Ashley, Party of Threesome.

Back in the day, I used to be straight.

As you can see from the picture above, I had great style that consisted of skirts that made me appear as though I had a phallic erection, and white granny panties that luckily were not graced with period stains when this picture was taken.

I also sat like a man.

Whatever.

My freshman year of college, I was still figuring out my sexuality *

* bitches, I knew I was gay when I first saw an episode of the show Growing Pains. Everyone was like "dude...Mike Sever is super ~*cute*~ (they totally typed it with those weird symbols) and I was like...you guys....the mom is kind of banging hot in a 'i just wanna be her best friend' kind of way.

Because I just wanted a bunch of really hot best friends that were girls.

So when I say I was figuring out my sexuality, I was baiting time until I decided to become gay.

I probably could have phrased that better.

Become gay.

Scissor.

I was baiting my time until I could openly scissor.

Much better.

Anways, as many of you know, I was staying at my roommate Petra's dorm for much of my first semester, and her entire house got along so well. And I was like that adopted kid from China that Angelina adopted and everyone is like 'ehh why'd you adopt it, but its kind of dependent on us now so we can't kick it out' so they were nice to me.

So we came up with a game.

It was called the Star Chart.

While I would love to say that it is an astronomical masterpiece of our knowledge of the galaxies and Uranus, it was far from that.

You guys, the rules were super complex.

Example:

You started with a name.

Ashley.

Then if you hooked up with someone, you got a star according to the amount of distance you travelled in or around one's genitals.

Makeout: one star
Hand job/fingered: two stars
Blowjob/tuna casserole: three stars
Penetration/intercourse: four stars
Anal sex: - 4 stars

So like say me and a guy go out and we make out then I jack him off and he goes down on me (I hope my mom isn't reading this but she probably is. Hi mom, this will teach you to read my diary that's on the Internet for everyone to read you pervert!)

Ashley: *****

See?

So as many of you know, I am the most competitive person in the world. I attribute it to the lack of affection my parents showed me as a child, and as a means of commanding attention, I had to win everything.

Including my parents hearts.

:*(

I hope you are still reading mom.

Analways.

Side story: I was babysitting this girl once and we were playing "break the egg" on the trampoline and she uncracked me. So when it was my turn, I jumped so hard next to her that she literally flew up 10 feet in the air, landed on her knee with her face and her nose erupted in blood.

But I won.

And really, that's all that matters.

So seeing as I have no mercy for 9 year olds, this star chart was going to be no different.

Freshman year, our friend Aaron joined a frat at UC Berkeley. As a means to open one of his frat parties, he invited me and my friend (I will keep you nameless but you know who you are) to represent him as his dates.

He told us the usual. Dress slutty and be ready to drink.

Ogay!!!

So we went in my closet and picked out my one Old Navy jean skirt, and I borrowed a whore top and a real bra *not sports bra* and proceeded over to UC Berkeley.

When we arrived there, I was a bit confused.

Bitches were wearing Pajamas.

Not like hot pajamas. Like flannel pants with Tigger on them.

We had been tricked. It was a pajama party and we showed up like two craigslist massage therapists with a happy ending in their purse.

So naturally, if you are a dude...are you going to make out with the girl dressed as a slut? Or are you going to make out with the girl wearing polar bear slippers with Donkey Kong boxers?

(I'd actually go for the PJ girl...)

Sensing this as a weird advantage, like a #1 draft opportunity, I knew I needed to make the most of the situation to propel myself into the lead in the Star Game. I was not the leader, but definitely a contender, and a night like this could win the trophy (a handle of vodka. my god we were sluts)

done capitalizing. too much effort.

anyways, i got started immediately. i set my sights on a cute guy, who actually turned out to be slightly handicapped, but i didnt let that stop me. ryan. down.

*

every corner i could turn, i was making out with guys. in the hot tub, in the pantry, in a random midgets room (not even lying) (ok it was the midget) (jesus christ this is making me look bad no wonder why im gay)

*************

then i met him. the boy of my dreams.

sergio.

he was from italy or somewhere. maybe like fresno. something exotic. and we just hit it off so much. if i liked the cock, id totally like his in more than a plastic with aharness sense, but i felt safe with him, and decided to settle.

so we go downstairs into the hot tub room, and we are making out, maybe more

(**)

when i hear a splash come from across the hot tub.

wtf?

suddenly another frat brother appears. matthew. i wonder what he could want after being a perv for 5 minutes watching us hookup.

he decides to chat, and then he starts making out with me (*) when i come up with an idea.

like..what would propel me into total victory. this was like the Hunger Games, it was life or death.

and it occurred to me.

"how would you guys feel about a threesome?"

they pause. at first, they are repulsed. no. that's gay. oh it is? and you guys parading around half naked for your pledging isn't?

then, they begin to consider it.

and they swim to the other side of the hot tub to discuss.

they come back with a verdit.

"ok."

its on.

i position myself in the middle and resume the positon of 'skiing'

you might have to urban dictionary that one.

Skiing The act of delivering dual simultaneous hand-jobs simulating the motions of a cross-country skier. This action is usually performed while ‘Sitting Bitch’ in a pickup truck (front seat center position) but any vehicle with a bench seat will suffice.

you guys, i really wanted to win.

we skiied and made out for a bit. nothing was a black diamond as far as difficulty or enjoyment, but i went along with it. the whole time i was drier than the mojave and thinking about the galaxy i was single...double-handidly creating.

midway through our little expedition, i hear a knock at the door and the familiar voice of my best friend. she is talking to someone and all i can hear it 'i just want to see if my friend is ok.'

she did not want to see if i was ok.

she knew exactly what was going on.

she busts through the door wielding a camera, and without warning, i look up laughing to see a picture go off.

she pulls me out of the hot tub and tells me that we need to return to the dorm where we will be sleeping.

i look at both guys sitting next to each other naked in the hot tub with boners and i take the hotter one back to the room with me where i proceeded to put BACK ON my clothes and tell them that'd we'd only be hanging out 8th grade status, i.e. all touching will be done over my sports bra and hanes her way.

the next morning we wake up and make our way back to ssu. i felt gratified, like a whore and smelled oddly of fetal alcohol syndrome and shame.

when we got back to the dorm, i immediately went to the fridge and began to write my stars in like we had just found some hubble telescope in the back yard and i was reporting my observations.

literally it looked like this.

everyone else (combined) ******
ashley ********************************************************************************************************************************

the next day, i went on my myspace (you guys this was before the days of THEfacebook) and saw that my bff had posted a 'puzzle surprise' on my wall. it was a picture that it scrambled into puzzle pieces that you assemble.

as i began putting the pieces together (figuratively and literally), i noticed that i was assembling my prior night in the hot tub.

then i only had a few pieces left.

one such was a jigsaw piece of just my naked cooter, only censored by some cloudy hot tub water.

oh god. i dont want to know why it was cloudy.

the other was of a giant penis resting on my leg.

and finally, perhaps the best piece of all, was the look of shock on my face that a picture was being taken.

since myspace has basically become more extinct than the career of famed actor jonathan taylor thomas, i cannot locate the picture, nor do i feel comfortable enough for all 4 of my blog followers to see my 19 year old lady berry.

she looked delicious in her debut spread though.

see what i did there?

moral of the story:

sometimes threesomes work for people. sometimes people just prefer twosomes. personally, i just prefer a quiet friday night with an emily dickens novel and a hot tub of tea reflecting on what events in my life led me to where i am now.

this is one of them.

hey snow season is coming up? who wants to go? i've recently converted to snowboarding...;)

Dirty Girl.

So, I am going to blog again. And do it with pictures. I realized that the following story was blocked from my blind much like a traumatic event. And like some 'nam soldier having a PTSD flashback, it came to me like a splash of hot water on one's vagina.

Wait. Did I kill the punch line? Ok let's proceed.

As many of you know, I studied abroad in Sweden. It was a great experience, and I spent a lot of my time absorbing the local culture by sampling all of their local beers and then eating every fried food I could get my intoxicated hands on.

Seriously I gained so much weight.

I looked pregnant. But the fetus didn't implant itself in just my gut. It implanted itself in one of my 4 chins, my inner thighs, my lower back and my wrists. I got so bloated from drinking so much that my wrists got fat. I looked like the extra member of Wilson Phillips who sings great, but looks like a whale holding a corn dog when she sings.

Anyways, for some reason, I thought it would be a great idea to see one of my neighboring Scandinavian countries in the best way possible: a booze cruise to Finland. It was put on by my school (at least that's what I told my mom) and I was sold when they said they had wine on draft.

Wine.

On draft.

I mean seriously? That's like discovering how to make fire. And like fire, it can be very dangerous, yet warming at the same time.

So we all board the boat. I'm looking super fly with my hair in one of those little poofs on top of my head. I had a cute shirt on. And I had a cute skirt covering up the present underneath.

Want to know what the present was?

Hint.

Granny panties.

Crisp. White. Potential hole in the crotch from a dog chewing them.

I screamed sex.

As we get on the board, we make our way to our cabin to where I was staying with three of my friends from class: Amie, Amy and Sarah. Our cabin was roughly the size of a matchbox, so we all had to coordinate and take turns standing up. It literally was like in shifts who could get dressed or go to the bathroom. If it wasn't your turn to stand up, you laid on your mattress, which was comparable to that of a nursing home mattress where a patient had just died on it. It was filthy, disgusting and best of all: it was cheap.

So after we all get ready (see: hot), we head down to the main area for dinner and drinks. I don't really remember dinner. In fact, the only thing I remember was the wine on draft. And as for specifics on that, I just remember someone calling last call, and I remember sticking my head under the red wine tap and drinking it like it was water after a long game of soccer.

After dinner, we all headed up to the dance club (this boat was amazing) where many of our classmates were already dancing.

And that's where I saw him.

I think his name was Sven.

or like Swan?

Maybe David?

Whatever. I saw him. And we instantly connected. According to my friend, one minute we were dancing, and the next he had me thrown up against a rail with his hand all up in my lady pocket.

I'd see him around before, he was friends with my friend Lars, and all I knew was he had on a black shirt and was from Switzerland. And I think at that point in my year abroad, we were actively playing a game of who can hook up with the most countries.

News flash:

Girls can be pimps too.

So there we are, on the dance floor, just dancing. And by dancing, I mean he literally had his had in my crotch like it was the fountain of youth, as all my friends looked on with hilarity.

Suddenly I realized something.

I have standards.

(Remember that statement because it goes downhill)

Who am I to be drunk off draft wine. Red stained teeth. Matted down hair. Denim skirt. Who am I to be FINGERED by SOME DUDE on a DANCE FLOOR in FRONT OF MY FRIENDS.

This is a little bit too white trash of me. Let's move the party.

So I tell him that we should just go back to my room, and he agrees.

We head to the elevator. I push some random buttons, because at this point, I don't know what fucking floor my room is on. I don't even know that I have a room. In fact, I think the elevator is my room at one point.

As we are in the elevator, we start making out again hardcorexx and he decides he wants to go down on me.

Um Hello! No you can't go down on me! I'm on my period! I have a tampon in! (When he was going to second base, as noted above, it was not pen)

Here's how it went down.

(scene starts in elevator, on cruise ship, with George Michael playing faintly in the distance)

Him: I want to eat your pussy
Me: Ew, don't say it like that
Him: Can I?
Me: Um no...I'm on my period (future self: you are also in an elevator)
Him: I don't care ::rips tampon out and throws it::

..............................................................................

'::rips tampon out and throws it::'

I mean at that point, you really have no say.

So I let him do it.

Except do you remember how I said I had no idea what floor I was on? We didn't end up pushing a button for the elevator. And we were so wrapped up in our sexcapade, that we didn't notice that the elevator was moving.

Nor did we notice when it opened until I opened my eyes when I heard people screaming.

And without interrupting the act before me, I leaned over and hit the "close doors" button. Which as everyone knows, takes roughly 2 minutes to close.

This little open/close elevator show went on for about 10 floors, until it opened on two of my friends, and I was mortified. They were literally crying from laughter, and I really hoped they didn't notice the tampon in the corner.

Bless their hearts, they alerted me to the fact that I had indeed reached the right floor (finally) after giving nearly 20 international students the show of their life, while simultaneously leaving a bit more of my pride on each floor.

So okay. We were one step closer to the room. We were on the right floor. Next obstacle. Room number. I had no idea, but there were only 50 rooms on the floor, my key was bound to work on one.

It didn't work on the first 20.

And since patience wasn't a virtue either of us had, we decided to find some privacy and hook up more.

We went behind one of those trash cans with an ash tray on top of it.

I realized that I'm fb friends with my cousins, so I'll spare some details. We both hit triples. Behind a trash can. Until some more of my friends found me and escorted us back to our room, which was on the complete opposite end of the hall.

FINALLY we are at our room.

The only problem was there was some chick in the room who I didn't know.

Flashback.

This potentially wasn't my room.

Continue.

So, because we were super modest and full of respect at this point, we decided to continue hooking up in the bathroom.

Pause.

I don't know if you guys have ever been on a cruise ship bathroom. But they aren't the cleanest things in the world.

Okay, now turn that cruise ship bathroom and turn it into a third world country bathroom. Except Sweden isn't a third world country. But imagine the type of bathroom on a booze cruise. With college kids.

Do you think that shit is clean? No.

I would have been better off washing myself with dead crabs and flossing with cod bones.

So we get in there and we start hooking up. I'm up on the sink and he's all up in/around me, when suddenly he pops up like he's fucking Einstein with an idea.

"I know what girls like"

Oh you do? Show me.

He then grabs the detachable shower head, turns on the water and shoves it in my cooter.

I got one look at the showerhead before it...'washed' me. The little holes where the water comes out were clogged with this weird mold/fungus/std shit and before i had a chance to say NOOOOO! USE A DENTAL DAM! GIRLS DON'T LIKE THIS! it was right up in her.

And the water.

Was scalding.

I was like HOLY FUCK THIS HURTS.

To which he replies "You dirty girl, you like this you dirty girl, dirty girls like this."

When did I get upgraded to dirty girl?

It wasn't when you went down on me in the elevator in front of people?

It wasn't when you ripped out my tampon?

It wasn't when I went down on you behind a trash can?

OH.

I know when it was.

It was when you shoved a DIRTY showerhead in my CLEAN vagina.

Of course I'm a fucking dirty girl now!

AND NOGIRLSDONTLIKETHIS.

So I promptly removed Niagra Falls from my crotch, and turned it on him. And I was like HOW DOES THIS FEEL?! And he fucking loved it! HE LOVED IT. I called him "dirty boy" OH YOU LIKE HOW HOT THIS IS DIRTY BOY YOU DENTAL DAM HATING DIRTY BOY.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I was sobering up and realizing that I don't need to be hitting all the bases with some dude who is gonna give me a douche filled with ocean water that most likely will end with a prescription for a UTI and 15 hours of therapy.

So I booted him.

I was like dude, I'm hella tired, you need to go back to Switzerland or Zimbabwe or wherever the fuck you came from.

And he looked super hurt and sad. Granted he was hella nice because I wouldn't let him put it in me, but still. I was over it. I was ready to pass out on the bed that wasn't mine next to some stranger I didn't know.

(haha I just found some photos I'm gonna post)

So as I'm kicking him out, he turns and looks at me with these sad eyes and goes 'I want something to remember you by.'

And I just stared at him.

Then he reached up, plucked the bobby pin out of my hair that was holding up my poof...and walked away.

Without thinking twice, I climbed into bed and slept until people I recognized came back with a sense of shame/pride.

The next day, I got off the boat to see Finland, and as I got on the shore, I looked at someone and said...

'does this count as going to Finland?'

They said yes.

Without hesitation, I turned on one foot and walked back on the boat. Where I passed out in a chair on the deck and placed cold packs on my vagina.

I haven't been to Finland since.

Its too soon.

I'm ending this so I can post some pics to capture the trip:





obviously we were a match made in heaven.

the aftermath:

Code 3 Clit

So yesterday my partner and I were loading a particularly heavy patient, so we put two people on the back of the gurney.

We ended up lowering the patient to a level where my crotch was kind of resting on the gurney bar.

The guy at the front of the gurney was unsure of whether it had locked or not.

That's when my partner decided to give it a good old shaking on the back. Where my crotch was resting on it.

Now, I know a lot of guys have a hard time finding the clitoris...but needless to say, my partner and/or the gurney bar did not.

It felt like my bean was refried.

I can't explain the pain/sensation/discomfort that comes from having a metal bar repeatedly shaken up and down against ones little lady. I felt all the heat rise from my crotch to my face as I attempted to remain professional.

Is this grounds for workers comp?

How I Lost My Virginity to An Actual Person Part 8.5

I'm trying this new picture, inspiration thing. And hurr it goes.

*side note

I drank a NOS energy drink and I don't even know what NOS sounds like but I bought it anyway because we all know what a Monster is, and a Red Bull, and a Rockstar (I picture Steven Tyler and he's creepy), but I didn't know what a NOS was so I got it and now I am tweaking out like a tweaker person and my teeth are chattering but I'm not cold because my nips aren't out and its just an awful feeling. And I'm scared to watch the rest of that movie Dogtooth because it was creepy like Steven Tyler creepy and my ADD comes out really bad with energy drinks ohmygod.





Many of you may look at this and just think 'oh, there's that dollar conditioner I accidently bought because it was cheap and ended up making my hair look like a Booniqua weave that got ripped out in a fight at the local bowling alley after getting entagled in some girl's high heel'. To me, I see something much different.

I just realized family members of mine might read this story.

You guys.

Obviously I'm still a virgin. Until I'm married. So this is like, fiction.

/end disclaimer.

Let's do this.

Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo wayyyy back in the day (6 years ago), I decided I wanted to bang.

Back in high school, I had this really unrealistic, and sexually frustrating, idea when it came to how relationships were gonna go. My poor boyfriends. I literally didn't put out.

Anyways. I had a flow chart, and this is how I thought it should go:

Date for a month: Make out

Date for 3 months: Finger/Handy J

Date for 6 months: Oral intercourse

Date for a year: Intercourse via pen.

For realz, I swore by that. If I were a calendar keeper, I'd probably mark like at 6 months in my Anne Geddis "Creepy Babies Posing With Oversized Vegetables" calendar "bj time."

Alas, I had an amazing bf in high school who put up with all of my nonsense, and rules and somehow didn't force me to have sex after a year, even though it should be acknowledged like one would acknoweldge Flag Day.

Side note.

Seriously, what the fuck is Flag Day.

Then I got to college and all of this went out the window (entry tomorrow: hot tub time machine).

3 months? 3 BEERS.

6 months? 6 TEQUILA SHOTS.

College makes us all slutty. The people we meet didn't know us when we wore sweatpants to school with headgear arranged over our bowl cuts as we drew stussy S's on our Lisa Frank notebooks. They only know us as the new college girls who are hot just by being college girls and came out of the womb with perfectly straightened hair and perfectly did makeup and never had an awkward phase. If this entry sucks, blame the NOS.

So let's FF (fast forward) (well that took the purpose out of abbreviating it) to when I was 19. I had slutted it up my freshman year, and I was looking to lead a more respectable life. I had just gotten out of a kind of weird relationshippy situation, and was somewhat heartbroken. That's where he came in.

That's where he came in.

Odd how fitting that sentence was.

He was my best friend forever status minus the broken heart necklace with best and friend that we each wore. We went to the gym together. We went to the cafeteria together (maybe because we were the only sophomores with meal cards...), we did everyting together. Then one night, we made out and it was like psh ok. We made out. Then like we made out some more. Then it was like okay man, let's not make out anymore we are bff's and bff's don't do that!

And then one night I decided I wanted to lose my virginity.

I really wish I had more of an explaination for this...but it really was that simple.

All my friends were doing it, and I didn't want to wait any longer (I mean I was a prude 19 year old) and plus it seemed like why not lose it to your best buddy? I wasn't insecure or self concious around him, and best of all, he was a virgin too! It was a like Virgin Party of 2, your table is ready, our main entree is Reverse Cowgirl and a modified Doggy Style for her comfort.

So he came over one night after we discussed the act we were going to partake in. Oddly enough, it was after midnight, thus making it October 31st, thus making it by far the scariest Halloween ever!

At this time, I had a bit of a flu going on, so I decided that before I was going to lose my virginity for the second time (reference: jetski hymen), I was going to take massive amount of Nyquil to ease my symptoms. For those of you who have ever taken Nyquil, that shit makes you HIGH and then gives you fucked up visions.

I literally slept/hallucinated through the first three bases.

I was pretty sure I was picking corn in Cambodia with Adrian Brody while a harp seal wrote a new Declaration of Independence on the benefits of watching at least 4 episodes of Roseanne a day.

Like that out of it.

Third base? What's that?

Finally it came time for the main event, and as we prepared, I didn't feel nervous or giddy or anything. I felt comfortable with my decision, pretty sleepy, but totally on the same page as him.

I waited for like candle lighting to magically appear and for Celine Dion to pop out of my closet singing that Titanic shitshow of a song.

Instead it was like...

You ready?

Yeah, dude let's go.

Ok.

::insertion::

Ok not that fast of insertion. Wait I'm not talking like us anymore, I'm like interjecting as me right now. Before we banged, I wanted to be safe, you know? I mean we were both virgins, and he came from a healthy family, but what if he like secretely got the HIV during wrestling practice? Uh uh. So, I was like dude do you have a condom and he was like no. Then I remembered something.

Someone got me a birthday card with a condom in it. So I like dug through my dresser butt ass naked and found the birthday card with the condom in it.

It didn't even cross my mind how many people in the store had probably touched that condom. Or if that was even a real condom. All I knew was it said 'condom' and was funny. And condoms are hella funny.

So he goes to put it on, cause I sure as hell wasn't gonna help, and then he minorly breaks down.

He's like I'm kind of self concious.

And I'm like dude why? As I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, such a flattering position with my 8 stomach rolls and my squashed together thighs.

And he's like, I don't know if I'm big enough, I'm self concious.

And I'm like dude...you felt kind of big...have you ever measured?

And he's all yeah...I'm 8 and a half inches on a good day, but usually around 8 and a quarter.




.................................................................

um.

what?

WHA.

Isn't my vagina like 3 inches deep? Where the hell are those other 5 inches gonna go, and most importantly where is that extra quarter of an inch gonna fit? Like, are you going to cause internal damage? And you fucking should be self concious, you are like the goddamn elephant man down there dude.

But I didn't say that.

Instead I was like umm dude you are huge put it in me.

Ok I didn't say that either.

We talked and I reassured him, all the while debating if that one time I used a Super Plus would have prepared me for this.

Well, it didn't.

We first tried Missionary

hold up.

like I really hope my family doesn't read this. If you are stop now. Please.

So we tried Missionary, and SHOCKING it didn't go in. It was like my vagina was a network of mortars and heard '8 inches' and it was like the Titanic when it was sinking. The mortars were the dudes in the bottom level shoveling coal like mad into the furnaces to propel the ship after it got hit.

They literally furnished a brick wall.

He literally said "I feel like I've hit a brick wall."

I didn't know what to do, so we tried another posish.

Doggy Style didn't work.

Me on Top didn't work.

It just wasn't going in.

I swear, at one point I like stood on top of my bookshelf and jumped on his dick and it still didn't go in.

Then I got an idea.

Lightbulb.

I swore that I had heard somewhere that you could use hair conditioner as lube in case you didn't have any handy. It had the same consistancy as lube (which I know know is NOT true) and it was safe to use on your lady berry during intercurse.

Being that I was a poor college student, the only conditioner I had was V05 Hawaiian Tropic.

(what kind of guy let's a girl do this)

So I paused our fornication and went into the bathroom, got a handful of conditioner and lubed us both up.

It sort of worked, but not really. But then it sort of did. Then I remember saying 'are you almost done' and now I realize that's really rude.

And then it started to burn.

Like really burn.

And tingle?

But not the good kind of lady berry tingle. Like the 'what the fuck were you thinking putting conditioner inside of me' kind of tingle.

And I told him he needed to go home because I wasn't sure what the hell had just happened. So he tried to spend the night and cuddle, and I was like dude GO HOME. You literally live three doors down, go home. (that explains a lot)

So there I was. I had just lost my virginity to a robocop of a dick wearing a birthday card condom covered in cheap conditioner as lube.

Is this how it was supposed to be?

The next day I woke up, and my lady was just on fire. She was burning, and smelled like the Hawaiian Islands. I was literally queefing out Kauai.

It continued like that for a week. I'd get weird like surges of pain and then the room would smell like a luau. Ok not that intense, but it was weird.

And then one day I was healed. My vagina stopped feeling like Pearl Harbor and all was well. And then he wanted to have sex again and I was like um hell no. Then he brought strawberry lube and I was like hell no.

I fucking hate strawberry.

Cherry, fruit punch, those are acceptable red flavored stuff.

Strawberry, no.

Um when did I get standards? I just got fucked with conditioner.

I later researched where I had heard that you could use conditioner as lube, and I realized that it was an extremely bad case of misheard information.

You can't use conditioner as lube.

You can use lube to condition your skin if you get the right kind.

Oops.

So needless to say, I'm surprised I'm not preaching absitenence education with Sarah Palin, and sueing V05 for their biological weaponery they created.

Instead, I now have learned that the free samples of lube and condoms given out on the college campus are an essential dorm supply.

And to tell my little vaginal mortars to hold their brick building.

And that when my roommate tells me she's going to try anal sex and then comes in my room at 2 am asking if I have any of the free lube samples I got from a table from campus, and then literally takes 20 packets, that I probably should have just been like wait dude...I have a better idea.

Take this instead.

Also, I found this gem from my high school notebook with Petra.

Ashley, what would you do if you had 3 hours left before the world exploded.

"I would go have crazy wild, animal, orgy sex with a bunch of hot guys. Then I'd go get a chinese symbol tattoo on my ankle and then maybe skydive. Then have a threesome with Josh Hartnett, Ben Affleck and Colin Hanks."

Well, let's hope 2011 really is the end of the world!

I've Got it!!

I'm going to write about fisting!

How was I inspired you may ask?

Obviously...

Kidding!

I've never been fisted. Well purposefully. I mean, well it kind of was fist like. Ok To Be Discussed.

The picture that inspired this was:




I might just do this. Pick a random picture and write on it. And people can submit random pictures and I'll write on them. And then I'll come up with a good idea like this and never follow through on it!

When I first saw this picture of some, obviously, poor, mangled loser's (me) pants, I thought 'you could fit a fist in that hole.' And then it got me thinking about fisting.

Let's time travel ok? Like back to anchient times. Before dildos and dental dams and Anime porn. Let's go back to like when people lived in caves and just did it Missionary.

Like...who came up with fisting?

Who saw a vagina (or anus (!!)) one more (anal fisting omg !!) and thought...I'm going to put my fist in that. And like how would you react if you were the girl that was going to be the very first fisted woman?

Honey, I got this crazy idea...but I think you might like it.

Ok baby, tell me, I'm super excited!

See this? 8= (thats my fist on a computer)

Yeah?

(actually pretend I'm translating grunts cause this is like caveman/Missionary time)

Grunt, I'm going to grunt, PUT THIS INSIDE OF YOU!

:O

No not that hole!

No, I wasn't opening my mouth for you to put it in that hole I was like shocked!

Oh! My bad! Awkward!

So like how would you feel? Like are you that much of a intertube down there that someone is like ...my finger just isn't fitting...my fingerS aren't fitting...I mean I'm really left with no more options. I'd be pissed! I'd be like Jermaine I'm sorry you knocked me up and that now I can't even fit a Super Plus tampon in without it falling out like a skydiver who's parachute got stuck.

8=

I am all about new things, but I really have to give credit for the guy that came up with this. And his female counterpart. I don't know. I mean, I've seen a lot of 'holes' in my life. Like sinkholes. Pot holes. Belly buttons. And I never once thought to stick something in them, let alone an entire fist. What if its like a Mike Tyson fist too? Hella beefy!

Then it got me thinking to something else. What is the proper fisting format? Is there a protocol? Does each person have a preference? Because as I understand it, there are two fisting formats. Allow me to explain:

The open palm:

I see this form of fisting, and I think of it as like when someone has a sock puppet on their hand, but without the sock. The thumb is joined at either the middle or ring finger, and an almost 'talkable hand' is formed. I find this the more polite version of visting. You eaaasseeee into it. You can even make your hand talk once its in too!

I'm in!

What's that smell!

Why is there a gerbil carcass up here?!

The true fist:

This is the common version of fisting (from what I've seen on youporn.com). It involves a completely closed fist. Its like a team huddle fist. But you don't stack a bunch of fists. I'm sure they do in some parts of this world. I mean but what angle do you go in at? Like head on, as if you were giving someone's anus the pound for doing a good job?

Hey nice homer man, you tied up the game!

Thanks dude ::bends over::

::fist pound to anus::

or do you do a side to side motion? I'm actually making the motion right now. I hope my mom doesn't walk in.

Yes I still live at home.

Shut up.

AND

Once you get make contact (penetration) how far do you know when to go? Its not like a finger where you have a built in stopper at the base of it. I mean, the closest stopper is your elbow joint, and if I'm not mistaken that's approx. 16 inches from your fist. And if I can use my medical training to calculate 16 inches, I think you'd be reading into someone's aorta by the time you got the signal to stop.

Do you make a mark on your arm or something? Like mid-wrist?

What's that mark?

Oh nothing...justsoidontgiveyouabowelrupturemark

Its so complicated!

I haven't even touched on lube!

(water base, natural, spit (omg ew))

We hit depth.

POOP?!

NO.

I promised myself I wouldn't make my blog about poop anymore.

I lost my virginity to a jet ski.

It was a craaaazy story. I was jetskiing in the Benicia Bay and we were playing a game aptly called 'try to throw the person on the back off the jet ski.' I was on the back, attached to my friend Christie. Our friend (some boy I don't remember, clearly he was a memorable guy) was driving and we literally were locked on. We were like Lego people. It was like the Human Centipede. Minus the...OH GOD NO MORE POOP REFERENCES.

So he was twisting and turning, and we held on. Well Christie held on, and I held on to her. Then, he goes 'ok you guyzzz, gamez over (he talked in z's)' and kind of slowed the jet ski. So naturally, Christie relaxed her grip. I did not.

That's when he full throttle'd the jet ski and took it at a turn I can only compare to 'right angle'.

I still held on, but felt myself flying and I peeked over my shoulder to see Christie's hands grasping nothing but the sweet Benicia Breeze. I think I saw this in a Harrison Ford movie once, but I felt safer letting go, so I let go of her and that's when it started.

I literally tumbled (at a high speed) head over feet, head over feet, head over feet.

Three cartwheels.

After those subsided, I skimmed the surface of the water like Jesus doing a reverse slip and slide.

Finally, just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, I came to a screeching halt in mud filled water, oddly enough, extremely far off of shore. Something is jacked about that bay.

Then I sat there for a moment. My head was spinning. My nips were hanging out. I had no idea where I was. And then I felt it.

Penetration.

I had never felt such a sensation before. I felt like I had food poisioning from Applebees and it wanted to exit every orfice of my body, including my cooter. I was perplexed. Then it occured to me. What exactly is the source of this penetration?

Did I hit a sand crab?

Did I hit a buoy?

Did I hit an endangered leopard seal?

Oh my God...did I land on that Humpack Whale that got lost in the Bay like 10 years ago? What was his name? Humphrey? DID I LAND ON HUMPHREY?!

And then I realized the source of such discomfort (see: pleasure). My bathing suit bottoms. They literally were hanging on by a string on my waist. The rest...well. They say the vagina is 4 inches deep. My bathing suit was so balled up it could have fit in one of those little bubbles from the quarter machines that contain the prizes. It was up in thurr.

I didn't know what to do. So I pulled. And I pulled. I tried to get traction. I tried leverage. I heard a suctioning noise. I thought there was an octopus in there. Hey, it hurt, I wasn't limiting my possibilities.

Finally, with a Paul Bunyun pull I heaved my underwear out of my vagina. I felt a weird rush, an urge to pee, and an odd cool sensation fill me up. I realized water had rushed in.

Looking around the Benicia Bay, I saw three eyed fish, tampons floating, I for sure had peed in the water, boat fuel, a dead body, a cracked container with the label "HIV" on it, and Nessie, the Loch Ness monster.

Its safe to say, I didn't want any of that water inside of me.

Too late!

As I waddled onto shore, I could barely move. I felt as though I had ridden a horse while sitting on a pyramid. It was awful.

I got home that night and checked my underwear. Dried blood. I for sure wasn't on the rag, and I didn't shit my pants, so there was only one explaination for this : penetration.

As I share this story with others they ask, what's it like knowing I lost my virginity to an inanimate object? And I smile at them, and take their hand and console them for they have not shared such an experience.

My answer is simple.

It depends on how you look at it.

Did I lose my virginity to the jet ski or the underwear? Its a simple question. Chicken or the egg? Macauley Caulkin or Michael Jackson?

I like to think I lost my virginity to the jet ski. I have always wanted one, its a beautiful machine, the colors were shining that day and it was a mutual attraction.

I'm okay with that.

On the other hand, if I look at it like its my underwear, well its like I kind of banged myself PLUS how long had I been wearing those underwear for?

Just kidding.

Har har har.

Seriously though what did I just write about for half an hour.

I really need to go to bed.

I can't wait to see what kind of dreams I have tonight.

I'm going to rip out your endocrine system - gary buesey

Herrrooooo

So I have had some requests to start blogging again, and since I am definitely not overburdened by going full time to school, work, snowboarding and soccer games...I should have time to update my blog.

Then I was all, what do I write about?

And I searched my mind.

And oddly enough my first thought was 'did I have any funny stories of bowel movements lately?'

And then I scolded my mind for being so perverse.

Then I thought if I had any funny sex stories lately.

Then I realized I did...but then I realized that I might be friends with them on facebook or they may read about it somewhere or whatnot.

Then I decided I was just going to copy and paste entries from the book I was writing about my mother.

Except my computer got stolen from my car in San Francisco.

So then I went to the soup kitchen on Embarcadero and asked the homeless people if they had seen my computer and they just stared at me.

Then I told them that among my computer, a bag of groceries for homeless people was also stolen (kind of true).

(not true at all)

(there was a bag of groceries in my car)

(it was not stolen)

So I am going to sit here and think of something I am going to blog about. I should write about my pet hedgehog, Iggy, and how we have had odd encounters. Including his decision that my underwear were a dinner item and that accidently (!) catching me off guard when I was on the computer and spiking my crotchal were appropriate.

On that note. I'm out for now. Dam your clam.

sometimes i think i am the reason my mother believes in abortions.

Brookstone Twat Tease

So I was walking in the mall today, when I happened to be enticed by two lovely looking massage chairs sitting out front practically displaying the words 'put your anus on me ashley so i can massage it.'

I resisted it the first pass by, but the second one was almost too much, and i had to give in to my aching muscles that craved the tender touch of an automated machine packed with metal moving parts.

so i sit down with my friend into the leather luxery, and it takes me about 10 minutes to figure out how the thing worked. literally the remote was something out of a NASA space station experiment. i thought if i pressed the wrong button a satellite was going to dis-orbit and come crashing down and thus destroy the powerful, yet minute state of deleware.

finally, after pressing every button i can possibly get my fingers on (is that what she said? im not sure...), i start to feel gentle vibrations hitting my back. then it does that like karate chop shit and i want out. the only problem was, in the process of pressing every button, the leg massagers clamped onto my legs, and i was locked in. then the anus massager started going, and pretty soon, i was being chopped, trapped and sodomized all within the gentle comforts of an open stored botique facing innocent passerbys in the mall.

i didnt know if i was experiencing pleasure, pain or a little of both. i felt like i was in one of those bear daddy relationships with whips and shit, but instead of a ball gag, i had a metal ball trying to shove itself into my ass.

just as my suffering reached its peak, this older woman in a brookstone apron marched in my direction. she gave us disapproving looks, and in the most passive aggressive way possible said "there's a five minute limit on the chairs....."

she literally '.....'d' out loud. how does someone convey an elipses vocally?

and also, who the fuck is she to tell me how long i can be in the chair? they were BEGGING for people to sit in them with their position right in front of the store. and it took me 4 minutes and 30 seconds to figue out how to turn the fucking thing on, so FUCK OFF AND LET ME ENJOY MY MASSAGE. really who was she? she was like an ss guard marching around and we were the rebels of nazi germany joining forces through poorly crafted machinery.

and then this bitch started to like circle us while we were in our chairs. who can enjoy a massage when a vulture in a blue apron is preying on you from all sides. that was it.

i was out.

except i couldnt get my feet out of the leg slots because they were locked in. and i had slight vertigo from the chopping motion on my back. and i was scared to get up because the butt massage may or may not have disrupted the maxi pad i was wearing.

(yes i still wear pads but only at the end)

alas, we composed ourselves and ran out of that store faster than lindsay lohan running from a club with cocaine in her shoes. except we didn't trip like she did. and call the white stuff baby powder. instead we just ran over to hot topic to check out the new edward posters and see if they had any team jacob notebook covers.

Bay To Bachers

So I haven't blogged in a while, and I want to get back into it. And when I say get back into it, I mean me and Trocano got up at 0300 today to make sandwiches for EMS Week thinking it would take us 8 hours (?!) and by 0530 we were done. So now I have some free time as I make a futile attempt to avoid morning traffic.

I wanted to talk about Bay to Breakers 2010, or as I like to call it, Bay to Bachers.

So this year we decided to go as Jersey Shore, which I find quite entertaining due to the fact that I have never seen the show, yet know who all of those bitches are. After recruiting Christie and Ian Branyan, we decided to go big or go HOme.

Preparation for the costume began about 2 weeks ago, when I realized that I lacked the genetic malfunctioning in the height department to be Snookie, so that left only JWOWW for me to be. We actually have a lot in common. I like to get drunk and fight people, and, like her, I find it imperative to go to the gym in a bathing suit top and booty shorts with some clever slogan like 'PINK' or 'LUSH' engraved on the anus.

I began dieting about 2 weeks in. It is really hard to diet when most of my meals are consumed out in the field, and seeing as how the majority of my time is spent in Oakland, my options range from Boston Market to KFC. So I dieted, and I worked out like a mother, and the only six pack I had was staring at me from the fridge with the words "dont drink you alcoholic" plastered across their label.

Then the big day came, and for fucks sake it came early. Who decides Bay to Breakers needs to start at the ass crack of dawn? I'm sorry, but I am not one of those crazy Kenyans who flew in here to run this race. I am a drunk American looking to dress up and get lost in San Francisco. Unfortunately, the week prior, I had worked several early shifts, and sleeping in to me had consisted of waking up before 6 am. I was going in with one foot in the grave.

So we headed to Branyan's house at about 0845...roughly an hour after the race started. I had my alarm set for 6. Shit happens.

We were armed with non-toxic craft paint, wigs, sunglasses, attitudes and fisting. Fist pumping. I should really clarify that. Fist pumping. Not like fisting someone's anus, although that totally wasn't out of the question. When you fist someone do you like do it like you are gonna punch them? Or do you the more subtle, like open hand reaching into a closed chamber. WHAT THE FUCK AM I TALKING ABOUT.

We got there and painted up. Now this was the problem. I decided that our base paint should be brown, and despite my attempts to counter the half of bottle of brown with an entire bottle of orange, we looked like white people trying to be racist. Well I did. Christie and Branyan managed to wait it out until the color had settled so they got their orange complexion. Me? I looked like Tiger Woods taking refuge in a tanning bed for 3 weeks.

So we dressed up and made it to Bay to Breakers and walked and talked and fist pumped and took pictures with random people. We by far had the best costumes. Where was the creativity this year? If I saw one more goddamn skank ho dressed in booty shorts and a slutty clevage shot pretending she was Susan B. Anthony, I was gonna kill. I'm sorry, but I think Hellen Keller a bonnet, not a breast enhancer.

Now this is where my adventure home begins for those of you wondering. LONG story short, I end up at my friend Kim's house after getting kicked out of some random house that I was hanging out in. So I am hanging out at Kim's house as she is trying to move it and I am trying to be helpful. By being helpful, I decide to busy myself by countering all of the progress she had currently made with moving in, all the while trying not to get brown paint all over her new bed nor explain to her that I didn't know where my wig, hat or sunglasses went. I was a mess.

At this point, I am wearing a bathing suit covered in specks of brown paint, so it looked like someone with blast ass used my swimwear as toilet paper. I have on pink booty shorts that say JWOWW on the ass, well kind of the ass, I didn't know her name had two W's, so I had to add one on the side because I ran out of room. I am covered in flakey bits of orange/brown paint, and a combination of the sun/booze had led me to acquire what I like to call 'meth face'. In a matter of 3 hours, I had aged approx. 30 years and developed a drug addiction in the process. Seriously, I looked BEAT.

So after bothering Kim for several hours, I decided it was getting dark and I should begin my journey home. Branyan and Christie had both safely made it back to Oakland, and as I now call it, 'left me for dead'. Kim lived out in the Panhandle, which I couldn't show you on a map, but somehow she convinced me it wouldn't be a bad walk to the nearest BART station. I have come to the conclusion that one of us has a poor sense of what it means when someone says 'its not that far'.

Alas, I began my journey in flip flops and the outfit noted above. It was dark by this point, and there were no cabs, people, animals or buildings. It was that desolate. So I just kind of started walking with no real direction or sense of what was around me.

About an hour later I called my friend Lianne so I could get Christie's phone, which still doesn't make sense why she had it in the first place. She lives by the Castro, so I started walking over there. FINALLY I arrive at the Castro about 30 minutes later, where she then tells me she lives 8 blocks up from it. She somehow thought I was driving, so when I arrived at her door quite a while later severely persperating and oozing pus from the sores on my feet, she became quite concerned.

Being the amazing friend that she is, she took me to the Mission and 16th Bart station, where I proceeded pause by a trash can and pondered why there was a dead pigeon smashed into it. The pondering cost me about 2 minutes, which is exactly how much I missed the train by, which equated to me waiting for 30 minutes for the next train. If any of you have ever taken the Mission and 16th BART station, then I will leave it at that: I waited there for 30 minutes, cold, alone and in my outfit.

When I boarded the train, I began to frantically text Branyan and Christie (even though I had her phone) to get me from Rockridge BART. I am waiting for a reply and I hear nothing. I assume they will get me, and as I pull in a little after 11...I see nobody waiting for me at the station. In fact, there was nobody at the station.

So here I faced a moral dilemma...what do I do in West Oakland at 11 pm dressed as a Jersey Shore wash up with no place to go and nobody to get me.

You walk aimlessly. DUH.

So I embark on my journey, and I think I have a general idea of where Branyan lives. I walk, and walk and walk. I'm not remembering any of these streets. Hmmmm this is weird. The neighborhood is turning a bit darker. Oh good! A main street! I walk up to it. I am at 51st street in Oakland.

Rule of thumb: Any street named after a number system = ghetto.

Then panic begins to set in. I start to walk and walk and walk until I find where I am going, and then I realize I have an even longer walk ahead. The sore on my foot looks like something straight out of Paris Hilton's panty line, I'm severely dehydrated and the elements were not being kind to my outfit that was fit for a summer's day in the Florida Keys.

As I'm walking down Telegraph, I pass a gas station, where an African American woman filling up her car spots me. She then says:

"You better run."

..................................................

I don't know what that meant, nor why she said it. But when I'm walking alone in the ghetto and some black lady tells me to run? I'm fucking running.

I immediately disengage my flip flops and bolt down the street. The whole time I'm running I'm thinking, "thank god I worked out so hard for this costume so now I can run forever and outrun whatever is chasing me."

I run, and run, and run, and run. I see a Taco Bell, I'm tempted, but run further.

I make it to Branyans house...finally. I later used the odometer on my run...1.3 miles. Barefoot. Through the ghetto.

I manage to get my car keys, which were cleverly hidden in case something like this happened (as well as sleeping supplies and water in my car) but I did not want to sleep in my car. It was frigid, I needed to pee and I needed a shower. So I began knocking. Nobody answered. I knocked for DAYS and nobody answered. Fine. I'll sleep in my fucking car.

So then I go, and I drink all of the water, and I go to get the sleeping supplies I packed, and then I realize...wait a second WHERE ARE THEY. My sweats and sweatshirt somehow made it into Branyan's house earlier in the day when I was cold, so I was left to sleep with a balled up cardigan and my EMT jacket that is covered in MRSA.

I can make this work.

I fall asleep for about an hour and then people come by and begin fighting by my car. Not like ghetto fighting, arguing fighting. It wakes me up. I am pissed, but cozy back into my cheaply upholstered trunk, and begin my slumber. Then I have to pee, so I squat behind this dumpster, and some of the pee gets in my open sore and I want to scream but can't and then I started to get frustrated.

So then I go back to sleep more. And then some fucker calls 911 and a fire truck drives by with its sirens blaring. That's it.

I go back to Branyans house and find his bedroom window, peer in and see a figure curled up on the floor. I then frantically bang on it, and he finally let's me in.

I then lay down next to a completely passed out Christie, who begins to throw up, some of which is on my arm as I try to watch Avatar which I have never seen and somehow contort my body to fit on an ottoman for the night to sleep.

Between Christie's barfing and the ottoman supporting 1/8th of my body, I decide to sleep on the floor. Just as I am getting to sleep, Branyans fucking ferrett comes up and whiskers in my face status starts to inspect me. I was so confused and stressed that I almost started to step on it for fear it was an Avatar person.

After being up every hour for Christie's vomiting needs and the random sounds of the house (snoring, farting, ferrets, puking, creepy haunted noises), I manage to wake up in time to call in sick to work, which is not allowed when you are hungover, so I go into work anyways.

I work an 11 hour day, hungover and on no sleep, only to get a call from Branyan and Christie that its like genocide status in the house and reinforcements are needed. So I stop by CVS and pickup one of those rug cleaners, and stop by Boston Market for a family meal for 3.

When I arrive in the house, it is like a scene from D-Day. Anarchy. Bodies everywhere. Body fluids everywhere. And before me, are two of my closest friends, comatose and shaking with weird patches of hair stuck to their faces and looks in their eyes that make me feel some sort of emotional connection to their suffering.

After all was said and done, everyone survived and all was made well. The sore on my foot is leaking a green fluid that sticks to my sock and is extremely painful to walk in. My calves feel like I ran a marathon barefoot through West Oakland (oh wait I did) and the stains on my teeth from not brushing them for two days show my weakness to the cause.

So, after two days...I finally made it home from Bay to Breakers. I feel like my whole experience can best be summed up from my mother, Carol, and her wisdom:

"I thought a cop was going to come to the door and tell us you died at Bay to Breakers because you just...you just never came home."

I know Mom. I know.

Jiffy LUBE

This is another one of those moments where I wonder how this has possibly happened to me. I would like to think I live a rather moderate life, I don't do anything too harmful or engage in activities that would make my parents any more ashamed then they already are of me, so I don't know why these things seem to fall upon my lap.

The other day I needed to get an oil change at Jiffy Lube. Being that you are supposed to get it every 1,000 miles or so, I like to question the morals of auto mechanics, and I chose to take my car in after 10,000 miles since its last oil change.

Stop.

Let's go back about 7,000 miles on my car, when I drove it to San Francisco Pride and was walking around aimlessly when I saw a strange man in a thong, with an erection, posing for pictures with obviously homosexual men. I am intrigued, so I approach this interesting scene I have come upon.

As it turns out, the man with the thong erection is some famous gay porn star, and like any star, he is signing autographs for fans. However, this guy (Turk XXX) seriously thought he was Edward Norton or some shit with his attitude. He was extremely smug and had quite the pompous attitude. I wasn't in the mood to put a bitch in his place, but seriously, I've seen longer autograph queues for that Disney character that is Captain Hook's second in command. See, I don't even know the guy's name. But he had more fans.

Anyways, I quickly get in line. Then I notice the photos he is signing. He put the head in headshot. There, in perfect 8 x 10 form is a picture of the guy in front of me jacking off. Its like all cock and the small makings of a guy in the background. It is tastefully done, it looks like it was captured right at the peak of that session.

As I gather my headshot, I actually begin to get nervous for my autograph. I can honestly say that holding a photo of someone masturbating as you as them to sign it must be one of the most unnerving experiences I have ever had in my life. I didn't know how to open the conversation. So....what were you thinking about this particular session? That scene from Brokeback Mountain? Yeah that got me too...anyways....

So my 2nd in command Nicole comes up with a brilliant idea. Let's get this photo made out to none other than my mother, Carol. As I am trying to act professional in front of Turk, I kindly ask him (as I peek at his thong boner) to make the autograph out to "Carol."

He scribbles something without looking at me then hands it back.

To Carl,

Best Wishes,

TURK XXX

Oh hey Turk...ummm...its Carol. What? Its Carol. C-A-R-O-L. He seemed annoyed that such a peasant as myself could ask for such a mudane favor, but he instead just wrote something that can be made out as CARLR.

Oh well, good enough.

So that day, I proudly go home and promptly put the picture on the fridge, right next to my 10 year old sister's report card and a photo of my father and I playing baseball. It fit right in.

Upon the discovery, my mother asked it be removed only because 'he looks oddly like your brother' so the photo was taken down and never to be seen again.

Cut to like 5,000 miles back in my car.

My mom saves the photo for a perfect day and slips it on my windshield right before I am about to go to a job interview. Being that I am always running late, I have no time but to throw the photo in my backseat, never to be given a second thought until.......

I am at Jiffy Pube and I am asked to come out to the garage to talk to one of the lead mechanics about the abuse I have put my car through. I'm sorry but there is no damn law about abusing your car, so as long as its running I see no problem with my negligence.

As I'm standing there with "Jeffrey", who is lecturing me about the damages of driving my car on no oil, I notice that one of the little shop guys is circling my car with a vacuum. What is he doing. I signed up to get an lube job, not a suck off.

He begins to open all of my doors and vacuum the filth that is the inside my car. Just as he gets to the seat behind the driver's seat...he pauses. This catches my attention and I look over.

There, laying in perfect view, is a slightly crumbled photograph. An 8 x 10 if you will. An 8 x 10 of a large penis about to spew ejaculate that is autographed to my mother and sitting like it belongs there right on my seat.

He doesn't just do a double take. He does a quad take, something I have only witnessed a few times in my life. His face was utter shock. I felt my soul sink to the depths of my bowels and without any other options I muttered, "JUST CHANGE THE OIL DONT DO ANYTHING EXTRA I'M WAITING IN THE LOUNGE AND YES I WILL TAKE YOU UP ON THAT COMPLIMENTARY BOTTLE OF WATER."

And so I retreated to the lounge, where I felt like a fish in a tank as I watched the shop erupt in laughter. I nursed my bottled water, calculating how long it would take me to hitchhike home and send Carol to go get her beloved photo.

When it came time to pay the bill, I paid with my head bowed down in shame, embarrassed for the misfortune that had somehow crossed my path yet again.

It turns out, Jiffy Lubed Crotch did something to my car and now it is sounding like an exasperated porn star catching their breath after a particularly exerting scene. Actually...my car now sounds like TURK XXX in his famous film "Meeting Brian" that is advertised on the back of his beautiful headshot.

Did you hear that?

So the other day, I was inspired to write this entry. I will not dive into who or where, but let's just say it was the poof of inspiration I needed to get my blog going again. And yes, this is about a bodily function.


I was snowboarding, I think two seasons ago, when I was engaged in a rather political conversation regarding situations where you wouldn't mind prematurely exiting this Earth due to the intense embarrassment the situation presents you with.

Some were discussing serious issues, which I cannot remember right now because mine is the only one I credit as being serious enough.

Basically, I won't even tell you mine. I will just tell you of how I created my own self-fufilling prophecy.

We were going to Boreal that day, and although it is not one of my favorite resorts, it is good enough for college student Friday. As I approach the magestic mountain setting, I feel that familiar twinge of discomfort in my bladder. With no other choice, I make my way to the public restroom, that will forever go down in history as one of my Top 3 Most Tragic Moments.

As I waltz into the bathroom, I am first shocked at the size of the restroom. It is a 2 stall operation. That is not okay because that leaves room for someone else to come in and then its just me and that other person. And I hate people hearing me pee. And I hate hearing people pee. So it becomes weird and I clench up and anyways.

I don't think it can get any worse. And then I see that there are two girls at the mirrors fucking putting on a Mac Makeup show or some shit. Like, they have pallets of makeup spread across the gross ass sink. They aren't just regular girls either. They are like typical pretty girls who don't have buttholes and note their favorite hobbies as tanning and horseback riding.

And, what makes this worse, is I've already committed to the bathroom. I can't back out now. It's going to be me trying to urinate, and them just standing there. This is also more commonly referred to as "my worst nightmare."

I sit down. The silence is deafening. I pull out multiple seat covers. The gentle swish swish cuts through the air like a knife. Its so silent I can hear them dipping their little blush brushes. I sit down. The toilet seat covers crinkle. And I wait.

And wait more.

I push a little.

Nothing.

I am so stressed out from the situation that I can't pee. So now it is like I'm shitting (nightmare #1) and so I push just a little harder when the unthinkable happens.

I fart.

It wasn't even a big one, but it was enough of one to break the silence like it broke wind from my backside. I hear a Clinique Pastel Eye shadow set hit the sink.

Then I hear giggles.

I literally become a prisoner in a 2x4 foot stall, and I'm looking for any kind of escape route. I'm sitting there, pants around my ankles, frantically searching for something that can cause critical injury to myself. Can I drown myself in the toilet? Can I strangle myself with the toilet paper? Is there any way I can get out of here.

Not knowing what to do, I forgo any further attempt to urinate and pull up my pants. I then flush the unscathed toilet and gently turn the lock that opens the door to my destiny. This was like some Lord of the Rings shit, I swear to you.

I break into the light, make eye contact with both girls for a split second, and then frantically run out of the bathroom and as far away from that bathroom as I could get. I am remembering the conversation in the car, where I said my worst nightmare would be to fart in a bathroom stall with someone at the sink. Little did I know I would do it with two people and in absolute silence without any sort of warning that would allow me to frantically clutch my butt cheeks.

I was humiliated, traumatized and worst of all, I still had to pee. I wasn't taking any risks that day, and I held my urine for two more hours, until the beer I had intoxicated myself on from emotionally drinking my experience away caught up to me. And by that point, when all of my insecurity had vanished with the beer, I couldn't even fart if I tried.

I say the C word in this and its a long entry

There are a lot of days that I look back on with such remorse and regret that I would almost sacrifice a stray puppy to never have them happen again. However, as I sit and blankly stare out my window and imagine the truck full of goats parking in front of my house so they can eat the field, I was brought back to a faithful day that occured back during my junior year of high school.

Or as I like to call it, the worst day of my life.

Back in high school, I had few enemies. My most noteable enemy was myself due to the fact that I was comfortable leaving the house with Goodwill clothes and a bowl cut. On the days where that wasn't my fashion choice, it was always a good fallback to throw on some vibrant sweat pants and a homeade sweatshirt.

Anyways, entering my junior year of high school, I had cleaned up quite nicely. I had gone from full blown mullet to faux mullet, which is very similiar to the fauxhawks of today minus the stylish trend that is implied when you see someone sporting one. I actually might need to download Womanizer, this shit is catchy.

As I entered my first day of school, I was most excited for my English class because at the time English was my favorite subject. I noticed I had Ms. N(for her protection) as my teacher, but more importantly, my class was located at G-6...which I fondly referred to as the G Spot. Little did I know that this particular portal to hell would be further from any G Spot stimulation one could get either through masturbation or aided assistance.

The first day I walked into that classroom, I instantly noticed the temperature got colder. My nipples stood on end and even the most comfortable of sweatpants could not prevent the rapid spread of goosebumps that decorated my calves. Suddenly I saw the source of the cold. Ms. N.

To describe this woman and do her justice would be like trying to sum up the effect of World War II on Germany while only using a crayon and a Post It. She was tall and abnormally skinny, but not in a concerning way, but in a way that makes you think 'she burns so many calories being angry, she probably just finished an XL Meat Supreme pizza at lunch.' She had pointy breasts that were like torpedos, and at any moment could lock onto a target and destroy any fanatsy one might have held. But most of all, she was angry. She was beyond angry. She was filled with hate. Like you know how you can feel people's auras or whatever? Hers was slowly disembolweling me with a dull butter knife. And I had been in the classroom for 5 minutes.

Before I can progress to the actual story, I must give you some backstory on Ms. N so you can fully understand that out of all 8 billion people in this world, I choose her to cross paths with.

Example 1: I was giving a spelling test to the class, and as I was doing so, she casually paced across the room. Suddenly she paused. I looked up to notice that her gaze had fallen upon a bright yellow smiley face sticker that had latched itself to the commercial carpeting that lined our classroom.

She stared it down for a few minutes. It smiled back.

She then took the heel of her shoe and ground it so hard into the sticker that the only thing left was a vague skid mark of yellow grasping for life among the carpet fibers.

Those of us that saw quickly caught our breaths.

I had to ask. Why did you just decapitate the smiley face sticker?

"Because I hate happiness. I find it obnoxious."

I decided not to press the matter further.

Example 2: Ms. N asked me to stay after class one day, and I was excited. I had been getting good grades on my papers, and I was almost positive she was going to ask me to be her TA the next semester. As I entered into her dungeon, she asked me to take a seat next to her desk. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. The speech that follows is a rough transcription of what I was told.

"Ashley, I have to admit, you are a good writer and you should consider English in your future. However, I just have to tell you that I really don't like you as a student. I think you are immature and you cause even the most focused of students to break their concentration with all of your comments. So I want to tell you now not to register to be my TA next semester because I really don't want you to."

Alright. I can always take Advanced Ceramics.

Example 3: This one is my fault, because in all honesty, I didn't know what the word cunt meant junior year. I swear on my life. Anyways, we had just read that book Black Boy and had to draw a scene from the book that stood out to us. Well, for me and Nick Bilotti, the scene where he wrote curse words all over some building and had to wash them was so powerful. So, with my limited drawing skills, I draw this black boy washing off a window with a sponge. Then Nick thinks we need to add the end of a curse word so people get what we are depicting. I mean, with the entire dictionary of curse words in my head, I don't know why we fucking chose CUNT as our goddamn word. I'm laughing out loud right now thinking of how utterly STUPID we were for choosing that. I mean next to his sponge we could have wrote (sponge) U C K. or (sponge) A M N. But no. We write (sponge) U N T.

I knew cunt was a bad word, but I had no idea it was as bad as it was. So under the amazing leadership of Nick Bilotti, we fucking turn this paper in with not a single inclination of the punishment to come.

I think we made it 2 periods before we were called into her classroom where we were lectured for an hour. I got in more trouble than Nick because "as a woman, I should never let this word be thrown around, or throw it around and disgrace my gender." I was crying, Nick was crying and Ms. N was holding a piece of paper with the word CUNT on it that had actually been turned in as an assignment. We both failed our Black Boy project. Actually this just made me look like the asshole.

Example 4: I'll keep this short because people might be bored. By the way Hi Amy and thank you for reading! Anyways, we were playing Hangman as a class, and I picked the word TWAT for people to guess.

Ms. N looks up as we have T __ A T on the board.

I received three detentions with her. And by detention, I mean the three most terrifying hours of my life.

SOOOO now that you have a backstory of me and Ms. N, let me tell you how things went from worse to near death.

We had to do a group project about that book Montana 1969 or whatever its called. Anyways, I just had to delete a whole paragraph because it was TMI. Bottom line: we worked in groups for our project, my group didn't get along with one group member, the group member called me a "raging tyrant, much like Hitler" in our evaluations and it was on.

A few days after we turned in our evaluations, one my groupmates, Ashley, and I were watching the movie to Montana 196something. I swear that fucking book got me in so much trouble.

Anyways, as the movie was playing we got a little "sidetracked." When I say sidetracked, I mean that we began drawing huge pictures of penises going into our former groupmembers various orfices. Like, graphically drawn


wait erik needs the computer i'll finish this soon

Icky Nasty

I actually am going to postpone my blog about phone sex operations to talk about something that actually really bothers me. This blog can take a serious turn sometimes.

Since I've been sick for 47 days and counting, I have been forced to watch a great amount of television in my time of sitting at home and trying to find something to distract me from my misery. I've worn out the Travel Channel and E! and have reverted back to a channel that I rarely ever watch now, unless its for watching the tranny on the Real World.

Anyways, I flipped over to MTV today and caught a glimpse of a show called A Double Shot at Love with the Ikki Twins. I thought the original Shot at Love was entertaining the first season and completely exploiting the second season, but I thought all possible damage had been done. I mean come on, Tila Tequila looks like she was beamed over here from Uranus, and they tried to cover up her alien features with bronzer and extra forehead space.

So I flip this over and the first thing I notice is the two 'bisexual' twins. Those bitches are bisexual in the sense that they will make out with a girl to attract guys. Actually I don't know. They are probably such sluts that they probably don't notice when they are being penetrated. They can be riding up an escalator by a flagpole shoved in their vaginas and they'd probably only notice the sale going on at Mervyn's.

It was down to the final four, and they went to everyone's hometown to meet their family. The first thing I noticed is that the two "lesbian" girls had never brought a girl home or even told their parents they were gay. Hmmm...could that mean that they are attention whores just trying to get on reality television? So that was the first red flag. And if you are going to be coming out, something that is so challenging for millions of teenagers and adults in America today, why would you do it on national television with two post-op bimbos next to you?

The one girl came out to her mother, who was shocked and kept repeating,"i don't think she's gay," and then one of the twins started to make out with the girl...right in front of the mother who then felt uncomfortable. My mother seeing me make out with anyone is uncomfortable. However, when you are taking such a sensitive moment as coming out and making it theatrically a hit by kissing the chick after...I mean that's just exploiting things.

I could rant about this show forever, and in fact, I had to turn it off. When they showed up at the next guys house for dinner in red bikini tops, I realized that there are very few people in this world who I think should have an unfortunate death, and those two have now been added to the list among animal abusers and Osama Bin Laden. It just really annoys me how objectified they are not only making homosexuality, but women as well. I mean, what type of example are they serving to the female race? We are sluts who will take it in any hole and then cry about dramatics we created after.

If I ever encountered those two bitches, I would tell them to wait where they are, I'd go off and catch myself every STD known to man and then I'd give them both what they deserve. Actually thinking about that, they probably have every STD known to man and I would just catch them for nothing.

Sorry that was so serious. I will talk about bubblegum fields and my favorite Tetris piece in the next post.

When I get back to the Doctor's tonight I am going to write a blog about how I almost became a phone sex operator. Instead I'm an eBay entrepaneur.

Baby Come Backkkk

I don't really know why I want to blog right now. I am still really sick and I'm on an emotional overload from a bunch of things. I might write a super serious blog and make it private. But then you'll wonder what's in it. Well I'll give you a clue...it will involve unicorns and feline AIDS.

Anyways, let me see if I can update some things. Well first of all I am ill and I cannot get better. My tonsils have swollen to the size of testicles, and my throat is the gentle scrotom (minus the hair) that will house them. Seriously though, they are huge and covered in canker sores. I think this might be an STD, but just to be safe I'm not going to go to the doctor because what I don't know won't hurt me.

So, being sick has interrupted my usual routine of sitting around and doing nothing by adding a cough to the mix. So now I sit around and do nothing while coughing. Its really too much sometimes. I might explode from the amount of activity going on in my brain. Sometimes the stimulation of having to balance eating, watching TV and scratching my crotch overwhelm me.

I got an interview tomorrow with Royal Ambulance, which is cool. I would be working for royalty and thus would become royalty. I got my Solano County EMT card in the mail, which I went and got last week while I was ill. I had to take a photo, and so its one thing that I am haggard and troll looking from my illness, but its another because the lady couldn't figure out her camera, so I just sat there smiling for like 10 minutes. By the time she took it, I look like I've had a stroke because half of my face is drooping from my facial muscles giving out from holding the pose for so long.

Remind me to post some stories I've written about my mother in here some time.

Oh yeah back to the ambulance thing. So yeah I have an interview tomorrow and I sound like a retired porn star. You know? They get those weird ass deep and froggy voices from having one too many caaacckss in their mouth. I don't know how that happens. Can a dick really hit your vocal chords? Shit that sucks. Well now you know if you ever see a meth faced cashier at Raley's with a really crackley and deep voice, you know she was a fan of oral penetration.

How did I get off on that tangent?

My mind is racing in 1000 places. I swear I hate it because my emotions are so up and down. My boss described me as going from a high to low with nothing in between, and that's exactly what that is. So the highs are amazing and fun, but the second even the slightest bit of low comes near me, I just cancel out everything good and focus on that. And that's whats happening now and so I came on here to distract myself but all I really did was write some more about penetration and vaginal warts.

Its kind of working though.

Ahh okay I will end this so nobody else has to suffer from my paranoia/schitzophrania. I'm going to go watch me some Gordon Ramsey and hope he comes to clean out my kitchen, if you get what I'm saying. And if you didn't get what I was saying, I was insinuating intercourse between me and Gordon, and since he is a chef, I objectified my vagina to make it more relatable...thus calling it a 'kitchen' of sorts. I used the term 'cleaning out' to imply the actual penetration itself, and linked it together with my 'kitchen' by using a popular phrase.

Someone take my keyboard away.

Ashley? Yes, I'm coming.

So, ever since I was in 6th grade, I've had to live with a very naughty thing on my concious. You see, while most kids were dreading P.E., I was looking forward to it. I wasn't excited because I was athletically gifted and this was one of the few subjects I excelled at, but rather for a more selfish reason.

I had hidden my shame until recently, when I was reading Mary Roach's latest scientific book entitled BONK. It explores human sexuality and the science behind it, and it has on many occasions given me a slight tingling in my genitalia that I can only describe using the word "enjoyable."

Anyways, I was reading the book today, just as I would any other day, when a particular passage not only jumped out at me, but took a choke hold to my clitoris. It talked about kids having orgasms from climbing the rope during P.E. class.

I thought I was the only one.

Let me emphasize this next part: I will never forget that day in P.E. class. It started off as any other as I began the period dressing down in the women's locker room that smelled of stale urine and San Quenton's laundry room. I had put on my navy blue uniform, which by this time was covered in various stains as I saw it unfit to take it home to wash and risk the chance of forgetting it the next day.

I think I've touched on this before in another blog, but for some reason, my PE number always had bird shit on it. Did yours? Like seriously. I was usually number 2 or 3 and its like the seagulls and pigeons targeted that to take their craps. I mean numbers 4-19 were always clean, and 20-25 occasionally had some stains, but for some fucking reason my number was always covered in bird shit. Sometimes I forgot it was there and I'd sit down, only to have the kids make fun of me for the white spot on my butt. Its like I had gotten my period, only my period looked like white out and had gone through my pants.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah orgasms from inanimate objects.

So our PE teacher that year was Mr. Bergman, a strapping young lad of 25 who I had somehow commondered as my boyfriend. He was unaware of this, but we had a passionate relationship that consisted of over the clothes touching and kissing with tongue.

He told us that we would be climbing the rope in the gym today, and whoever made it to the top got extra points. I am terrified of heights, but I wanted to impress my fake boyfriend and then maybe the fanatsy version of him in my mind would pay a little more attention to my needs if I reached the top. I could actually do more with that last sentence, but for timing sake, I must move on.

So we go into the gym and there it is: my future first orgasm giver. At the time I was unaware, but that shit stretched to the top of the gym ceiling. That's like 20ft. For safety, they had laid out some of those blue wrestling mats, that if anything, would only limit you to losing motor function in 3 of your 4 limbs if you were to fall.

I don't go first because that wasn't my style, yet I watched with glee as nobody could make it to the top. Finally I decided it was my turn.

I started out with normal positioning and I began to hoist myself to the top. I was about halfway through when I felt a strange tingling in my crotch, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Okay I lied, I had felt it before during a particularly racy episode of Growing Pains, but I had never acted on it.

The feeling began to intensify with each climb, and by the time I made it to the top I was ringing the bell so hard in order to drown out my gasping breaths. I returned slowly to the bottom, my legs shaking and my arms no longer wanting to do the work. The cheers of my classmates were drowned out from my sudden urge to have a cigarette and go to sleep.

I had no idea what had just happened, but I knew I wanted to do it again.

So I did again. And again. And again. I climbed the rope three times that day, and each time I rang the shit out of that bell at the top.

It wasn't until high school that I was forced to climb the rope again, and all of my memories slowly flooded back to me. Being that it was some years later, I realized what exactly happened that faithful day in Mr. Bergman's class. Did I have sex with a rope? No, it totally had sex with me. WAIT WHAT.

I was scared. I didn't want to. I felt dirty. But then I did it anyways. And I analyzed myself this time.

I had been so worried that I was humping the shit out of the rope in 6th grade, that I was getting nightmares from it. However, when I climbed the rope in high school, I realized my crotch didn't even touch it! Thank God, because can you imagine the damage that could come from a girl humping a rope in front of everyone? I'd spread that shit around!!!

Anyways, I'd lived with this guilt and fear and curiosity for several years now. How the hell did I orgasm from a rope with no dinner, foreplay or gentle carasses. Shit it left me with burns and exhaustion...not my idea of a good time. Most importantly, how did I orgasm without anything touching my crotch!! Was it all mental? Am I turned on by woven pieces of wool? Does that mean I can't wear belts? Am I going to have to join some kind of society?

Albeit several years late, but my questions were finally answered in my book. As it turns out, your body can orgasm from extreme exertion! Isn't that awesome? Looking back, its a good thing those intense basketball practices didn't get to me...or did they. But apparently when you exert so much force on your pelvic and groin muscles, they can actually produce an orgasm. And since climbing the rope in gym class involves just that, many kids have orgasms when they do so.

So, now that I am calmed about not being the only one...it brings about another question. What kind of sicko perverts are still imposing the damn rope climbing shit if they know kids are getting off on it?! Are the teachers secret pediofiles because they are watching kids orgasm left and right as they reach the top and ring the bell? And what really is the purpose of the bell...is it like a trophy for reaching sexual maturity?

I don't know, but if I ever hear about my little sister encountering a PE teacher that insists she climb the rope more than once that entire year...well I'm going to march right down there and report them to Meganslaw.com. Well first I'm going to climb the rope, then I'll give them what they deserve.

And the first person voted off Survivor Island is...

So I invented a new game. It's called Bacher Survivor.

The premis of the game is oddly similar to the popular CBS show entitled Survivor, where 'castaways' must fight to stay on the island in order to win the million dollar prize. I swear I didn't get the idea from that though.

Our game is simple. Each week, we vote a family member off and that family member is voted "Least Liked of the Week." Although my initial rules demanded the family member (aka my mother) leave the house, it was met with some difficulties to which I do not want to go into detail.

By the end of Week 5 (animals were not allowed to play because they would win), we will have an Ultimate Bacher, who in theory is supposed to take home a $20 prize, but nobody, including myself, wanted to chip in $5 each to play.

We had our first day of voting yesterday, and at not so surprising odds, my mother was voted off 4-1. The other vote was for me, and was casted by her, but I am working on an alliance with my brother and sister to vote off my dad because I think I am next. I cannot help it that I have a temper and accidently leave used menstrual pads within my brother's view.

I was thinking aside from the voting, we should do some challenges. Great, I just realized I'm going to talk about bodily functions again. I was thinking the first challenge could be called Carol's Cooking.

For those of you who do not know my mother, let me tell you that she is the worst cook in the world. For the last 23 years, I have endured such dinners as chicken with olive oil on top of it, chicken with a whole potato stuffed inside of it, chicken with nothing but the chicken cooking in the oven. Its always chicken, a potato and some random liquid she pulls out of the cabinet to season it...which is either oil or vinegar.

A couple of weeks ago, my mother decided to expand her culinary excellence. She purchased some Italian sausages (the penis jokes were in high demand that night) and some saurkraut. I was beginning to get a distended abdomen from being malnurished in her care, and so anything she cooked, I was willing to eat. So when I saw the phallic sausages sparking up grease from the pan in which she threw them in, I started to eat them. And, to be honest, they weren't that bad...until...

I'm fucking sitting on the computer that night when my stomach starts making crazy loud noises. It was like Los Angeles traffic status. I didn't feel sick, but the sounds were so alarming it was like the animals going crazy before a major disaster.

Cut to about an hour later. I begin getting these strange ass stomach cramps that are screaming 'poorly cooked sausage.' I'm reading Oh No They Didn't, when suddenly...it hits me. I have no time to react and in a matter of .01 of a second...I've shit my pants.

I am LIVID. Not only have I shit my sleeping boxers, which ironically have donkeys on them, but I am not trapped at the computer. I am afraid to get up because I do not want to see if I've left a mark and I don't want that shit getting everywhere. So I call in my sister, who brings me a roll of toilet paper (it actually wasn't that bad) and escorts a hysterical me to the bathroom. My mother laughs so hard she cries.

Cut to like 20 minutes later. I think the worst of it is over when BAM it hits me again. But I'm ready this time! And by ready I mean I am practically sinched into my bed with the computer and 100 wires wrapped around me, preventing any kind of movement. At first I try to gently put the computer back on the desk and slowly remove myself from my bed, but then things change. I begin to sweat. Now I am throwing the laptop onto the ground and ripping the sheets off the mattress to get out. And just as I free myself from my bedroom prison, I shit my pants again. God fucking damnit.

Twice. In one night. I shit my pants. I went 23 years with only shitting my pants once, and then it happends TWICE IN ONE FUCKING NIGHT. I blame this entirely on that sausage, and Carol still stands by the fact that she felt fine that night.

The next day, I am home alone and wallowing in my self pity, when the phone begins to ring off the hook. Annoyed by its ring, I unplug it and begin my day. Little did I know that my poor sister was at school, massivly shitting and calling for me to come pick her up. She came home at 3:00pm that day pale, clammy and cool to the touch. The poor kid was forced to do this all in public restrooms, stalls nonetheless, and I was to blame. Unfortunately all I could do was laugh hysterically and reflect on the fact that she very well could have shit her pants at school, and nobody was coming to get her.

So, all in all, this post started with my excitement for my new game and ended in my bowels. My mother has now been voted out of the household and the next vote takes place next week. I was thinking another challenge could be to spend 1 hour trapped in a room with her after someone has woken her up from a nap, but that is so much tortue that it wouldn't even be allowed in Guantonomo Bay.

And with that, I'm off to my favorite haunt: the public library, to make more copies. I swear that bitch of a place is the shit. I go there and just relax until the ghetto kids 5 years younger than me intimidate me and kick me off the computers.

I also felt bad because the librarian helping me yesterday had a piece of broccoli right in her front tooth and I just kept staring at it. Then I went and asked her questions I knew the answer to so I could stare at it more. Then I realized I was a bitch.