Conicidence?I think not...
Bounce From tha Club, to My Car, to My Crib We Go
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I’m officially a pimp. Not that I wasn’t pimpish to begin with, but like, I’m a complete pimp now because I got my own place. That’s right, babies, I have my very own crib. It’s totally rockin’ and I’m wicked excited about it. It’s an old building, so no, I do not have central air or an effing dishwasher, but I do have mad game now.
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
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Oooh, You So Nasty.
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Why is dirty talk so hot? I mean, when it’s done right, of course. When dirty talk goes foul, it’s an entirely different situation, like the time I received OCD robotic instructions from Mafia guy about what he was doing, what he was going to do next, and why. Thanks man, but I’m pretty sure I was there. I definitely didn’t need a manual and/or a play by play. I also didn’t need the matching pearl earrings either, but that didn’t so much work out the way I planned either.
The first time anyone dirty talked me, I was so shocked! Granted, it was pretty coarse dirty talk. I think maybe I should have been eased in with a “You like that?” Instead, he asked me if I thought threesomes were hot, to which I naturally replied yes, and he busted out this bomb, “Do you want two cocks inside you?”
Whoa.
I wasn’t sure if I should have laughed or barfed, but wow. Holy dirty talk!
Eventually, I learned to love it, and while you’d think I would be an Olympic Champion in this particular sport, I still find myself wondering if I’m rocking their world or creeping them out. It’s so damned subjective! Maybe it’s the pressure of coming up with something creative without getting too, uh, ya know, double penetrationy. And then, sometimes you get so into it that you accidentally say something sappy like, “I love you.” God, I hate when that happens.
And you know those people that you just know are hot dirty talkers. Like Angelina Jolie or James Spader. Of course, James would be scorchingly hot even if he was mute, but you know he would blow your mind with some seriously wicked dialogue while he bends you over his desk. The thought of this is what keeps me going sometimes...
Dirty Talk all depends on what your audience digs. But I do know that one wrong “Hand me that KY and the little smokies, ‘cause you know you want it in the ass” and not only the talk, but the whole nookie session, is over faster than you can say exit only.
But God bless good dirty talkers, because it really makes the world a more beautiful place. It’s so fabulous, in fact, that I propose that we should incorporate it into daily dialogue just to mix things up a bit. For instance, you’re at T Bell in the drive through: “And can I get some extra man sauce on my taco?” or chatting with the mailman: “Yeah, put it in my box.” Or even when itching to leave the office: “God, I can’t wait to get off…” It would sure make my day brighter!
The first time anyone dirty talked me, I was so shocked! Granted, it was pretty coarse dirty talk. I think maybe I should have been eased in with a “You like that?” Instead, he asked me if I thought threesomes were hot, to which I naturally replied yes, and he busted out this bomb, “Do you want two cocks inside you?”
Whoa.
I wasn’t sure if I should have laughed or barfed, but wow. Holy dirty talk!
Eventually, I learned to love it, and while you’d think I would be an Olympic Champion in this particular sport, I still find myself wondering if I’m rocking their world or creeping them out. It’s so damned subjective! Maybe it’s the pressure of coming up with something creative without getting too, uh, ya know, double penetrationy. And then, sometimes you get so into it that you accidentally say something sappy like, “I love you.” God, I hate when that happens.
And you know those people that you just know are hot dirty talkers. Like Angelina Jolie or James Spader. Of course, James would be scorchingly hot even if he was mute, but you know he would blow your mind with some seriously wicked dialogue while he bends you over his desk. The thought of this is what keeps me going sometimes...
Dirty Talk all depends on what your audience digs. But I do know that one wrong “Hand me that KY and the little smokies, ‘cause you know you want it in the ass” and not only the talk, but the whole nookie session, is over faster than you can say exit only.
But God bless good dirty talkers, because it really makes the world a more beautiful place. It’s so fabulous, in fact, that I propose that we should incorporate it into daily dialogue just to mix things up a bit. For instance, you’re at T Bell in the drive through: “And can I get some extra man sauce on my taco?” or chatting with the mailman: “Yeah, put it in my box.” Or even when itching to leave the office: “God, I can’t wait to get off…” It would sure make my day brighter!
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Travel Chronicles Chicago
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Chi Chi Chicagoooo
Guess what!
I.
Was.
In.
The.
Same.
Room.
As.
TRENT!
Oh my GOD! It was incredible! Lizzard, Luke, Liz Kat, and myself went to Chi Town last weekend to see my future husband at the Congress Theatre. He was outstanding. And I know I’m totally biased, but this show was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can now die. And Trent totally looked at us too! (Even though we were in the balcony and he was likely blinded by the stage lighting and he was otherwise engrossed in being delicious and putting on the show of the century. He still looked. Rez and I are, after all, psychically connected that way.)
Anywho, we had great seats and opera glasses, so we could see El Rezzo’s exquisitely sculpted chest with astounding clarity after he stage dove and returned with his shirt ripped open. Thank you, God. He has never sounded better and absolutely rocked so hard that he essentially fucked the entire audience, who will joyously be unable to walk straight for weeks. Hooray!
After the show, we met up with Liz Kat’s kick ass friends and cruised over to an awesomely disco Euro Trash club called Sound Bar.
I’m way sorry we didn’t get a shot of the poor gay guy that ended up in the VIP bathroom with us as he showed us his penis. The poor bastard had to, like, tug on it to impress us. Then, he got all wasted and told me that I was the girl his parents wanted him to marry and I was like, Shut it! Life’s too short to please your parents all the time. Then I sent him off to buy a drink for some flamboyant hottie guy wearing sequins and it was all good.
Before some sight seeing and a trip to the Field Museum, we visited the Virgin Mary miracle salt stain thingy under a bridge, which actually more closely resembled a vulva than an actual woman, but hey, to each his own. Lizzard and I about got our asses beaten when we took some “serious” photos with it. Ahh. We are so going to Hell!
Lizzard, Luke and I partied in Bucktown the rest of the weekend with Luke’s buddies. We laid somewhat low due to our extreme hangovers, but we did play The Most Intense Game of Asshole Ever, much to the local folk singer’s dismay, but she was cool about it and incorporated our Asshole dialogue into her songs.
Sooo, the moral of the story is: Yay Chicago!
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