you used to call me on my flip phone.

I know a large majority of single people want to murder/suicide themselves during the holidays. I have my struggles with it too. Like how my mom always wants to get “couple” pictures next to the Christmas tree. I watch my married siblings pose with their wives. I smile while secretly wishing the Christmas tree would explode. Since I’m inherently single, or dating someone gross or without enough brain cells to function in public, I either pose with my dog, if he even loves me enough to allow this, or with a bottle of wine. This would be probably the 10th year of that. Nothing tragic at all about it. Seriously, I LIVE for this moment. These are tears of joy guys, FOR REAL!!

I’ve decided that instead of being bummed about being single and alone and unloved and barren during the holidays, I’m going to be fucking stoked on life and focus on the positive. Weeeeeeeee!!! Here’s why.

1. I don’t have to buy some stupid dick a present.

The last time I bought a dude a Christmas present I was super proud of myself. I did some subtle questioning and research and found the perfect gift. Seriously. It was guaranteed to get me all the oral for months. It was somewhat expensive but I didn’t care because I knew I nailed it. As dickhead opened his present, I sat there waiting for all the squeals and compliments and child-like joy. Instead, he opened it, surveyed it, made some comment that a dickhead would make like “Oh, this is cool” and that was it. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? And then, when I opened the stupid knee high socks and slutty school girl ensemble he bought me and acted less than stoked about it, he pouted. LIKE A DICKHEAD. I’m sorry I didn’t jizz my pants over your Hot Topic purchases when I dropped two Benjamins on your super awesome present. NEVER AGAIN.

2. I don’t have to hang out with a dick’s rude/boring/batshit crazy family.

I’ve done the meet the family thing with exactly three dudes. My family hated all of them. So there’s that. In hindsight I completely agree and wish that my brothers had actually murdered them and buried them in the backyard like their instincts told them to do. Would’ve saved me a lot of wasted money on condoms, Plan B, booze and pills to help me forget I was in a god awful relationship. (Well let’s be real, the booze and pills would’ve happened anyway.) The dudes that have been blessed to hang out with my family had a great fucking time. We eat delicious foods. We drink until we blackout. We play beer pong outside until it rains and then just drag that shit inside. It’s a complete win. I haven’t had the same experience when I’m forced to hang out with a dickhead’s family. Generally they don’t get it. They don’t understand why I have pink/blue/purple/orange/green hair and tattoos and piercings but I’m not homeless or a prostitute. They don’t understand why when they ask me when I’m planning on getting married and popping out children I laugh, chug my wine/vodka/whiskey/roofie and exclaim “NOPE” loudly into their mouth hole. They don’t understand why by the end of the interaction I’m staring at their loved one with hatred and wondering if I could start a forest fire in their house. Unless your aunt that had all the abortions in high school gets blacked out, drags me into the kitchen, and tells me all the dirty secrets of your family while feeding me shots, I don’t give a fuck about your family. I’ll be in Buena Park taking my pants off and trying to sit on my sister-in-law’s lap. Merry Fucking Christmas whores.

3. I can wear sweatpants all day every day and shave my legs NEVER.  

My favorite winter look is the homeless, I put on every article of clothing I own because I have no other choice, inspired ensemble. I want to wear all my sweaters, jackets, scarves and leggings under sweatpants. I realize that dudes think yoga pants are hot because they get sucked into your asshole and give you super sexy cameltoe. However I am also aware that sweatpants make you single. If you weren’t already single, you are now. Congrats! If I have a dickhead in my life during the holidays it really fucks with my life. I have to wear yoga pants in lieu of sweatpants and now have a permanent front and back wedgie. Also now all the cunts in Long Beach that actually go to Yoga and Pilates and Cross-Cunt or whatever the fuck it is have full reign to give me side eye because we both know my ass isn’t going to work out. I’m going to the bar. To get really drunk so I don’t feel embarrassed to pull out my wedgies in public. Being dickhead free means I only have to shave my legs wherever skin shows. I don’t have to brush my hair until like noon because I have no interaction with any other human before then. I can wear sweatpants and two sweatshirts and four scarves at all times within the confines of my home. And guess what? No one tries to mug me because they assume I’m one of them. BAM. Nailed it!

And the best part of being single during the holidays:

4. I can bang ALL the dudes on New Year’s Eve.

Yup. That’s right. I can stick my tongue in everyone’s mouth. I can participate in a glitter orgy. Or a bubble orgy. Or a syrup orgy. Okay maybe not syrup. That sounds fucking gross. But glitter and bubbles? Fuck yeah! Oh you’re making out with your boyfriend for the 6th year in a row? Cool. FUCKING LOSERS. I’m making out with a guy named “Red Jacket” and then I’m gonna make out with a guy named “Suspenders” and maybe even throw in a little 2nd base action with “Zach Morris Hair”. This will go down while the couples stand around sadly, wishing they had my life, but pretending that they’re disgusted. I see you Sarah and Bobby. I know you want to be fisted by a man covered in glitter. And bubbles. Maybe next year fuckers!!

So while I could send out Christmas cards of me wearing matching sweaters with my geriatric pets and signing it with my tears, I’m gonna not do that. I’m gonna be glad I don’t have to deal with a dickhead and that my furry kids don’t even know what Christmas is so I don’t have to buy them shit. Also I know that my parents will provide all the drinks for Christmas dinner and don’t care if I’m blacked out by 8:00 p.m. and screaming obscenities at the neighbors.

Sidenote: If I land myself a rich daddy in the next 9 days, disregard everything I’ve just said. I’ll take some Chanel sunglasses, one of those chain purses and let’s throw in a faux fur coat. Thanks daddy!!

pussy pity party. of one.

I heard something so offensive the other day that I almost offered myself to ISIS to be a suicide bomber because I couldn’t even handle that was happening in this world. (Too soon? Sorry, not sorry.)

My coworker was talking about her family getting together for the holidays and mentioned how she was super excited to see her younger sister, but she was also a little hesitant because little sis is kind of a Judge Judy and my coworker is recently separated from her douche husband and has been gettin some side D. Like lots of side D. I’m basically living vicariously through her vagina because it’s being worked harder than that wrecking ball in Miley Cyrus’s music video. Anyway, let me move on from my bitterness and get back to the story. I asked her why her sister would be mad about her having a Stella got her groove back moment. Then she said her sister is a 30 year old virgin and plans on staying that way until marriage. After I made a lot of weird noises in my throat and the muscle spasms in my face calmed down, I basically screamed at her to repeat herself. (How I still have a job is a fucking miracle.) In all seriousness, I thought virgins were extinct after the age of 25. Or at least there are about as many as those nearly extinct albino rhinos. Even the Mormons are smart enough to get married at like 14 so they can get it in. If my mind had been a virgin, this would have been an epic milestone because this conversation fucked my mind super hard.

So then I was thinking maybe she just doesn’t date. I guess if you’ve never had a serious boo or at least someone who didn’t make you barf in your mouth and you could hang out with for more than a few hours, maybe penetration was never on the table. (P.S. penetration on a table should ALWAYS be on the table) I have a few friends (ok maybe like 1.5 friends) that only get down with people they are seriously dating. In my opinion they’re boring as shit but you know, life choices, life goals, what the fuck ever. Maybe it’s not everyone’s jam to fuck a stranger at a wedding in your car in the hotel parking lot. Allegedly.

But then I found out that this chick has had lots of serious boos. I assumed at this point that maybe she’s an under the bridge troll and if she doesn’t party she’s never had the chance to roofie someone to get it in. Nope. She’s attractive and my coworker once talked about how she had a friend with a super stinky vagina so I know she’d out her sister if her downstairs was all fucked up. At this point I was extremely confused and had to take a muscle relaxer so I could black out for a few minutes and not think before my brain exploded.

I blacked in about 10 minutes later and started thinking, are there people dating and in serious relationships who aren’t boning down? This can’t be happening in the world. What would you do with someone that you spend most of your time with if you aren’t naked at least 80% of that time? Do you talk about things? Dumb. Do you have couple hobbies like fishing or gardening or landscaping? Dear god shoot me in the face. The only reason I can be convinced to be in a relationship is the guarantee of regular D. Not having to put on pants and eyeliner and be charming is fucking magical. If all I have to do is roll over, this is a life worth living.

Maybe that’s why I’m such a disaster. Maybe you’re supposed to be in a relationship because you like the other person even if they aren’t giving you orgasms. Wait, no. I refuse to accept this. Call me shallow, but once the naked parties die down I’m out. I’m jumping off the Titanic and I’m not sharing my door, even if logically it could fit 3-4 people. Sorry bitches, I need room to stretch out.

So to my 30 year old virgins out there, you do you. If your vagina still loves you even though you ignore her, that’s rad. My vagina is not peaceful. She’s a vengeful, angry little demon and I know better than to disappoint her. Let me rephrase that. I disappoint her quite often but at least we have memories of some quality D we can talk about and help us forget the bad times. Also, just a warning, if you’re holding off on getting rid of your hymen because you think your first time is going to be magical, you’re going to want to kill yourself. I’m not kidding. My suggestion, drink a lot, take a muscle relaxer, and lower your expectations. Maybe actually have no expectations. Choose someone attractive because there’s going to be a lot of awkward eye contact. And for fuck’s sake do not choose another virgin. It’s weird enough without two people sweating and flopping around like an injured sea lion. Oh and best of luck. Here’s hoping you don’t turn into a terminal TFDer like me. (Seriously, don’t. I don’t need any more competition.)

Glossary (for those of you that aren’t avid readers and need to know what’s happening):

D = DICK

TFD = Trollin For Dick

Disneyland, orphans and bestiality.

Friends, family members, and strangers that have the unfortunate luck to stand anywhere near me in a public place have likely heard one of my rants against the Disney franchise. Maybe you're sick of hearing it but I don't give a fuck. I'm at work, hating everything because I day drank yesterday, and no one believes that my shakes are from meningitis so it looks like my ass is stuck here for the next 7 hours. I went to college for this. Welcome to my hell. 

I saw some shit online about Disneyland and it inspired my third rage blackout of the day. The first was when I discovered that my blacked out ass knocked Ibuprofen all over my kitchen last night and the second was when I stepped on a dripping wet pee pad after I had just dragged my ass out in public so my dog could pee on someone else's property. Again, I went to college and this is my life. 

I've never been a Disney fan. My mom said she was so excited to take me to Disneyland for the first time when I was like 4 years old and the second I saw one of the characters I screamed my ass off and ran for the exit and tried to leave with an Asian family. Why was anyone surprised? It's a total mindfuck that you see these people and talking clocks and shit on your TV and then all of a sudden it's standing in front of you trying to touch you. NOT running like hell and screaming your ass off seems abnormal. What kind of life lessons are we teaching our children? If I had kids you're god damn right I'd be telling them that if a candelabra tries to touch them they should run for their fucking lives. Also I've seen the way Goofy pelvic thrusts at children. Keep your dick away from us Goofy you son of a bitch. 

Can we also talk about how Disney movies ruin your life? Apparently when you wish upon a star your mom dies, or your dad dies, or you get pricked and sleep forever, or little demon dwarfs make you their bitch. The people that work for Disney clearly have daddy/mommy/aunt/uncle/grandpa/grandma issues. Ya'all are fucked up. I had nightmares that my mom was going to be shot (Bambi style) or just pack her shit and leave me one day (almost all other Disney movies). No one has a great Mom in Disney movies. And if you have a cool Dad? Oh, well he's gonna die too. Maybe your Uncle pushes him off a cliff and you watch him fall to his death. Or maybe he marries some evil cunt who kills his ass to pay for her vaginal reconstruction or whatever. Either way, your going to be alone and unloved. Something to really look forward to!

I also blame Disney for turning us all into sad cat/dog ladies. Animals can talk and be your best friend. That's totally normal. Why wouldn't you have mice and birds helping you get dressed in the morning?  Why wouldn't my dog respond when I ask him to back the fuck up and give me 10 more minutes of sleepy times? The people in Disney movies are generally assholes. So of course we should hate people and be friends with animals. Dear Disney, thank you for reaffirming to a child that people are twats and animals are your only friend. Clearly I've become a very well adjusted adult. 

Can I also point out that Disney really fucks with our heads when they make us sexually attracted to animals? I mean, who didn't want to fuck Simba? I did. I wanted to get down so hard on that animated dick. I'm not even ashamed to admit that I was a little sexually attracted to Pumba. Don't you fucking judge me. To this day I'm more likely to leave a bar with a short chubby dude. But seriously, it's hard enough going through puberty and trying to understand what's happening to your body and now I have to worry about wanting to hump on animals? It's a miracle I made it to adulthood. Seriously. I probably have PETA waiting outside to throw paint or feces or something on me. Cool. 

I also learned that you're never gonna get the high quality D unless you're white, helpless, preferably stupid, and supermodel smokin hot. Also, Prince Douchebag is gonna need you to be asleep so he doesn't have to listen to your ass talk. I'm not the damsel in distress type. I will probably start a bar fight before you and I walk my dog at 3:00 a.m. with my shank out ready to stab a bitch and I hammer shit into my walls all by my god damn self. I've played the helpless, dumb, opinion-less girl before and it's not my jam. I don't need to be rescued. If I'm asleep and you try to molest my mouth that's called assault. Although if you want to walk my dog for me at 3:00 a.m. so I don't have to put on pants, that's modern chivalry and I'm not mad about that. A true modern romance is two people getting blacked out at a bar, swapping STDs, and deciding to make it work and move in together because rent is high as fuck and sharing toilet cleaning duties with another person makes life slightly more bearable. This is the reality when you don't have a mouse to bleach your toilet for you. 

If you're still waiting for your Prince Charming or if you've been arrested for trying to hump on a lion or inanimate object I get it and I think you should sue Disney. Class action lawsuit. Protests. All of it. I got your  back. 

Now I'm gonna go watch The Little Mermaid and count the phallic symbols and try to pretend I'm not still sexually attracted to Sebastian. Cheers. 

Nightmare on Viagra street. The prequel.

I rarely ever dream. It’s not because I’m a soulless bitch and hope has been replaced by Xanax. I mean that’s also true. But what I mean is I’m usually medicated/blacked out when I go to sleep so my mind is a dead zone. No cell service, no brain function; I’m basically Terri Schaivo. (Yes, I’m quite aware I’m the worst person on the planet, bye.)

Sometimes though after a hard day of dealing with dipshits and pee pads and cat litter strewn about my entire home, I’m girl down with only half the normal amount of meds and booze. This was the situation a couple of nights ago and I had a dream. Actually, it may be better qualified as a mother fucking nightmare.

I’m ashamed to admit that I had a sex dream about an ex-boyfriend. I know. It’s plagued me for days and last night I was so scared to go to sleep I took two sleeping pills and drank a whole bottle of wine so today I have the shakes and some fucked up wonk eye. (Just a reminder guys, I’m totally single and available. Tweet me.)

I wouldn’t have minded a super hot sex dream. At this point I probably have cob webs in my vagina and the other day I sneezed and swear dust flew out of my basement. But this wasn’t a super hot sex dream. This was a realistic nightmare.

I don’t think I need to go into super specific details about my dream. Actually, fuck it. You’re getting the raw dog version of this dream. No protection. If I have to live with this, so do you.

My nightmare started out at some party in a basement. Like the basement in someone’s parents’ house, so clearly even in my dream life I’m hanging out with some bottom feeders. Dream big? NOPE. I’ll dream small thanks very much. Anyway, so I’m with some people that my sleeping pill made up because I don’t know these bitches. But I have a boozy drink in my hand so things aren’t too bad. Then I spot the ex. I wasn’t surprised to see him, so I’m immediately suspicious of my dream self that she’s being a little hoe and showed up here on purpose. TRAITOR!

The ex approaches and some awkward small talk ensues. This is when I had to check myself and make sure this wasn’t real life because awkward small talk is my real life, in my dream life I’m nailing everything always. So I took a drink and it tasted more like ginger ale than liquid drainer so I knew this wasn’t real. My real life drink would have murdered my liver already. (Dream Jenn you need to step up your boozing game, seriously.) All of a sudden I’m inviting the devil back to my house. TO DO SEX. WHAT IS HAPPENING!?!?!? It was at this point that I know my real life self barfed in her mouth because I woke up with the worst acid reflux ever.

So we’re walking back to my house, holding hands which again reassured me this wasn’t real life because we never were hand holders, and Dream Jenn feels like this is totally ok. We get to my house and it’s furniture in a god damn park. I don’t have a house. I have the set-up of a house in a fucking park without walls, doors, a ceiling. Even my Dream Life is a fucking tragedy. I may have roaches, termites and nails coming out of my floor in my real life home, but at least I have a fucking ceiling. Is it too late for my mom to have an abortion?

Dream Jenn realizes, oh shit, I sleep in a park where people walk around. We can’t go to Pound Town here. I mean it just wouldn’t be very romantic if a homeless person made this a double penetration situation without my permission and a STD check printout first. So then we make the responsible decision to just go to a stranger’s house and walk in. Totally normal. Nothin weird about that. At this point the entire dream universe is telling me I’m making a bad decision. Bare backing with Charlie Sheen would be a better decision than the one I’m making right now. But one thing I’m not is a quitter. The hunt for the D will go on.

We find a stranger’s house. Walk right in. Maybe I’m not making a bad decision because this plan has worked out perfectly. Empty house. Comfy looking bed. I’m about to swallow so many mistakes right now. Things are getting serious but his penis is like a sad, shriveled hose. It’s just there. Not doing anything. I mean I didn’t expect it to put on tap shoes and give a performance (though how RAD would that be!?) but I at least expected it to stand at attention. I’m just staring at this sad penis and neither one of us are talking. (Again I had to double check this wasn’t real life because I’m not having fun yet.) And then, his dick falls off. Let me say that again…HIS DICK FALLS OFF OF HIS BODY AND HITS THE FLOOR. That thing goes down harder and faster than Miley Cyrus on a bong. It was the dick splat heard round the world.  

Even in my dream life dudes are disappointments. Seriously!? I live in a bed in a park and that’s not the worst thing in my life? Jesus Christ.

Now every time someone utters the phrase “man of my dreams” I’m going to picture a sad dick, lying on the floor, completely useless and crushing all hope. My patronus would be a limp dick. Take that Voldemort! I just threw a sad dick in your face! (Yeah, I brought it back to Harry Potter. Fuck off.) Get a gun.

Turns out if you do some dream analysis research and look up a dream like this you get one answer: no. So much no. Do I need therapy? Should I get hypnotized and let someone poke around and see what the fuck is wrong with me? Do they still do lobotomy’s? Does Blue Shield pay for that? Do I have a brain tumor? Is it because I ate cheese before I went to bed? Help. I’m applying for a life alert again. This has to qualify me.

If you have nightmares about sad dicks, I’m not sorry because I shouldn’t have to be in this alone. The lesson I’ve learned? Always protect yourself and double pill and double wine. Every time.

meet Jerry.

I think Jerry is like the best dude name ever. When I picture someone named Jerry I picture them with permanent plumber’s crack, busting ass in public and not giving a fuck, and drinking a lot of beer. And peeing in public. You do you, Jerry. If I was a dude, I’d totally want to be called Jerry.

You’re probably wondering where the fuck I’m going with this. Or you’re blacked out and wondering where your pants are and who that dude snoring on your couch is. I truly hope it’s the latter because I only want my spirit animals to read my blog.

But last night while drinking some wine, and I mean shit got serious because I was literally just drinking from the bottle after I found a super long straw that someone gifted me so I didn’t have to move my arms, while scrolling through the trolls and hot pieces on OkCupid I had a revelation. Or a spiritual awakening. Or acid reflux. Whatever the fuck it was. I think I have a man’s brain.

Throughout my extensive dating career, I’ve learned something about dudes. No matter how unattractive, uninteresting, unemployed, and despite having an ant-sized dick, dudes ALWAYS think they deserve a super smokin hot girlfriend. No fucking joke. It seriously chaffs my very sensitive ass cheeks when I see a dude who sucks, with a super cool lady friend. For real? I can smell your ball cheese from here and you’re clearly hiding some balding issues under that Dodgers hat and there’s more hair coming out from under your shirt collar than a legit 70’s bush. What is happening? But it’s true. Gross dudes with hot chicks. It’s a god damn plague.

And I think I might have caught the disease. Maybe it’s sexually transmitted? I’m pretty sure I got a slight case of Asperger’s through sexual contact with one of my dipshit exes. Sometimes my vagina loses all social skills and makes public outings super awkward. So it’s completely possible I caught the aim way, way too high disease. And obviously there’s not a cure since it’s still running rampant in the world.

I diagnosed myself after I realized my criteria for dudes that I would respond to. Ethnic sounding name? Nah. I don’t want to have to roll my tongue every time I yell at your ass in public for cutting me off at the bar. Hats in every picture? Nah. I don’t care if you’re bald or balding, but I need to know what’s going on with your head. Posing with random babes or porn stars in your pictures? Fuck nah. You’re going to try to put it in my butt immediately and I’m not going to go into detail, but nothing goes into my asshole because I don’t trust her. She’s shady as hell. Oh you like rock climbing, surfing, mountain biking, running, getting out of bed, etc.? NOPE. I like sitting in a bar, or if it’s a nice day I’ll even be down for an outside bar, and drinking until everyone seems hotter and funnier. I’ll walk there. But I’m sure as shit not gonna climb a fucking mountain or swim in the ocean to get there. NOPE. I could keep going, but I’ll sum this up with I will ignore your message if one small thing irritates me about you. It could even be that you’re wearing aviators and I think you have a more of a wayfarer face. Yup. I’m shallow as all hell.

It made me think, am I aiming for Channing Tatum when I should be going for Tourette’s guy? If you don’t know who Tourette’s guy is, first of all SHAME ON YOU, secondly look it up on YouTube immediately. It will change your life. Also, RIP my friend. But seriously, am I a dude? Trying to date a Victoria’s Secret model when you look like you just emerged from under a bridge after terrorizing some fucking goats or children or virgins or whatever. I also hate cuddling. I get talking about feelings is necessary but it makes me nauseous and I’d rather get drunk and scream that I hate you and then make you get me Del Taco and forget I was mad. I like to drink beer and watch war documentaries and zombie movies and curse and burp and laugh at poop jokes. I could also be 13 years old.

However, I know I have ovaries and a uterus because I hate video games and love puppies and like to make babies laugh because it’s crazy cute when they giggle until they almost vomit and start crying. Does this mean I’m gender fluid? I don’t have my tits out all the time and shove glitter in my peesh like Miley Cyrus. So maybe not. I know I don’t want to be a dude because ew. Am I just fucking nuts? Don’t answer that. Am I one of those letters from the LQBTQRFHSUO that I don’t know what the fuck it means?

All I know is, I don’t want to be the troll under the bridge trying to rape models. I don’t know if that’s what I was trying to say but now that it’s out there I can’t, won’t, am too tired to fix it. I guess maybe I can give the dude wearing a fedora non-ironically a chance. Actually, no, no I can’t. Fuck that guy. But maybe I can suck it up and hang out with the dude that wore dad jeans. Son of a bitch I can’t do that either I’d barf in my mouth. I could handle the pink polo. No. No no no. I can't. I have to maintain some sort of self-respect after the couch incident. 

Shit. It’s going down. This is real life. Guys, call me Jerry.  

people are shit & other musings during a rage blackout

I don’t want to hate people. Truly. My life would be so much easier if I thought people were okay and liked being around them and didn’t mind sharing my oxygen/space/existence with them. Turns out though, people are mostly shit.

While most people try to make as many friends as possible and jizz themselves every time they get a Facebook friend request or new follower on Instagram or someone pokes their tweet or whatever, I’d rather not. Generally if I get a Facebook friend request I sigh, roll my eyes, and try to decide the level of awkwardness if I decline or ignore it. If the level of awkwardness will be less than 80%, request denied mother fucker. You’ll be worth the “accept” if you’re somewhat entertaining, a complete hot mess, or at least I know you won’t be talking about your fucking baby or lame ass boyfriend/girlfriend every 10 seconds. Seriously, fuck your baby. Pictures of puppies and videos of your cat trying to climb into a box or sneak attacking your other cat, I’m so down.

I have some friends I guess. I like some of them more than others. Real talk, if certain people just disappeared it would probably take me 6 months to 14 years to notice. I’m disgusted by neediness and clinginess and codependency. I try to understand it, but if I’m really honest with myself I don’t empathize with it. You can’t wipe your ass without someone’s permission? Gross. You’d ditch your friends to get some random dick? Die.

I think every year I give less and less fucks about how many contacts I have in my cell phone. I know I have a handful of ride or dies that I can text at 3:00 a.m. to ask their opinion on bloody poops and what level of ass cancer that probably indicates. Being able to block people from calling/texting is the greatest phone feature that ever happened to me. Oh, you’re excited that you can watch amateur teen porn on your commute home? I’m excited that I currently have 112 blocked numbers. To each his own.

I guess I should wait until I’m older to play the senile, it’s cute when I’m offensive/racist/sexist, card until I’m at least close to diaper times. But fuck it. I’m gonna play that card now. Let’s be real, with my lifestyle I won’t have any of those golden years to fart in public and shrug my shoulders and have people just smile like I laid a fucking golden egg. That was a mushroom cloud of stored up ass that’s been brewing for 70 years. That’s not cute. Ever. But I’ll play along because I walked to school barefoot in the snow while battling bears and vampires. I do what I want!

I’m not going to pretend that you’re not a douchebag. I’m not going to pretend that you’re fun to be around. I’m not going to pretend that the sound of your voice doesn’t make me want to drown baby mice. (I know, I know. Baby mice!? I’ve gone too fucking far.) If you’re a shitty person I don’t have time for it. I never signed a contract that I had to hang out with you. I need another obligation like I need more ass cancer.

I’ll start caring when people stop sucking. Unless I wake up one day and have the magical power to turn everyone into puppies and kittens. That just made me feel something that might be happiness. Oh wait, I farted. 

Put me on the Oregon Trail. I’m ready for dysentery.

Anyone who's around my age remembers that game Oregon Trail that they pretended was educational, but really just gave me nightmares about shitting myself to death, being murdered by Native Americans or getting bitten by a snake while peeing in a hole and dying immediately. I remember that you died, always. No one lived past the age of 13. Honestly, to me it didn't seem all bad. You went out on top right? With an immaculate vagina and great boobs. I mean I can't be mad about that. 

So am I the only one in the world who’s kinda pissed that our life expectancy has gone from like 50, 60 if you’re lucky, to these fucking mummies that are living to be like 110? Thank you science but I don’t want to live to be so old that when I sneeze dust flies out of my vagina and asshole. I don’t want to become an artifact. I don’t want to wear diapers because I have to, I only want to wear them because I’m tired and drank a lot and don’t want to risk another public urination fine. I want the only reason why I would ever shit my pants in public to be because I made the bad decision to eat Mexican food, Indian food and chase that with a mocha latte from Starbucks and now I’m sprinting through the streets drenched in sweat praying that people will think I fell in some mud because 30 year olds don’t shit their pants. It’s just not something that happens. (Fact: This probably happens all the time but we’re too ashamed to admit it. I vow to you that if I ever shit my pants in public I will tell you. No one should be alone in their shame.)

Honestly when you’re in your 20’s being in your 40’s sounds SOOOOOOO far away. I mean, with my daily alcohol intake, strictly fast food diet, caffeine addiction, and monogamous relationship with prescription pills, I laughed when people talked about my 30th birthday. Aw, that’s sweet that you think I’ll live to be 30. What a cutie baby.

Somehow, again I’m blaming science and fantastic genetics, I’m here. I am 30 fucking years worn down. A friend recently described turning 29, yes I know fuck her youth, as being 25 with shipping and handling. If that’s true, then 30 is being 28 and getting your ass shipped overseas, twice, to the countries that don’t have air conditioning and maybe you ended up in a gutter in the Bronx. Seriously. I’m fucking exhausted. The thought of doing this for 30-50 more years makes me barf in my mouth. I need a permanent nap. Someone turn on my Netflix to a documentary.

When you’re young you think who the fuck cares how many credit cards I have and how much debt I’m in? Is the government going to go after my dog when I’m dead? (Sidenote to the FEDs: I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s an angry little bastard.) I’ve always known I wasn’t procreating, so it’s not like my poor children would be stuck paying for my Chanel shit and wishing they’d never been born. But what if I’m one of the mummies? I don’t want to be shitting in a hole outside a Wal-Mart smoking the last part of people’s cigarettes because I outlived my savings. That’s fucking terrible. Push me into traffic. Seriously. I’m good.  

Now I have to think about 401K’s and retirement plans and all that other adult shit. Oh I’m not allowed to have nice things because I might need the expensive adult diapers in 30 years? Cool. Never mind that, I’ll take dumps into my Chanel purse. Because I have CLASS. I don’t want a husband. They seem like a lot of work and might have a lot of feelings and “opinions” to suffocate my hopes and dreams. But god damn. Maybe I should get one so at least I only have to pay for half of my estrogen cream so my vagina doesn’t shrivel up like a raisin. I DON’T THINK I CAN HANDLE VAGINA AND ASSHOLE DUST ON MY OWN FOR GOD’S SAKE.

I think maybe modern medicine and science need to calm down a little. Maybe start putting weird shit back into our food to even out the world a little bit. I’ll do my part. I’ll continue to drink more alcohol than a human should, and consider French fries a vegetable, and I promise to take my prescription pills like vitamins. And I definitely won’t take vitamins. Nope. Sorry too busy. Email me.

If you’d like to start contributing to my Go Fund Me page for my diapers, vagina cream, and cat food for when I’m mummified, that would be awesome. Or I’ll go on one of those Russian websites and get a husband. I’m sure he’ll only hit me on Tuesdays, below the face but above the waist. That’s what a gentleman does.

Also, side rant, no I will not contribute to your Go Fund Me page for your fucking rabbit that can’t poop correctly and needs the special pellets so he can shit freely. Are you fucking serious? How about Go Fuck Yourself? I’ll contribute to that. But seriously, I’ll post links to my page soon. If you drink one less bottle of wine per week we can have me diapered and creamed in no time.