anyway, I personally have never had a fantasy where “my breath hitched” when a man said “Let me make love to you, Anastasia,” while stroking his beautiful cock in one hand and holding a cat o-nine tails in the other. Every word that last sentence closed every hole in my body, even the ones I didn’t now I had. And my eyes bled.

Okay, there’s no way I’m going to read this book but I will write the fan fiction! Isn’t that how it started, as X-rated Twihard prose? Mine goes in another direction, it’s  middle-aged milquetoast erotica, set in where else? The Home Depot, hold on to your moobs, middle pudge,and mudflaps, here goes:

Beverly Shipman walks into the Home Depot, the giant doors automatically opening for her. She is disheveled, her hair, still smooth from her Tuesday blowout is in need of a root touch-up and is in a high ponytail. Underneath her black parka, the one with what looks like a pair of metal scissors on the left upper arm, she is still wearing her flannel pyjamas pants, boldly coloured and emblazoned with cartoon monkey faces. And stuffed into a pair of Uggs. If this wasn’t a sight you see every day, and you came here from a time machine, just by the outfit, you would think this woman was  50 shades of cray. But she barely registers and she slips through the doors like a ghost.

Furnace filters? She wonders where and looks around the big box warehouse. The smell of freshly cut pressurized lumber fills her nostrils and goes straight to her temporal lobe which triggers a memory response that sends a rush of blood straight down to her blowfish. WTF. She tries to ignore this sensation as she looks up at the signage and makes her way down the giant aisle.

Even though the store is cavernous and confusing, the colour orange whets her appetite. There’s a Harvey’s inside this one, beyond the self-serve cash registers. Maybe when she finds her filters, she will pick up an order of fries. Too bad there’s not a Swiss Chalet, she could really go for a quarter chicken with extra gravy, yes, bitches, EXTRA gravy, it turns out it’s all just liquid and cornstarch, not fat, she can drink it if  she wants, fuck the sodium content and fuck her nutritionist. She salivates. Breathes, more lumber smell, blowfish gets bigger, tingles now. Focus! Snap out of it! Find the filters!

Finally someone in an orange apron is standing in front her. On his bib, written in a black Sharpie is “Al” which could be short for Albert? Or is he being tongue-in-cheek and he is A-1? He smiles in a kind peepaw way, he has sparkling blue eyes surrounded by crowfeet and liver spots. His generic darkish hair is white at the temples and pulled back in a tiny wispy ponytail.  He must be one of those Freedom 55-type retired baby hippie boomer dudes with nothing to do but hobbies and Home Depot. (ed note: if that’s a type then sign me up) His shoulders are sloped, and some giant ass white hairs are sneaking out like tentacles out over the top of his collared polo shirt, but he has muscly forearms, and this does not go unnoticed. Beverly smiles. Probably for the first time since her husband left her last month for his mistress of 11 years. Who says it doesn’t happen? It happens! They leave and you are left alone!

“Can I help you find something, Miss?” He asks. MISS! Not Ma’am! Like the young hipster clerk at the liquor store who barely even looks at her, calls her Ma’am when she buys her bottle Belvedere and has the audacity to ask her if she’d like a bag. Yes, of course a bag! Jesus Christ, I want a bag! What am I, a hobo? I don’t deserve a bag? Is that what you think of me? Oh, wait, never mind, I can fit it in my Kate Spade tote. Okay.

 Al smiles at her again. A warmth rushes goes through her core and her blowfish blows a sweet, tiny bubble of hope.

“Yes, please, where would your furnace filters be?” She asks, flushing blood all throughout her veins, she feels alive.

“Oh, they’re over in Aisle 8. let me walk with you,” he points in the direction and they move forward. His hand grazes her left arm, the one with the metal moose knuckle on it, and even through the layers of fabric and goose down, she feels an electric charge. Her legs feel light suddenly, although her Uggs are covered in slush and weigh as much as a bag of hammers. And look like two bags of gross medical waste.

Suddenly she has a hot flash. It’s not because it’s hot in the Home Depot in the deep freeze of February. It is precisely two fold, the vodka hangover and hormones. This is the basic schedule of what happens to old bitches all the live long day: Hangover, hot flash, drink, lather, rinse, repeat. She unzips her parka, but of course that ridiculous decorative ball of fox fur gets caught in the spokes and she lets it go halfway. She forgot that she was wearing only her pyjamas bottoms as most of the time she sleeps naked because of the motherfucking hot flashes so there’s actually nothing else on underneath. Hungover, menopausal bitches are that absent minded. So her zipper is stuck and her boobs are basically flying out of her parka in the middle of the Home Depot on a Tuesday morning. She holds her coat shut but in doing so, her Kate Spade tote swings and hits Al, or A-1, upside the head, and he turns around. Like a magpie, older men have the sharp shooting instincts down pat, his eyes go straight to her tittage before she has a chance to cover them up.

There are two of them, one slightly bigger than the other and therefore droopier, the vein configuration resembles a muddled map toward two erect cherry cola coloured nipples, approximately 2.75 centimetres in diameter…holy shit, one of them has a piercing, so he thinks, but it’s not actually, it’s part of the inside zipper tab grazing the nipple as she clutches her coat shut. Wow, he thinks, and that’s basically all he thinks for a moment that seems to stretch out longer than the beginning of time. Al, and that is his name, short for Alonso, hasn’t seen real life flesh boobs since Christ was a cowboy. His wife has long since abandoned him, not physically, but spiritually and sexually, and yes, they still share a bungalow where they raised their two children, who are now grown. but he sleeps in his man cave, in the basement. The humming of the furnace soothes him to sleep after his nightly fap, to reruns of “Hot in Cleveland.” Valerie Bertinelli. Nothing wrong with that.

When he finally finds his words, he says, “I know all about furnaces, can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a mid-efficency furnace and it’s so cold in my house these days, ” she bites her lower lip coquettishly, “I was googling on the internet and maybe I need to change my furnace filter? The pilot light is still on, so I know the furnace is okay…” Her voice trails off, a look of barely anything goes over her face, or at least that is his perception, he’s still staring at her tits with that part of his eyes that aren’t his actual pupils which are still looking at her in the eyes, but is the tip of his dick, it’s one of the mysteries of science, yo. Dicks have eyes. I.t says so in a Chaucer poem, trust.

“Oh, well if you have a mid-efficency furnace, you should actually be using the cheaper furnace filters, let’s the air go through easier,’ he pulls out a pack of filters, 3 for $5.99, seemingly made of popsicle stick wood and blue plastic silly string.

“What?” She is incredulous, “I have been buying the $35 furnace filters for over twenty years! Are you sure? Also I have a pet dog. With fur, not hypo-allegenic breeds with “poo” at the end of it name. Do those filters work for my dander situation?”

“Yes,” he says with manly manliness and actual real-life know-how, not the fake kind that you can spot a mile away from someone who is full of fucking shit that he mis-read in a manual,”The looseness in the cheap shitty plastic not only lets the air go through, the dander and fur that you speak of will get caught in the nettle, the only caveat is that you have to change the filters every 3 months instead of once a year. Still cheaper and your heating bills will go down expediently.”

“Oh!I wish I had known this sooner!” She exclaims. Her breath hitches. Her parka swings open, her tits fall out, one by one. Kind of, one gets caught in the zipper again, the floppier one, but that’s okay. He leans over and hands her the filters, 3 for $5.99.

“Is there anything else, I can help you with?” He asks, his apron is now a tent, kind of pointed south, but still.

Her blowfish explodes.


Okay, Happy Valentine’s Day all, spread the love cuz that’s all we have! <3















Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation


This is my daughter’s creative writing homework assignment:

In the first person, write a relationship sketch between two characters.

I’m going to do this now as I’m inspired by some internet hate I got last week. I wish I were in university again because the real world sucks tiny insignificant proverbial cocks, it’s one squirt-it-in-your-eye woody hurdle after another. She doesn’t think so though, she can’t wait to finish this spring and sling beers for tips in the summer and then in the fall, backpack in Europe. She will see the sights, drink all the jaunty craft beers, eat all the crust-made-with-actual-lard covered things that don’t contain nuts or sesame (don’t forget your EpiPen, my darling!) and meet all the foreign peens and fall in love with the lot of them. There will be tall, pale, hilarious British boys, pompous French dudes with oddly enticing body odour, freaky aggro German ones, sexy to-die-for Italian motherfuckers with all bark no bite, and maybe a random hot Scandinavian-type girl with some refreshing scissor game. Oh, to be young again. The last time I went to Europe, I was the old bat I am today minus two years, I met nobody. But! The elevator in the hotello I was staying at was so fucking small and squishy, I got to brush my boobs against the back of the concierge dude as he was carrying a stack of carta igencia (toilet paper! There’s hardly any toilet paper in Europe, you have to beg for it so there’s two words you’re going to need to know, my angel baby). The elevator ride was so painfully slow that at one point, I just kind of rested them against his back, smooshing them against his ribs. I could see the tips of his ears turn purple with mammary awareness as he stood still, his back to me, watching the dial go from one to two to three to four longer than it takes to load Adult Friend Finder Live Webcams on Sunday morning, you know what I’m talking about. His hair was black and curly with silver shards, which makes me crazy, and I wanted to run my fingers through it like it was a must-do tourist attraction, way more exciting than Vatican City, right?  The sexual tension was so palpable you could bottle it and call it “Emergency Stop Button” by Dolce & Gabanna. It truly was one of those moments of time that could have turned into something worthy of a blog post you would actually want to read, what a chicken shit I have become, so it may seem. I should be ashamed at my lack of behaviour, but believe me, exercising my control was actually a small feat of self-preservation. Even though in this case, I shoulda-woulda-coulda, it was symbolic of something else, a  personal triumph of sorts.

If I could bestow a life lesson on my girl, like a method of self-preservation, whereby she is spared pain and heartbreak, I would do that, but I think somehow by osmosis or some other mysterious natural phenomenon, she is inherently smarter and wiser than me. I want to save her from having a broken spirit like mine, which has been shattered, manacled, and beaten  like every other middle-aged sad sack on the dating circuit. We were never supposed to live this long, bitches! Childbirth was designed to kill us, then the farmer would marry our much younger sister who hopefully had the wherewithal to make gooseberry wine with yeast and honey and get him drunk before they would ever get to “churn the butter,”  cuz he be old and so very, very gross.

But now we’re supposed to spawn, move on, and  swim elegantly in each other’s wholesome shit AND toxic chicken shit like farmed talapia, it’s such a mess, this pond.

I am the type of person that would see a body of water and no matter how many signs that boldly said: BEWARE OF POISONOUS SNAKES, I will go skinny dipping and swim, get bit, go back again nekkid, get bit again, then more because “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” is just the kind of inspiration I need for a challenging game change, THEN!  I’d get bit some more and wonder what I did wrong. Seriously, even with a SIGNPOST TO TERROR thrust in my face, I would boldly dive in. I peaked with this kind of self-destructive behaviour at 40, then it took me years of therapy to figure out what was wrong and even then, I slip up, hence The Cornfield Incident 2014. Your girl needs a life raft.

Here’s what I learned about self-preservation because telling me to not swim at all is like telling Justin Bieber not to douche, it’s in my nature :

When diving in snake infested waters, wear a wetsuit. An impenetrable one if such a thing exists, or make your own out of raw cookie dough and that hard as fuck gel shit they use in nail salons that makes you never want to masturbate. When you start to feel the feels of a set of fangs sinking heartily into your mighty upper thigh, say, swim your motherfucking sorry ass to shore, because it might feel good now, all hot and tingly, but trust, the venom is on its way.  If he hangs on, divert his attention by squeezing his tail, this seems to work with all kinds of snakes, and even puppies, and let him sliiiiide back in the water while you dry off in the sand. Oh look, there’s an ice cream truck parked over yonder. Go there and get something coated in chocolate. I know, I know, I’m more confused than you are. But at least I have a method and I am good.

So on to the internet trollage and the homework assignment I promised.


Apparently,unbeknownst to me, my world wide web in-box was hosting a Haters-Gonna-Hate Festival because last week I got barraged with a whole whack of messages, including:

“Ur a narcissucks (sic: clever tho, right?)”  And true, I DO suck. Call me.

“You are a whiney, vapid cunt”  Vapid? Really? That actually hurts: ICE CREAM!

“I hope you die and rot like an upstream trout”…what?  Is that what the trouts do? If I’m going to die upstream, isn’t that any worse than dying and rotting downstream? That’s a fucked up metaphor, right? I think I’d way rather upstream (closer to heaven!) than downstream (cig butts! tampon applicators! those plastic things that hold a six pack together that strangle birds and turtles! humanity’s blight on nature! all downstream, why would I want to rot there?).

Your (sic: lol!) too old and fat to fuck…”  Meh. You’re dad doesn’t think so.

Can you imagine the kind of person that would be bothered messaging such rude things to a lady whose only M.O. is to love and be loved? I can!

Here’s my homework assignment, dedicated to the all internet trolls out there, a relationship between two characters described in first person:

I hate this, and I’m bored. I wish for his sake, he’d get off the computer. I’m tired, but not the good tired like when we used to play basketball or build that fence, even when he was using that sandpaper that scratched my skin like a motherfucker. Still, it was better than all this tap-tap-tap, then stroke-stroke-stroke. Ugh, I feel like my talents are wasted. Remember when he used to draw those cartoons in grade school, all about super heroes rescuing damsels? His power was unbridled back then, I felt so much hope. Then came the real girls, and then that one girl in particular who we both liked, her skin was so soft on all her parts. The tits, especially, were like the joyous days of Play-dough, until the baby came and the whoa, they got huge and rock hard, and she wouldn’t let Dude’s lips or me and my twin touch them. Yes, I get it, I was pissed off too. The disinterest hurts, but those other times, the little pleasures, for example, when I enjoyed my index finger dipping into peanut butter and then getting licked by the Bichon Frise owned by the downstairs neighbour and because he got so drunk, I can’t remember what else happened but something felt different. And smelled fishy. There were more good times, let’s not kid ourselves. With all that diversion, couldn’t Dude have waited longer? But no, he had to make a fist out of me and pound me through the drywall, what the fuck? And then when he shoved her, with both me and my feckless twin, who seems to be only good for stabilizing the bagel when I hold the knife and cut it. Dude is mean to my twin because he likes to shock him and slice through his skin between his thumb and his forefinger cuz he’s impatient. I admit, I’m also fed up with Leftie these days, some things we can do in such harmony (remember waterskiing? rock climbing? Saxophone lessons?) but I need him especially now to pick up some slack with that wretched Dick when I’m too tired for this fucker’s nonsense. I very much need help to sweep the dark times under the rug. I’m a hand, not a conscience, but it’s too much for me.  And like I said, I wish he’d stop tapping me on that keyboard and spewing out his venom, and maybe do something like shovel and old lady’s walk way, or something for the good of society. What an asshole. Speaking of which, I think tonight, while he’s sleeping I’ll shove my fist up there and see who’s boss. 






Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)


This reminds me of that Pink Floyd song (remastered)  that goes something like “we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…” whatever, so sweet, let’s kiss because we’re so cute together. AWWWWWWWWWW.

So I’m back on the OkCupid which is how y’all like me, flailing around, swinging my dick, telling my tales, crying in my beer, blogging the blog of shame. The past few months have been an awesome learning curve for a celibate old hermit lady, I AM NOW FEARLESS cuz really, who cares? YOLO HO, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Yes, some douche shat on my heart but I got a good story out of it and then some boneheaded (but loveable) dawg randomly peed on it just a tiny bit, enough for it to sting ever so slightly but not enough send me to the cat hospice, no harm done. So back into the fishbowl I go, HOLDING MY BREATH, BITCHES!

This time around, I won’t lie, I’m really kind of jaded, so I’m a cold fish, because that is my self preservation persona. But! I’ve been going on and off the site voraciously all week, so what. I haven’t really written back to anyone new except a 19 year-old who wants to take a road trip with me to Mount Rushmore. He tells me will drive the whole way with my panties in his mouth. And then when we get there, we will bang our brains out. This is like the best message EVER. I think about him in a way that is inappropriate. I could be his mother. This is what David Lynch films are made of, tho, and I am so in. I wish that in real life I have nicer panties, lacy or silky ones, in a soft colour, pink or blue. I think about the long highway drive on Route 16, going south from Rapid City, I’ve mapped it out because my sex fantasies are that meticulously detailed, and I’m sitting on a seat warmer feeling all vulnerable and fishy without my panties and maybe even without pants entirely but I can’t really handle all that, so I’m wearing a skirt. And are my panties really in his mouth the whole way? No, that’s ridiculous…I take them out and fold them into my purse and we can drive and chillax and maybe listen to a podcast. I look over at him and see the peach fuzz on his chin all shiny in the sun. He’s got a zit cluster on his cheek I am DYING to pop all of them. Oy. I’ve made sandwiches in the cooler in the back and I offer him one. He takes the one with ham, havarti, and sliced tomato which ends up dripping on his chin. Juice on his peach fuzz. I reach over and try to wipe it off with a napkin, he winces and holds eyes elbow up, blocking me, STAHP, he says, and wipes his own chin with his bare hand, then smears it on his pants. Really? Now we’re going to have to go a laundromat. I don’t know…this is just not going to work out, is it? Ugh. I really wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Anyway, I message him back:  “Awww, so cute.” Haven’t heard back. I’m sure I killed his boner with that memaw response. One of my many talents.

SIGH. Scroll on.

Okay, so here’ s the thing: I’ve been on this site so long, I can decipher some of the new buzzwords and some those coded letters that were mysterious to me 6 months ago. Let’s go over some of them, save the rest for another day, I’ve figured the nuances so you don’t have to, ur welcome, kittens:

DTF: “Down to Fuck” Yeah, you know this one from Jersey Shore but my question is: Why would a man send an inaugural message to a woman on a dating sight with just three letters?  How lazy can you possibly be? This could work for some sites but I, personally, have written an eloquent and loquacious erotic profile and all I get is “DTF?” NO. Just no. Much better: “Ur hot, DTF? :p> ”  Now you’re talking my language. Jesus Christ, put a little effort into it. And tongue game because otherwise I’m not interested at all.

FWB: “Friends with Benefits” and yes, that old chestnut from your Melrose Place style rental apartment and you also know from that Justin Timberlake/ Mila Kunis movie, so good because they fall in love in the end WHICH IS THE LAW OF NATURE. But! In real life, this term means different things to different people.  It’s a very ambiguous contract to get into so caveat emptor, hos, is all I have to say. With many single women, for example, they are oftentimes very busy with shift work, raising children, going to night school, taking care of their elderly parents, fighting their parking tickets, et cetera but still have “needs” so a friend with benefits scenario seems ideal because who needs another egg to fry when you have all that bullshit on your plate? Get your handy neighbour to bone you. Done. Or like that episode on Sex and the City, oh shut up; THIS IS MY THESIS, where Carrie calls her fuckbuddy when she is between relationships. These type of dudes are handy for quick comfort and mojo restoration. Personally, I’ve never been able to wrangle one of these breeds of FWB/FB’s and I don’t really want one either as I suspect they are much more work in real life than in theory. Conversely, the type of man who actively seeks a friend with benefits is the kind of dude who is just waiting for someone “better” to come along, a lady who in his immutable dimwitted mind, is worthy of a Real Relationship That Leads To Marriage with him, is basically just his bossy ass mama lookin’ hot in a chicken cutlet bra and skinny stretch jeans and pumps. Will not age well, trust, and neither will he. You are so much better than them, sister, your brain warned you but your vagina caved, don’t beat yourself up over it, move on. It’s very important to note for next time: This man is a social pariah and should be avoided at all costs. Or not, take his wallet.

Polyamory: It’s a whole new world since Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice so it’s not necessarily swinging and key parties per se. Couples are exploring other peoples! With blessings! They make up the rules as they go so you don’t have to. You, the interloper, just do what they say and please don’t blog about it because some of them are affluent members of society which is why they are wearing masks and capes when you enter the front gates with the password, “Fidelio.” I don’t get it either, so we’ll just leave it and hope they make one of those multi-casted movies where everyone’s plot-line intertwines and we get more insight into the lifestyle. I hope Cameron Diaz is in it. I love her.

Sapiosexual:  This is me! I am a sapiosexual! This means you are turned on by the brain. The upside: It’s way less messy, you don’t have to worry about changing your sheets or shaving your pubes, your wit is your fuck meat and your discourse is the boudoir. The downside: Brains are liars and tricksters, and I’m talking about your very own noodle, which will project a whole technicolor fantasy based on no reality whatsoever. As a sapio, you will forever be disappointed, I have learned the hard way, I’M SO DUPED ALL THE TIME, so I am exploring this:

Heteroflexible: I don’t even really think I care about a stupid dick anymore. Even the seemingly nicest dude is an arrogant douche by virtue of the fact he holds the torch. They all have that sense of entitlement engrained in their behaviour even if they have manners, it’s always there. Recently, when I lay myself down for the nightly fap, I no longer fantasize of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson smothering me to death in a single thrust, I think of soft spoken Asian ladies with feathers tickling my ears, OKAY THAT VIETNAMESE EAR CLEANING IS MY THANG, I CAN’T HELP IT. I really, really want a wife.

Meyers Briggs: Yes, this is that personality test that employers make you take to determine if you are a laid-back slacker or a whining worker bee or a fucking asshole with a heart of gold. There are 16 possible combos. Fucking A-type AND Zen people are posting their scores on dating sites now, IT’S THE NEW HOROSCOPE. But even worse because so goddamn boring. People are proud of their scores the same way they are so proud that they are Scorpios. Have you ever noticed that for some reason Scorpios are the most puffed up in all the Zodiac about their sign, “Don’t cross me! I sting, LOL!” Oh fuck off, you pompous, tiny, feckless arachnid, you don’t know from sting, I can fucking make you prolapse your joke gelatinous innards just by staring you down and flaring my nostrils ever so slightly, bull powered. Anyway, Myers Briggs people are even more fanatical. I have perused profiles with details on what INFP is and that they may be looking for an ESTJ or at least a ENTP. OFFS (wait what? Oh For Fucks Sakes), like you didn’t lie all the way through the test because you had pussy and or employment advancement on your mind.

Me personally, if I have to reduce it to four letters, I am looking primarily for a DICK who gets/tolerates me or if that fails,and we all know that’s a long shot, I’ll take a LADY with a feather who will tickle my ear. I don’t care if that sounds weird, it’s the internet and anything goes. Until then OMFG, my internet crush never fails me:


Mastering the Art of Being Fierce (STFU, Steve Harvey)


I had an epiphany the other day that I think you would groove to but I forgot what it was, so maybe if I babble a bit it will come back. I really should write these things down. In the meantime, this is Rogue. I don’t know shit about X-Men, I have a vagina, but I came upon her by either happenstance or providence, depending on whether or not you believe in fate or just dumb luck. Whatever the case, you know the way the universe surprises you sometimes and sends something your way as a spiritual sherpa? I KNOW, so Oprahesque, like she used to say on her show about how the signs of guidance present themselves, let me paraphrase in my “own” way: At first it comes as a “whisper” of a stomach growl, then a low-noted fart, an SBD perhaps, followed higher pitched one, maybe a bit wet sounding, and if you ignore those then suddenly you might have to change your underwear, AND this is the warning: if you keep going like that you’ll have to get a colostomy bag at some point. Pay attention to the cues. Oprah is talking about important life decisions where you need to bail before the shit storm, like finally dumping that dude who kicks your dog and sells your used panties on eBay so he can buy his other girlfriend breast implants. Yes, I know that’s more of a Dr. Phil challenge but whatevs.

I’m talking about my hair.

It’s gotten kind of long and there are silvers pouring in at the temples. You prolly call them grey but they’re not. They’re blindingly shiny, fyi, grey doesn’t glisten like Swarovski crystals in the winter sun, so fuck you. But still, I’m like, ugh, should I dye my hair or what? Is it such a crime to age? Then last week, a random dude so sweet (and omg so hot, I could just squeeze the cute out of him and bottle all the juice and sell THAT crack on eBay) showed me a picture of Rogue from the X-Men with her silver crown of mojo and I’m like, FIERCE! WHY WOULD I EVER COVER MY SUPERPOWERS?

Then I googled up Rogue because if I ever get in to Cosplay (lol, just jokes…I think) I’m going to need to know who she is. I felt so drawn to her, like we are soul sisters. She has auburn hair with silvers, I have auburn hair with silvers. And the boobs, obvi. Her Wikipedia page is more prolix than my brain can handle, I am used to reading rehashed Jezebel articles. But! In essence, She’s a mutant who considers her power a curse. What?! I’m a mutant fo’ sho! And my “power,” and I’m using that term loosely, which is my charming writing style is full of shit, too! The blogarrhea, a blessing and a burden at the same time. This thing gets me in a whole whack of trouble yet for the select few who love to read it, I can’t stop writing it, it’s out of my control, #longhairdontcare. Rogue’s power is too, but hers is poignant. She’s so sensitive that when she touches you with her skin, she will suck all the memory and force out of you. Unwittingly! So she has to cover herself up in that tight titty suit so she doesn’t fuck anything up with her boyfriend, Gambit (is he hot? I don’t know. If I had to hit a superhero, it would be The Silver Surfer. He is a Fantastic Four, do they hang with X-Men? Jesus, am I actually asking this question?) and disempower him, you know, like regular women do when they dress their husbands in Lululemon and take them to farmer’s markets. She could kill you if she touched you long enough with her skin, so I guess blowjobs are out of the question :(. That’s so sad, to have have such limited intimacy,don’t you think?  And yet think of some people whose hands you’d be dying to shake with an ungloved vice grip. What a pleasure it is to meet you, Bieber!

So anyway, I’m going take a page from Rogue’s book and let my silver streak freak flag fly, that settles that dilemma. It is for my wisdom, my wit and my willingness to share my stories so you have something to read for 5 minutes, until something better comes on your newsfeed, that I am a valuable and powerful woman in today’s society. And the boobs, dem cartoon torpedoes, if left to their own free will, might flop around willy nilly and be riddled with crazy blue veins but harnessed in a bra and if you squint a bit, they can make you believe I could probably fly and double tittedly fight off all the evil in the world and possibly lower gas prices or at the very least, if not that, bobble around merrily in a hot tub and give you a bit of a chub even just thinking about them. That is some decent power, I’ll use it, somehow, some day. *chews anxiously on a strand of hair*

OH YES! The epiphany I had! I just remembered. Not really an epiphany but a stolen idea from my daughter’s Facebook page. She’s 21 and a feminist. If you are worried by the state of the future based on what the hashtaggery of duckface selfie cuture, do not fret, there is a whole new generation of young women strutting their way into the world questioning everything, including beauty ideals and gender roles, taking back the slut shaming, et cetera. My body, my rules, is their mantra. And by the way, The Book of Rules and all that shit that spouts out of Steve Harvey’s mouth about how women have to act like lady from the golden age of girdles and put men in a holding pattern of blue ball limbo for a set period of time, is a crockful of bukkake. A man who is waiting 3 months to pet your precious pussy is getting it somewhere else and you congratulations, fool, you have just trained him pee outside. Metaphorically-ish.

Aaaanyway, Evangeline posted a video…okay, it’s a TedTalks, I KNOW, but it’s only 12 minutes and it’s very inspiring, of Erika Lust, a Swedish woman who made a porn movie from a woman’s point of view that doesn’t depict women as inflatable Barbie dolls, objectified only for men’s pleasure. Why not make some badass porn films with some hot plots that appeal to women? I know for menfolk, the plots are superfluous but whatever, I myself like a warmup. Even my sex fantasies have to have a prelude that’s so drawn out, I get slightly bored and antsy, here is a typical one: “Let’s go for a hot chocolate at that place in the Distillery but first I have to pick up a package at Purolator, you wanna wait in the car? It’s probably that Thing I ordered off Amazon.” And then all this activity must go down before we drive to Cherry Beach and bone in the tall grass. Seriously.

So yeah, women-powered porn. Plots. Veins and stretch marks. 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Hozier soundtrack. BBC. Tongue game. THIS IS COULD BE MY CALLING! Let’s do this!