“I’m Not One To…” Let My Hypocrisy Stop Me

Ok, so being a blog writer I also read a lot of blogs. The blogging community is just this whole thing that I find both awesome and intriguing, but every now and then I find blogs to be upsetting or annoying in various ways. The biggest violations usually coming from “mommy” blogs.

Now, there are some mommy blogs that are beautiful and insightful, that give new moms (of which I am not) a foothold on things that could otherwise be terrifying and overwhelming.

There are some that just seem to exist to judge others. And that I just don’t get. These are not true mommy blogs. From here on out they will be known as judgy blogs. Instead of uplifting other mothers or answering difficult questions, they target other mothers with harsh criticism and cruel mockery. My favorite judgy blogs always start with a disclaimer sentence.

I’m not racist but…

I’m not usually very conservative but…

It’s not really my business but….

I’m not one to judge, criticize, bring down, mock…. insert whatever your excuse is here.

Actually, yes. Yes you fucking are.

Now I am not a mom. I read these blogs partially because some of them are just damn good writing, regardless of the topic, and partially because I do kind of hope to be a mom someday. It’s interesting to read about the trials, happy moments, etc. Not to mention, posts on some mommy blogs have led me to read bloggers who are a mom + about a million other awesome things.

So take this with a grain of salt if you wish, but here’s a clue. If you feel the need to start your post off with a disclaimer sentence, not only should you step back and reconsider what you’re writing, but you are a  typing yourself right into being a hypocrit.

Now I’m not one to write biased ranty posts… but what the fuck is your issue?

http://thestir.cafemom.com/entertainment/143550/teen_mom_catelynn_lowells_bong

LINKAGE!

This is the post that set me off. Now, regardless of your feelings on drug use or whatever, I need to say something. Starting off a judging post, with a claim that you don’t judge, makes me instantly skeptical of you. Instantly, I am going to be looking at your post through shit colored glasses because, dude.  You’re judging a young woman. You’re judging her as though this one instant ruins every other achievement in her life. You’re judging her with no clue as to when this photo was really taken. You’re judging her even though you admit to being her age and using drugs. Just because you don’t “usually” judge, if that’s even true, does not make it more ok for you to judge right now.

You’re frigging JUDGING.

Just like because you aren’t “usually” racist, doesn’t make it ok to mock some random form of black/african american/ insert race here culture (or more likely what you perceive to be that culture).

It just doesn’t work.

Knock that shit off, man.

No Muffin Eating

I was once riding the Tarc.

The end. Or at least it would be if I didn’t insist on creating awkward situations everywhere I go. You see, on campus there is this bakery that sells fantastic muffins, and for a treat I bought myself one, a chocolate chip one, meaning to take it with me the next day. I forgot them of course, and upon the ride home realized that it was an extreme possibility that John would eat my precious snackage before I ever got home.

In order to prevent such a catastrophy I called him.

Me: Hey honey, I was just calling to remind you that you can’t eat my muffin.

John: Muffin? There’s muffins here? Where?

Me: NO! You can’t have my muffin damnit.

John: OOOO that looks tasty.

Me: That’s because it is tasty, and you can’t have it. No Muffin for you. You are cut off from the muffin.

John: Just a bite?

Me: No! Stop begging. It’s my muffin and it is sacred to me. If you can’t respect my muffin rules then you obviusly don’t respect me. NO MUFFIN EATING.

It was at this point I realized everyone was staring at me. More than usual. I also realized that it may not sound entirely like I was talking about a literal chocolate chip muffin.

There’s really too many slang words for a vagina.

FUPA Fabulous

This is a conversation I once had with a friend regarding her vagina. We shall call her Poodles.

Poodles: I need to lose weight. I’m getting a FUPA.

Me: What exactly is a FUPA?

Poodles: Fat. Upper. Pussy. Area.

Me: That’s a thing? I didn’t know there was a term for that.

Poodles: It is.

Me: We need to use this to our advantage.

Poodles: My FUPA?

Me: YES! I mean, some people are probably born with Fupas, and what do they do? We have all these people walking around shamed of their FUPA. We could write a self-help book. “Learning to Love Your FUPA”

Poodles: “Living With a Stubborn FUPA”

Me: “FUPAs of the Rich and Famous”

Poodles: “FUPAs Need Love Too”

Me: And what if they want to disguise it? “Hairstyles for the Snazzy FUPA” It could have pictures, and a step-by-step shaving techniques. Spencers would totally sell a FUPA Style Guide. We could design a line of FUPA masking belts, for the discreet FUPA owner.

Poodles: And we could go on Oprah or Dr. Phil, and talk about FUPA Power.

Me: Work the FUPA!

Poodles: What about guys? They probably have this problem too. Fat Upper Dick Area. Makes the penis seem little.

Me: We could start an online dating community! “Handsome FUDAs looking for Sexy FUPAs”

Poodles: YES!!!

Me: and we can make merchandise! T-shirts that say “FUPA Power” and “You Can’t Handle the FUPA”

Poodles: We will be rich! Create a FUPA empire!

At this point I began texting a friend of mine whom we shall name Camo. Instead of telling me I am weird and both of us need therapy, he suggested FUPA phanny packs. And specialized sex toys made to fit a FUDA comfortably.

Brilliant.

The FUPA Brigade, coming to a convention center near you!

MNAAAA Sound Effects Included

20120924-144011.jpg

So I’m married. I believe I’ve mentioned this once or twice in the past posts, dear readers, but I thought I would be a little more specific.

I’m married to a man most people know as Squid. Who has a rather rough and spotty reputation. He is whole inches shorter than me, and walks with what my sister and I can only refer to as swag.

He is quiet, and in a word, Broody. He looks like satan himself in photos due to the inability to not look pissed off when caught off guard, and random police officers from where he grew up recognize him still today, 6 years later.

He knows way too much about sniper rifles and knives, and will sit unashamed and happily watch a marathon of Sailor Moon. He will even sit through Sex and the City, though he won’t be quite as happy about it.

But absolutely none of that is who he is.

I found this out, and began to fall in love with him, due to rather odd circumstances. One of the things people don’t instantly see about my husband is his silliness. His ability to immitate a Gir voice, to wiggle dance upon command because it makes me laugh, his random acts of lick assault.

Yeah, lick assault.

The first time I really had an epiphany about this man, the thought that I may not be dealing with exactly what I thought I was dealing with, came a random night when we first started dating. We were watching cheesy movies on the SciFi channel, and he, with no warning and in no uncertain terms rolled over and licked my face.

And I mean LICKED. Full on, entire tongue, MNAAAAAA sound effects, licked a trail of saliva up the side of my face damn near to my hairline. And then he burst out laughing.

In shock, and only able to think of one revenge that would counter the spitty assault upon my cheek, I pinned him and licked his eyeball.

Not his eyelid.

His exposed, salty, probably never to be the same, eyeball. And he didn’t dump me for it.

It’s very strange the kinds of things which endear you to a person.

It’s a Vagina, Not a Storage Unit

http://awkwardsexandthecity.blogspot.com/2012/09/welp-i-officially-hate-pill.html

LINKAGE!

This post made me remember just how horrible Birth Control can be. Now I am not on your traditional pill, as my history of migraines makes me a stroke risk (and doesn’t that just make a girl feel sexy). I also didn’t go with the patch because it has permanent hormonal side effects, the shot causes permanent bone loss, weight gain, and stipping of the uteran wall, and most IUD’s can’t be prescribed to someone who has not given birth since a tiny peice can break off and permanently damage your insides.

Instead, I am on the NuvaRing. Now there is nothing really wrong with this. It is an effective birth control, that doesn’t require me to apply what little memory I have left to taking a pill every day at exactly the same time each day.

Me remembering to take a pill each and every day would most assuredly result in my cultivating a fetus inside  my entirely antisocial uterus. Let me explain.

I have no thyroid due to cancer running rampant through my family like a chimpanzi hyped on X would run through the Whole Foods produce department. Therefore I am meant to take a tiny pill, a supplement for all the lovely chemicals a thyroid produces, every day. I do not. I forget it for entire weeks at a time and don’t realize until my muscles seize up and I feel the need for a nap after an hour of consciousness.

I give no fucks.

If I can’t remember a pill that keeps my organs functioning, I won’t remember a pill that stops the function of another.

The problem with Nuva Ring, is that it basically looks like this…

Do you know what else looks like that?

Fucking Jelly Bands! Snap Bracelets! An Emo kid staple that is still refusing to die out, available in just about every color known to man at your nearest mall. When I was 14 and not even remotely considering sex as an extracurricular activity I walked around with these things on my wrists for months on end!

It’s jewelry! What kind of doctor designs birth control to resemble something a middle schooler wears to look hip? If i wanted to accessorize my vagina I’d get a peircing or vajazzle the fucker, I wouldn’t decide to store snap bands by my cervix.

And that is exactly what you fear if you’re relatively young and using one of these things. Because what you really want to hear from your significant other when you’re about to get it on is “Wow you’re so…full of bracelets????”

No.

Just no.

And when you’re older, and have possibly had a kid or two, what do you want your little lovey to come running out of the bathroom wearing?

“Mommy I found a bracelet in the trash! Isn’t it Pretty?”

No. It’s not fuckin pretty. This is a therapy session waiting to happen.

Lemme guess, the same genius who thought up this design is related to the genuis who made orange flavored tylenol and cough drops that looks like cherry lifesavers.

COME ON! It’s bad enough that it’s  2012  and the best fix we can come up with for almost every vagina related issue is “Eh, let’s just shove this up in there.”

Period? Here’s a wad of cotton and piece of string.

Infection? Here’s what looks like a bath bead and an cheap plastic tube.

Ovulating? Here’s a FUCKING BRACELET.

And don’t even get me started on the joys of  speculums.

It is a vagina. Not a storage unit. Can’t we come up with something a little better than this?

I once dated a boy who was terrified of tampons. Not because a girl’s period freaked him out, but because his mother once tried to flush one, and in his tiny little boy mind when he saw that cottony white mass covered in blood, he thought his mother had visciously murdered a baby rabbit.

Are you picturing this?

The last thing we need is for that same boy to pick up a nuvaring off the floor and feel the urge to accessorize.

Sometimes I Weird Myself Out

Have you ever been doing something and stopped for a moment to wonder what it would be like if the objects you used every day actually had personalities and thoughts?

Probably not, because you’re probably far more normal than I am.

BUT, that doesn’t change the fact that inanimate objects having personalities could lead to terribly awkward situations.

What if your keyboard has a bad headache that day? Man you’re an asshole for finishing that ten page essay.

What if your pens are all huge perverts, and by using them your basically giving them a really drawn out (haha, puns!) handjob?

20120924-111724.jpg

What if your earbuds are actually living organisms that feed solely on your ear wax and those weird crusty bits that form when you don’t get all of the shampoo out of your ear?

I think maybe I’m just going to sit with my hands in my lap and not move or touch anything for the next day or so.

Do any of you ever over think things like this?

Twitch

 

 

It makes her twitch. It flickers on and off, blue shadows crawling across the living room walls. A blue pulse of electricity which calls…

One slices across her leg, three little lines there. Now four.

Just for a second, she looks over at the door.

 Her body jolts with every flash. The blue burns into her eyes. She feels the

scratch scratch

of her pupils stretching wide, pushed open by blue tendrils, held open as they reach for her soul. She leans forward, hugs her knees to her chest.  Feels the

drip drip

from her wrist to her toes. Feels the sticky wetness slide down her foot to the floor.

Hears the floorboards groan for more.

Through the part in her hair, sees the blue slither and writhe. Sees the dead trees twist inside Hide in the pattern of the floor. Hears the

crack crack

of their souls, nailed down and pierced.

She reaches down, cold palm to cold wood. Wonders what its like to have nail through bone.

Anything not to be alone.

“It’s ok. We’re all trapped here.”

And it’s exactly that she fears.

She reaches down, sharp metal, all cool, pointed at the floor. Carving, quick slicing.

Jerking hands. Rough letters crying,

cut cut

into the wood. Defiant words twisting around the room.

She crawls onto the floor, digging nails into grooves.

The door is locked. Locked for her safety. He doesn’t want anyone to get in.

She is his.

But she will do anything to win.

Holds tight to the side of the couch. Purple swirls and stains beneath.

Too much purple collecting at her feet.

Holds on tight to pull herself up high.

Wonders why this body refuses to die.

She sees the blue flash across her stomach. Sees it

seep seep

into her skin. His skin.

Two thin cuts and it peels away.

Not his anymore. She will not stay.

She pushes cold metal to bleeding flesh. Feels the

slice slice

as more rips off fresh.

Tears fight through the lashes. Warm tears release the pain.

It doesn’t matter to her that it’s insane.

She is alone. She is strangled by familiar hands, love tattooed across the knuckles.

Crushes her throat when she calls out for others.

He is not enough. And he is all that is allowed. She hears the

thump thump

of her heart, begging her to stop. Feels the

twitch twitch

of her muscles starting to ache.

She kneels down to the trees.

Why won’t he see?

Palms to their broken souls. Lets the purple

slide slide

into the cracks. It is almost time. He will come home. Home to claim her.

The floorboards cry out, welcoming her.

They will never chain her down. They will never hold her still.

It is only his love which kills.

One more cut and her head drops to the floor.

She will never be anyone’s anymore.

When he comes home it is announced with a

knock knock

of the door. But as he walks in he notices a sick smell.

And he can just barely see her body where she fell.

When he turns on the light he is welcomed with this sight…

Flesh peeled from bone.

And just beside her body was shown

just five feet from the door

etched in red on the floor

Maybe this will make you see,

That you can

never never

keep me.

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