And you should come check out my new pad. It’s here. And it’s brought to you by the lovely, the talented, the awkward, the amazing LILU!
I can’t thank her enough for making me look so freaking sexy and awesome. So update your feed! Re-subscribe! Send me love letters! And look at how pretty my new design is, including a new post about my mom.
Love, licks, and multiple vibrators,
~ Vixations
I can pretty much sum up this experiment as being an epic fail. Between the lack of credible advice and abandonment of responsibility in more ways than one, I can safely say that I am not one step closer to any conclusions. I haven’t been to the doctor because I don’t even know what ‘normal discharge’ means anymore and I don’t want them to be all ‘stop being fucking paranoid’ and ‘just use a damn condom for once.’ I ALREADY KNOW THAT, THANKS. And hey, Planned Parenthood, if you REALLY wanted to help, you could provide me with a fucking live-in gynecologist to help me actually get a good night’s sleep without worrying about yeast infections and BV and all that nonsense that may or may not have anything to do with sex with 31 year old uncircumsized penises. Peni? How come only some things become plural with the ‘i’? Like octopi. Who even makes these rules anyway? Can it be vaginae? Omg spell-check says that’s right. Haha. Vaginae. Say it. But not out loud if you’re at work. Okay sorry this is totally unrelated to anything. Moving on…
This week has been nothing but stressful (although sometimes in an awesome way) and I haven’t even had time to get drunk, let alone have sex with anyone. Except for last night. When my boss was in town and we totally took bong rips together and watched turtle races. Wait, that totally came out wrong. I DIDN’T HAVE SEX WITH MY BOSS. He’s married. With kids. And his whole family is amazing and I would never sleep with a married man. Unless… well, no unless. I would never do that. Anyway, I just got drunk with him. And high. And it was awesome. And I’m afraid to say this out loud, but I’m obviously going to say it anyway: I’m in love with every boy. In a way where I can’t tell the difference between if I just care about them because they’re awesome or if I actually want to jump on all of their cocks and spin around. Okay I’ve never actually done the spinny thing. But I’ve seen it done in pornos. And I want to do it. And so someone needs to help me with this via having a big enough penis for me to spin on and being strong enough to lift me up and turn me counter-clockwise. Because I’m a lefty. And counter-clockwise makes more sense. And maybe the reason I like tall men is because they ARE strong and often DO have big peni for me to spin on. And my really boss is tall. And oh. my. god. I need to stop thinking about having sex with ANYONE who pays me to book flights and hotels for him. I’m not a member of the mile-high club yet. HOLY SHIT SHUT UP YOU SKANK WHORE HOME WRECKER!
The being in love with everyone isn’t real. And I’m not actually attracted to my boss. It’s just horny-lost-drunk-girl who is experiencing a minor drought and thinks that sex with random men will somehow cure her need to run around and explore and do and be everything to everyone. My solution? Buy all of these things and spend the entire weekend locked in my room with a good Pinot and an even better porno. And clean that shit myself so there is no risk for anything related to infectious bacteria or herpes or commitment.
I’m clearly very hungover. Or still drunk. Or infected with a crazy turtle virus. And I’m going to stop talking now.
Things to look forward to? The launch of my awesomely amazing new blog design (courtesy of the beautiful AND talented Lilu) and the revealing of where I get all my raging sexuality. Hint: I got it from my Mama.
Listening to: Jay-Z – Off That (feat. Drake)
Here’s our second Vixations guest post! It’s from MikShorty, a girl who doesn’t mind a little romping in the bedroom, except for when it compromises her sleep schedule. A woman after my own heart. She wasn’t the whore here, but thought someone else was, w00t!:
About 4 years ago, I was touring New York City with my performing group for a week. In my 5 years with this group, a summer tour never went by without a tour romance. This time, my roommate had one of them.
For two nights in a row, she didn’t sleep in our room and she didn’t tell me until the third morning when she rolled into the room to get ready. She and the hottest guy on the tour were hooking up (she was the theater nerd and he was the hot jock). Of course, I was shocked but vowed to her that I wouldn’t say anything because it would cause insane drama among a few of the girls who were crushing on the guy.
That night however, she had warned me that she probably wouldn’t be back until around 1 or 2 AM and that he may or may not be with her when she does. I had no problems with that so long as they don’t wake me up. She asked me to keep the door cracked open so they could get in. So I went to bed on the top bunk as I had the entire tour and sure enough, a couple hours later, the door opened and 2 people came in. They crawled into the bunk beneath me as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
A few minutes later, the bed slightly starts to move a little. I figure they are just making out (that’s what hooking up meant with this group of people). But then it hit… over and over. The entire bunk bed was literally rocking beneath me. For about five minutes. I didn’t want to interrupt them because that would have been extremely awkward, so I decided to just chew out my roommate in the morning. At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Who on earth would be knocking that late at night?
Our door opens and there’s my roommate… on the other side of the door. Totally confused, I lift myself up to peer down onto the bottom bunk to see who was really rocking the bed. It turned out to be the couple who are both very Mormon, aka: the goodie-goods. The girl noticed I was awake and asked if they woke me up. I told her the truth and she said they would stop. They didn’t. I could still hear them panting when my roomie left after grabbing her pajamas.
The next morning, I woke up and saw two pairs of feet beneath me. I was glad to see that it was my roomie and the jock that time, and not the frisky Mormons. The Mormon couple wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the tour. Presumably they were waiting for marriage before sex, so I still have no idea if they were just dry-humping or really going at it. (They are married now, so I guess it doesn’t really matter huh?) Either way it was just messed up to be right above them as they did it!
I couldn’t sleep last night. I was on my left side. I was on my back. I rolled over to my stomach. I put my pillow on the other end of the bed and tried being upside down.
I was battling with the tick tick ticking of the societal clock. The MAKE A LOT OF MONEY! GET MARRIED! HAVE KIDS! dilemma. Suddenly, my girl-radar went off. The alarm inside my brain went WAKE THE FUCK UP. It’s Valentine’s Day!
Of course. The one day of the year where society forces us to do one of two things:
A. Celebrate our love for and with our significant other.
B. Wallow in the sorrow of being lonely, cold, and worthless.
Those of us who fall into category B are generally caught up in all the things we don’t have. Sometimes, we’re not in love, but feel like we should be because seemingly everyone else is. Sometimes, we are in love, and the one we love isn’t in love with us back. Sometimes we are in love with the one who loves us back but are too scared to leap into the vortex of emotion. We’re too scared to feel heartbreak. To this, I ask when did this day become a big love-fest for those who are in romantic relationships and an even bigger FML-fest for those who aren’t? Why are we so stuck on all the things we are missing in our lives? We choose our attitude. We choose our happiness. We choose to focus on the people we DO love, even if they are not ‘significant others.’ I have a billion significant others. They are my family. My friends. My roommate’s puppy. I say, they are all significant. To me. And the ‘one’ that I’m missing only exists because I make him exist in my mind. If I didn’t fantasize about the tall, funny, spontaneous, awkward, intelligent goof-ball that I will *someday* fall in love with, he wouldn’t be real. In fact, he’s not real. Not yet. And there’s no reason to fucking worry about him so much.
Today, I woke up at 8:30 am to a glass of pink champagne. I woke up to a hug, a Hallmark card, and a big fatty breakfast. With bacon. Lots of bacon. I woke up to the blasting anthem of our friend Brandy to Live Hard, but Love Harder.
I woke up remembering that there is nothing in this world that is better than love. But there are things that come close. Like pink champagne. And bacon.
First thing’s first:
Being new to the blogosphere has been really fun, but often scary as hell. We sit here, revealing our deepest thoughts to complete strangers via the internet, knowing that we WILL be judged, but also knowing that by putting ourselves out there we are opening up new doors with new opportunities and new friendships. I am so thankful for everyone I have ‘met’ through this completely ridiculous blog so far. I’m also thankful for the fact that there are indeed other crazies out there who have a little Vixen in them after all!
And now:
I wasn’t sure if TMI Thursday was really right for me, since so far ALL of my posts have revealed way Too Much Information, but I decided to save the real nasty ones for Thursdays. So here goes…my very first…
I’ll keep this one simple. It’s about vibrators. Don’t like vibrators? Stop reading my blog RIGHT FUCKING NOW because you don’t deserve to be here. Just kidding. Anyone who doesn’t ‘like’ vibrators is just scared of them and clearly hasn’t been sex toy shopping with moi.
I have lots of vibrators. Five to be exact. Well, used to be five. Now it’s four. How do you lose a vibrator? Well, I didn’t exactly lose it. It lost me. Or something.
The ‘My First Mini-G‘ vibrator was one of my faves, even though it wasn’t actually my first. Especially because it was purple. I don’t know why the one on that site isn’t purple. But it’s supposed to be. Anyway, I used to bring it with me places. Like, if I knew I was going to A’s house after work, I would put it in my purse so I’d have it to play with when I got to his place. He, UNlike most guys I’ve been with, wasn’t mortified by the use of vibrating toys in bed, and also wasn’t scared that my Mini-G would ever take the place of his perfect penis. Vibrators are definitely God’s Gift to Women, and I’ll admit that the fact that they are 100% reliable and can’t speak is definitely a plus, but they’ll never be the same as the good old penis in vagina.
After a while, I started using the vibrator more at his place than at my own, so I just kept it inside Willy (no, Willy is NOT the name of my vagina, it’s the name of my 1996 VW Passat, may he rest in peace). Willy was so old and really liked being dirty and rugged, so I kept him that way. I never got him washed once in the year that I had him. He didn’t have a glove compartment, so I kept my Mini-G in the center arm rest thing. One time, my dad came to visit for an event. I still had to work while he was here, so I let him drop me off at the office and then take my car to do whatever dads do in SoCal. The first day he was here, he picked me up at work in a car that I didn’t recognize at first. It was Willy, but with a face-lift. I didn’t think it was possible, but Willy was actually SHINY all around. Daddy had gotten him cleaned! I was feeling a little nostalgic, but didn’t mind the makeover. That is, until I got into the car.
‘I cleaned your car!’ he said. I see that. I see that the INSIDE had been DETAILED by MY DAD. Uhh, thanks, DAD. Now where’s my Mini-G?
Of course, I couldn’t say anything, and of course my awkward Dad would NEVER say anything to me about sex-related things. All I could do was pray that maybe I had left the vibrator at A’s house and that it wasn’t still in the armrest when he cleaned the car. After dropping my dad off at his hotel, I frantically texted A, sped home to look in my vibe collection, and found NO MINI-G.
To this day, my Mini-G has yet to turn up. And I still need to go to the Pleasure Chest to get a new one. All I can think is that he gave it to one of the homeless tranny hookers in West Hollywood near the auto body shop I go to. Or he took it home to use on his new girlfriend. EWW TMI!!!
Listening to: Lady GaGa – Beautiful Dirty Rich
Whenever I say, “I’m going to go to yoga,” everyone (well, mostly guys) makes weird movements with their bodies or says something like, “Yoga, eh?” and then they nudge-nudge-wink-wink me. What do men actually think we do in yoga class? Get naked and have a sweaty contortionist lovefest? First of all, you don’t have to be slutty OR flexible to do yoga. Doing yoga regularly MAKES you more flexible, and it’s EASIER to do some of the poses if you’re flexible, but not all yoga requires you to twist your body into ridiculous shapes. I mean, except for the most recent class I went to. But apparently that class was for crazy Cirque du Soleil bitches who have stomachs made out of rocks. Yea, that class wasn’t for me.
Also, not all yogis are SKINNY and HOT and GOOD IN BED. Although I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t hoping to get all three of those things out of my yoga practice. And wanna know something that’s NOT sexy about doing yoga? Queefs. Vaginal flatulence. Yes. All girls have done it. During yoga. And it’s SO FUNNY EVERY TIME. It’s the best when you’re all breathing deep and feeling the stretch and disconnecting your mind from your body and shit and then someone lets out a big fat vagina fart. And all the mature people start breathing deeper and focusing harder and all the immature people do the closed-mouth laugh that is really more like a snort and look in the direction of the queef to see if we can pinpoint which girl was a culprit this time. Besides the calming-of-my-crazy effect that yoga has, this is my favorite part of class. Except when I’m the culprit. Which I never am anymore because I’ve learned how to control my vag. In more ways that one. Yea, you wish you knew.
Then there’s John Mayer, the guitar God with the weird faces and the hot celebrity obsessions. He’s goofy and cute. And I’ve always liked his music, especially his more funky work with the John Mayer Trio. I also heard that he might be a sex addict. Which was cool. But that’s all I ever really cared to know about the guy. Why ruin an amazing musical reputation with personal nonsense? To which John Mayer’s response apparently was, ‘Why NOT ruin it?’ with his interview for Playboy (complete with a super gay take on a hipster yearbook photo). He managed to use the words ‘n*gger,’ ‘fag,’ ‘crack cocaine,’ and ‘white-supremacist’ all in the same interview. Really, John Mayer? I thought you were an okay guy, seeing as we’re both from Connecticut and we both love sex and all. I thought you knew when enough was enough. This interview is not only NSFW, it’s NSFLife bitches.
Here are just a few of the high (I mean low) lights. My favorite part is when Playboy asked, “What if you were to google the phrase John Mayer is a douche bag?” The stories ARE true! Case in point:
And the real kicker: “I consider myself a good guy, with the best of intentions.”
Hmm, what I would give to have a guest post from John Mayer re: his extremely white cock and his addiction to ‘crack’…
Listening to: The Whitest Boy Alive – Burning
I never really made a set ‘list’ of things I always wanted in a man, but it has occurred to me that there are a few VERY important qualities/habits that I simply cannot tolerate. I refuse to sleep with/date a man who:
1. doesn’t drink
2. is addicted to cigarettes
3. has pants that are smaller than mine
4. can’t laugh at himself
Recently, I added another quality to the list. The quality is two-fold. And it involves my pet hamster.
Your what? Yes. I have a pet hamster.
I have a thing about pets. Whenever I move to a new city, I have to get something to take care of. Nothing crazy like a cat or a puppy. I usually get something easy, like a fish. That way if I forget about it, or go away for a few days, or someone pours beer in the tank, it won’t die (for the most part).
Moving to California was no different. The second I finished moving in, I went to Petco. I had every intention of buying a goldfish. Instead, I walked out, 30 minutes later, with a baby hamster, a wire cage, and all these stupid toys and treats for the thing. When I say ‘stupid toys’ I mean things like a purple piece of plastic that looks exactly like a miniature version of the carriage that Cinderella took to the ball. Most people think the hamster is weird, and in turn think I’m TOTALLY weird/crazy for keeping a small rodent in my room. Other people (like me) think she’s wicked cute and don’t mind having her around.
After a year and a half, I’ve noticed that it’s usually women, often accused of being pussies about everything, who like her the most. It’s the men, on the other hand, who actually shriek when I take her out of her cage. She is brown and furry and weighs less than a pound. Also her name is Pancake. Who’s the pussy now, bitches?
So there’s one part of fifth quality that I won’t tolerate in a man. It’s one thing if you get a little freaked out when you see my mini nugget made of fur, but it’s quite another if you refuse to touch her, and actually have to LEAVE THE ROOM whenever she’s out of her cage. Believe it or not, I have met men of this caliber of pussyness. And these men are not for me.
Here’s the other part: Rodents are nocturnal, so Pancake likes to do annoying things like run in her wheel, eat an entire bowl of food, and chew on her wire cage in the middle of the night. I, like most 20-somethings, have fought on the insomnia-battlefield, but for the most part I am able to stay asleep once I actually fall asleep, so the hamster’s nocturnal noises don’t usually bother me. Apparently, some guys are extremely bothered by it. Like the one who after spending the night in my room proclaimed that he just had THE WORST SLEEP HE’S EVER HAD IN HIS LIFE EVER AND THAT PANCAKE SHOULD DIE. Or the one who climbed over me in the middle of the night so he could be furthest away from her cage. Or the one who had to stare at her in her cage for 20 minutes, saying over and over, ‘YOU have a HAMSTER??’ Yes, idiot. I have a hamster. You’re looking at her. She’s not going anywhere.
Let me add that all these men were strangely shitty in bed. In different ways. One had a pencil dick. One couldn’t stay completely hard. One kissed like a dead fish. If asked, they might argue that their less-than-awesome bedroom skills have nothing to do with their hate/fear of rodents. I say there is a direct correlation. If you’re a light sleeper, you can’t sleep in my bed. If you are THAT afraid of rodents, you should probably jump off a cliff. And if you don’t get along with Pancake for whatever reason, you don’t get along with my vagina. The end.
Listening to: Best of Bootie 2009 Mashups
First of all, I’d like to throw a huge THANK YOU out to my amazing and sexy friend Nicole for giving me the Awesome Shit Shout Out this month! She is my inspiration for this blog (in a good, non-slutty way) and I am so happy we’re still friends even after all the ridiculousness we’ve gotten ourselves into 
Second of all, to all of you who don’t have TV or missed the Pregnancy Pact, you can watch it RIGHT NOW straight from the Lifetime website. Since no one will watch it with me at my house, I was thinking we should all have a Pregnancy Pact viewing party where we all pour ourselves multiple glasses of wine, go in a chat room, hit ‘play’ at the same time, and make fun of Thora Birch together. So it’s LIKE we’re watching it together, even though we’re not. I vote Sunday night. Yes?
Third of all, I have decided to combine my love of music with my love of sex. If you care, you can click the link at the end of each post to listen with me.
And, finally, I found this in my spam folder today from someone by the name of Micah Gore:
And also this:
Products and legality- Why is your proazduct so chrndeap?
This begs a lot of questions, like, why would something like this go into my spam folder 7 days ago? This is BREAKING NEWS, Micah Gore, and if I had known 7 days ago I would have been able to use the $39.09 I spent on birth control on Female Viagra instead. Also, really? No child labor? I’m definitely going to buy my enhancement drugs from you guys because even though you can’t spell ‘product’ or ‘cheap,’ you don’t use child labor and that’s AWESOME. And, how did you know I’ve been super worried about getting the flu? With all my saliva-swapping endeavors, it’s pretty great that I haven’t gotten the flu yet, and that’s SO GENIUS that you are bundling libido enhancement drugs with flu prevention! Could you send me some chocolate too? Oh, and I also need a new pair of black boots because I left them at M’s house and I’m sure as hell not going back to his starving artist cave.
What I really want to know though, Micah Gore, is what kind of person needs to buy Viagra + Cialis + Levitra ALL TOGETHER? If you’re the kind of person who need all of those drugs to get it up, you’re probably 95 years old and one step away from your coffin and you should NOT under ANY circumstances be putting your penis anywhere near a vagina because it would definitely disintegrate or burst into flames. Also, who do you think I am? Are you saying I should become a dealer of enhancement drugs? A treater of the erectile dysfunction? Is the libido dealer the new pot dealer? Am I going to make millions befriending old men and getting them to test their newfound erection on me? If that’s the case, I will definitely need you send condoms, two lifetime supplies of Cabernet (because I will need to be drinking double of what any normal wine consumption would be), and a side of Female Viagra for when I’m through with this because I’m positive my libido will be crushed to the ground after sleeping with a slew of old wrinkly men. At least I’ll be rich, though, right?
If anyone is interested in starting the new Libido Dealer revolution with me, just send me an email and I’ll put you in touch with Micah Gore. Who is actually Al Gore’s rebellious illegitimate child. So if you wanted, you could technically ask Al Gore for Micah’s contact info. And then you could make Al Gore your first client. That is, if I don’t get to him first.
Ed. note: I made that last part up. Except the part about sleeping with Al Gore. Because I totally would.
Listening to/watching: The xx – VCR
Okay, so, I lied. Well, sort of. I mean, I guess I didn’t LIE necessarily. I just omitted the truth.
In my last post, I talked about My Brazilian, his irresponsability (yes, I spelled that wrong on purpose because that’s how HE spelled it), and the fact that there’s only ONE reason I can proudly say I’ve never been pregnant (and it’s definitely not because I always use a condom or only sleep with men that shoot blanks or have had my tubes tied): I’m really good at taking birth control.
The birth control pill is 99.9% effective, and I’m pretty sure the only reason they can’t say it’s 100% effective is because they would totally get sued every day by all the idiots that forget to take it or mix it with other pills that make it less effective. I believe that if taken correctly, the pill is 100% effective. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just sterile. Who knows.
I guess when you wake up every morning and the first thing you think about is sex, the next logical thought is clearly ‘No babies for me!’ <pops birth control pill>. It also doesn’t hurt that I’ve been on the pill since I was 16.
Now, for the first time in my history of pill-taking, I missed my pill. For three weeks.
THREE WEEKS???
Yes.
My prescription ran out, and I didn’t go get a refill. Why? The reason is two-fold: First of all, I sort of wanted to try that thing that my friends try sometimes where you say to yourself, “I’m not going to take birth control, and then because I know I’m not taking it, I won’t have unprotected sex.”
Here’s the thing ladies, THAT NEVER WORKS. Habits die hard. Especially bad ones. Don’t kid yourselves.
The second reason is that California (and the entire health care system) decided to start sucking. Maybe they’ve always sucked. I don’t know. All I know is I used to get free birth control when I used this pretty teal card that Planned Parenthood gave me because I was poor and a huge slut. Somehow, starting in the new year, I no longer qualify for the free-everything card even though my income really hasn’t changed and I haven’t started being less of a huge slut. And now California no longer gives me free birth control. Instead, they charge me 39 dollars and 9 cents for one month of GENERIC birth control pills. That’s $39.09 for 28 pills that are smaller than my fingertip. You do the math. And then say it with me: FUCK YOU CALIFORNIA HEALTH CARE!
They also won’t let me get more than one month of pills at a time. So, um, what the FUCK are you expecting me to do here? Actually go into CVS and stand in line for 20 minutes at the drop-off window, wait a day, and then stand in line at the pick-up window for ANOTHER 20 minutes? And then repeat the whole process next month? That’s ludicrous I tell you! And I don’t have time for this shit!
Okay, I realize that I’m being totally irrational. There are a lot of people out there who have to deal with being really sick and living on the street and not having access to any form of health care whatsoever.
On the other hand, WHY do they think Lifetime made a movie based on a true story called The Pregnancy Pact? And what about the ridiculous rise in teen pregnancy in the past year? MAYBE things like this are happening because y’all are makin’ it too hard for us po’ folks to get our pills!!!!
(that was me being Texan white trash. no offense to anyone from Texas. or anyone who is white trash. although I think if you were white trash you probably wouldn’t realize it. you also probably wouldn’t be reading this blog, even though you probably should…)
ANYWAY, my point is that I’m a sexually active girl, so you knew that my beef with birth control would come out sooner or later. And I really honestly think that this is huge problem with our system. In any other scenario, I would not have taken the morning-after-pill. Plan B is not a form of birth control, it’s a back-up, and I never want to take it again. But, I will take it if these people don’t give me my pills. For LESS than 40 Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers a month. Can I get a HELL YEA?? Slash can we start a ‘Sluts for Free Contraception’ movement? Slash does anyone work for a pharmacy that can steal some pills for me? I take Ocella. Or Yasmin. Or ANYTHING that makes babies not form in my body. I’ll bake you cookies. And give you a fat kiss and/or a lap dance. And you’ll be doing a huge favor for humanity by NOT letting a big Slutty McSlutterson like me create spawn. So, yea. Thanks in advance.
My Brazilian decided to leave the sunny City of Angels and move on to more, well, European adventures. He packed up his apartment, sold the Ikea bed that I sold him several months ago, and took about 900 bags on the airplane to Germany. Or London? I don’t fucking care. Anyway, the Brazilian decided to spend the night before he left with none other than the wonderful MOI! Why? I had no effing clue. I’m fun, but I’m not SO fun that you’d want to spend your entire last night in America with me before MOVING away to another continent. It was a Sunday. I was already drunk (naturally), and he brought over a bottle of wine from the 7-11. Even after only a few dates, he knows me well.
There I was, drunk on the couch, watching E!, and squealing about the Giuliana and Bill show because the guy I made out with on Friday happened to be on it. My roommate knew all about it. My Brazilian didn’t. Not like he would have cared. He speaks good English, but sometimes I feel like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Maybe because I talk too fast. Or too high-pitched. Especially while drunk. Maybe he’s like those animals that can only hear certain pitches. Did I just make that up?
The most likely explanation is that he really doesn’t care what I say at all, he just came over so he could sleep with me. Same reason why any guy comes over on a Sunday night. Right? I mean he certainly didn’t come over to watch Giuliana and Bill.
So we drank more. Much more. Until I decided I wanted to be horizontal, and I didn’t care if he wanted to join. The next part is a blur. Sometimes when I close my eyes I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Maybe that’s how I’m able to convince myself that things like naked Brazilians in my bed are okay.
The next day I almost called in sick to work because OMG MY BRAIN IS EXPLODING AND I’M NAKED AND I’M DEFINITELY GOING TO VOMIT ALL OVER MY KEYBOARD.
If only I HAD sick days at this god-forsaken hell hole also known as my job.
The next afternoon, I received a message via Facebook from the Brazilian.
Subject: hi from London
Message (abbreviated):
so just wanted to say that was great meeting you, i like your fun sweet easy-going personality and most of all, i like that you are a very truthful (is that a word?) and original person
wish you the best!
Brazilian
PS.: as usual… sorry about the irresponsability that day, my fault! Would you hate me forever if I asked you to take one of those day after pills?
………………
You can’t make this shit up. He doesn’t even know if ‘truthful’ is a word. Or how to spell ‘irresponsibility.’ And, REALLY? One of those ‘day after pills’???? Great. He DIDN’T use a condom. Again. After I FREAKED OUT last time. What the hell is wrong with everyone??? Why is it MY responsibility to ask YOU to throw a rubber on your South American cock? Why is it that I always have to prevent the babies and the diseases? I’m not responsible at all! If you were worried about little children running around, don’t fucking cum in me. Or get a vasectomy. OR USE A CONDOM. Especially when I’m half in dream state and half totally wasted. It’s YOUR COCK and therefore YOUR RESPONSIBILITY if my egg gets fertilized. It doesn’t fertilize itself, idiot. And you don’t just take the ‘day after pill’ whenever the fuck you want. It’s SO BAD for you. Not as bad as an actual abortion I guess, but you’re only supposed to take Plan B like twice in your life. This is something all boys should know. There are some retarded females out there who take it all the time, but I certainly don’t. In fact, I’ve never taken it before. Because I’m SO GOOD at taking my birth control, and I’ve been on it basically since I left the womb and there’s no way I’m getting pregnant anytime soon, even if I stop taking it. Also, I’m petrified of taking any pills (other than birth control) or putting chemicals into my body (which makes no sense, because I take birth control every day). I don’t take painkillers because I’m convinced I’ll get an ulcer or have a heart attack and die.
But, there’s no way I could ever take care of ANYONE else besides myself, and maybe the Brazilian has really fertile spermies, and since the message came less than 36 hours after the act, and I had a Plan B pack in my bathroom that Planned Parenthood gave me for free (because they know I’m a huge slut), I decided to open it, take a deep breath, and swallow it.
And that was the longest sentence ever.
Then I thought about all the ways I could die. Maybe Plan B will eat my stomach from the inside out and my intestines will fall out. Maybe the sperm-killing chemicals will also kill all of my white blood cells and I’ll contract swine flu and AIDS at the same time and slowly suffer for the next three weeks until my head explodes and there’s blood and dead sperm everywhere.
Clearly, I didn’t die. I didn’t even get sick. Although other girls have told me horror stories about having to skip school/work because the pill gave them the most evil and debilitating cramps of their lives. Oh, the sperm-killing terribleness!! Don’t we suffer enough with the monthly flow and the baby birthing??
These kinds of drugs were obviously created by men. If I had it my way, I would give all boys some kind of ‘night of’ pill before they sleep with me, not ‘morning after’ pill. That way I would be sure that if any of their sperm found a way into my ovaries, no babies would be made. And I wouldn’t even have to hear from them the next day.
Sounds like a win-win situation to me. Now, who’s the female pharmacist that’s going to patent this drug?? And what shall we call it?
