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HI MOM

Somewhere over the past three and a half years since I graduated from NYU, I stopped playing drinking games.

And by drinking games, I clearly just mean Kings Cup because that’s really the only drinking game I ever knew how to play except actually, I don’t think I knew how to play at all and I don’t think anyone else knew how to play either because every time we sat down to get a game started someone was always like, “Wait, what the fuck are the rules to this game again?” and we’d have to write out all the different types of cards and assign rules to each one and the rules were never exactly the same as the time before or the time after because we were all too drunk and stupid to, you know, SAVE the list of rules.

I loved that damn game though, because once the rules were written out, you didn’t have to think anymore. Someone picked a four and the girls drank, someone picked a queen and you did that weird question asking thing, someone picked an ace and started the drinking waterfall where you couldn’t stop drinking until the person next to you stopped drinking and this was my least favorite one because I didn’t drink beer in college so everyone would play with PBR and I’d be playing with vodka cranberry and halfway through the game when other people were getting tipsy I was getting naked and oh man it’s just now becoming clear to me why I made so many bad decisions in college and why even the thought of vodka cranberry makes me want to stab a baby panda.

ANYWAY, revisiting the glory of this game has me thinking of making a set of arbitrary Kings Cup style rules for my day to day life, only instead of them being rules that I have to abide by, they’ll be rules other people have to abide by because I’m tired of people doing weird shit around me all the time. Like, okay, a few months ago when I was doing the nomadic lifestyle thing I was in a public restroom in DC and this girl crawled under the door and into my stall while I was peeing and I know you’re thinking that she was like 3 years old and she was in the next stall over with her mother but she was actually more like 12 years old and she was in the bathroom alone and she just crawled under and I was like, “Um, the fuck?” and she’s all, “Hi!” and I’m like, “No no no no no no.”

So not doing this is going to be my first rule. My other rules, from unfortunate personal experience, are that you’re not allowed to bring raw chicken on the bus. And that you’re not allowed to run your fingers through my hair if you don’t know me. And that you’re not allowed to continuously resend Facebook fan page invitations to me for the same shit over and over again because if I ignored your first request to become a fan of your garage or whatever the whatever you’re trying to get me to promote for you, chances are I’m not going to see the second or the tenth invitation to become a fan of your garage and be all, “THANK GOD YOU INVITED ME AGAIN YES PLEASE ACCEPT ACCEPT.”

Wait, WAIT. Speaking of rules and deciding other people’s actions: remember back in November when I was drunk in the JFK airport and I had that wondrous idea to let my Twitter followers plan my life for a day? I just realized that I never did it and that it really is the best worst idea ever and if my vodka cranberry baby panda stabbing days mean anything, I love best worst ideas so hell yeah let’s get started on this with you commenting and telling me what you want me to do on this day and then I’ll take all of the suggestions that are awesome and put together the most ridiculous day ever and you’ll get credit and photo evidence of the thing you picked and maybe even video evidence if I can figure out how to record a video and are you ready to start suggesting things? Make sure you’re following me on Twitter if you’re making a suggestion because that’s how this entire thing is going to be documented and planned. And make sure your suggestion doesn’t interfere with my being totally broke and totally scared of jail, herpes, clowns, and bicycles. Yes, bicycles. Don’t ask. Or do. Or use that as your suggestion, me telling you the story of why I’m scared of bicycles on camera while wearing a bumble bee costume and drinking tequila and gargling the ABCs.

I’m so good at gargling the ABCs.

Fuck, shut up Nicole, stop giving away all your secret talents.

And stop talking in third person.

And stop wearing leggings as pants because it totally violates your about page.

(Except don’t stop that because OH MY GOD THE ACTUAL ACTUAL ACTUAL COMFORT.)

Wait, is your suggestion going to be for me to get rid of my leggings? God, I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I’m basically going to be Twitter’s bitch. Or your bitch. Or someone’s bitch.

DON’T DROP THE SOAP.

–

Also? I’m over at Toy With Me today, discussing what Google has taught me about my vagina.

Let’s talk about that moment, the one where you’re all, “Ah ha! So that’s what being an adult looks like.”

It happened to me about halfway through third grade. We were living in London at the time (another story for another Wednesday), and my parents and I spent weekend afternoons exploring our new city and going on “family walks.” (Wait, mom, I’m only now realizing that it’s totally fucking weird how everything we used to do was preceded by the word family. Out for the day? A family outing! Trouble? Time to call a family meeting!) God, when I get pregnant can you all please remind me not to do that?

NO MOM I’M NOT PREGNANT, SIT BACK DOWN.

So, it was halfway through third grade and it was a weekend afternoon and we were on a family walk, which means I was complaining because I’m a brat and my mom pointed to an ice cream truck and was all, “If I get you an ice cream sandwich, will you shut the fuck up?” and I was like, “ICE CREAM IN MY MOUTH HOLE” so she pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me and I realized that ah ha! the secret to being an adult means always, always having cash in your wallet. No matter what. Dollar bills and five dollar bills and twenty dollar bills. All the time.

How true is this though? Don’t your parents always have cash? Mine do and real adults do and yet I never have cash and therefore by this definition I’m an absolutely horrible adult. I just can’t carry cash around. I’m a meticulous budget balancer and once I’ve gotten cash out of the ATM and mentally deducted it from my budget, what I spend it on somehow doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I walk around and I’m all, “I have cash! Dollar dollar bills ya’ll! Gimme twelve Blow Pops and three copies of US Weekly and twelve more Blow Pops and stop judging me because I’m paying in CASH and I love Blow Pops and how do they get the gum inside there and when can I visit the Blow Pop factory and find out??”

Oh man, speaking of, a few months ago I was watching Unwrapped on the Food Network, that show where they do behind the scenes tours of all different food production facilities, and it was an episode all about candy and they actually did go to the Blow Pop factory and I was maddeningly jealous because everyone who worked there looked so goddamn happy and maybe it was just for the TV cameras but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because how in the how could watching those genius machines magically get gum inside a lollipop all day not make you completely fucking ecstatic? Those machines make my mind explode. It’s like, have you SEEN the equipment responsible for mass food production? It’s crazycakes. Like, who came up with that? How does someone just wake up one Thursday morning and go, “This is how to make there be gum inside a lollipop!” or “This is how to fill eleventy thousand Twinkies with weird fake cream in under an hour!”or “This is how to make planes fly!” and I know, I know, planes aren’t the same as Blow Pops and Twinkies and I don’t even like Twinkies but I don’t care how many times my engineering major ex boyfriend explained it to me, I SIMPLY CAN’T COMPREHEND HOW 147,000 POUNDS OF ALUMINUM CAN JUST FLOAT THROUGH THE AIR LIKE THAT AND YES THAT’S THE ACTUAL ACTUAL WEIGHT OF A BOEING 747 AND I KNOW BECAUSE I LOOKED IT UP AND IN CASE YOU WANT ANOTHER FUN FACT THESE SAME PLANES HAVE SIX MILLION PARTS.

Six! Million! Parts! FLYING THROUGH THE AIR!

Thinking about this makes my brain do the Helen Keller thing. Maybe I should just stop trying to figure out how planes fly and how the internet works and how to do laundry before I entirely run out of underwear and stick instead to being in the business of overdosing on iced tea and researching heinous sexual terms and stalking my name through Google Alerts except maybe NOT because the Google Alerts keep telling me about a woman named Antoinette Nicole Davis who was recently accused of selling her 5 year old daughter into SEXUAL SLAVERY before the girl was MURDERED and news about it comes to my inbox like everyday and I have the pleasure of learning things like how this same woman is pregnant AGAIN and my question for you is shouldn’t the people who make planes fly figure out a way to stop shit like this from happening and and and WHY ARE PEOPLE RUINING MY NICOLE ANTOINETTE-NESS?

At some point over the last, like, forever, I got added onto an absurd amount of email lists. So many email lists that I’m pretty sure there’s someone out there who hates me and gets off to repeatedly submitting and resubmitting my email address to all the possible newsletters in the history of newsletters and laughing maniacally about how I’m getting daily updates from the Republican Party and Monster.com and oh my god could I possibly be any LESS Republican or any less on the job hunt??

Initially, my technique was to just delete the newsletters as they came in, unopened, until I finally realized that um, if I want the horror to stop I have to actually unsubscribe to each newsletter individually. So I did. I diligently opened each one, scrolled to the bottom, clicked unsubscribe, got taken to a ridiculous webpage asking me questions about why I was unsubscribing that were always multiple choice when really they should have been fill in the blank so I could be all, “BECAUSE I’M AN EMPLOYED DEMOCRAT AND BESIDES WHICH I NEVER SIGNED UP FOR THIS OBNOXIOUS ASS EMAIL IN THE FIRST PLACE THANK YOU GO AWAY THE END.”

And then? Well, and then a sigh of relief. EXCEPT NOT. Because apparently clicking unsubscribe and telling the website why I’m unsubscribing isn’t enough. And so the emails keep coming and coming and coming. And not in the good “that’s what she said” way. In the bad way where it’s like, “oh my actual actual GOD, enough already with the never ending newsletters about frozen yogurt and shoes and why aren’t all customer service issues dealt with by the wonder that is OnStar where you simply push one single button and you’re connected to a REAL LIVE PERSON who tells you their name and asks what you need and then does that EXACT THING in a timely manner while being overwhelmingly pleasant and sometimes even asking about the weather??”

So yeah, I basically want an OnStar-like entity to follow me around and run my entire life and yes that’s exactly as Big Brother-ey as it sounds but I mean can you imagine? “Oh hello there Nicole, you’re looking exceptionally gorgeous this morning. Love the pigtails. Would you care for an orgasm and some French toast? And the most recent US Weekly? And a massage by John Mayer? And the ability to exercise while drinking tequila? And some new shoes? And an explanation as to which lips that Vegan Vulva Lip Balm should be used on? And to never be on another unwanted email newsletter list ever ever ever? Excellent, I’ll get right on it and in the meantime here’s $100.”

TELL ME THAT WOULDN’T BE THE ABSOLUTE GLORY HOLE LIFE

HOW CAN WE MAKE THIS HAPPEN

NO SERIOUSLY

HUGS AND KISSES AND LEPRECHAUNS FOR EVERYONE

I’M PROBABLY JUST GOING TO KEEP YELLING UNTIL I GET WHAT I WANT

OR UNTIL I LOSE MY VOICE

OR UNTIL SOMEONE BRINGS ME A BIG HOT SOURDOUGH PRETZEL BECAUSE THAT SOUNDS SO DAMN DELICIOUS RIGHT NOW

HI MOM

When I first got the email, I thought it was maybe some kind of joke. So I read it again and apparently no, it wasn’t a joke and the crazy people at Intel actually were inviting me to attend their Youth Rock Stars Summit at the Intel Headquarters and I was going to get put up in a hotel and by the by I would also be getting a FREE NETBOOK FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON and was I maybe interested in coming?

I mean, what? No seriously, tell me who is too busy or in possession of too many computers to be all, “You know, actually, I’m all set on a really nice hotel room and a delicious dinner and a behind the scenes tour of Intel and a tiny little computer that’s so cute you can basically put it in your pocket and pet it because it’s so little and oh yeah also it’s TOTALLY FREE??”

No one I know, that’s who.

Which is to say, of course I went to the Youth Rock Stars Summit last month and of course the entire time I was all darting around with my eyes, checking out the social media bloggers and the tech bloggers and the PR people and I was like, “Do they know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina?” and I kept waiting for someone to kick me out but it never happened and apparently they really *did* know that I’m wildly inappropriate and that I blog mostly about my vagina and therefore no one was surprised when we went around the room and shared the things we knew about Intel prior to coming to the event and everyone was like, “processors and chips and blah blah computer stuff” and all I heard was “blah blah shit that I don’t understand but if you’d like to talk about wine and sex toys I promise I’ll have something much more coherent to say” and yet I somehow managed to put together a sentence that was more or less, “Intel = computers?” and everyone laughed and I’m thinking no seriously, give me some fucking techie CliffsNotes and then I didn’t know what else to do because the speaker, Mario Paniccia, went back to his presentation and he was off on some tangent about copper and conductivity or maybe it wasn’t about copper or conductivity at all but who the hell knows because everyone was live tweeting smart shit and all I could think to do was tweet about how hot Mario is and tag it #IntelYouth like they told us to do all day and I know I know, but WHAT THE HELL KIND OF SHENANIGANS DID THEY EXPECT WHEN THEY SENT ME THE DAMN EMAIL INVITATION IN THE FIRST PLACE.

And here’s the fucking craziest thing, IT HAPPENED AGAIN. The email invitation thing I mean, except this time it was less about computers and more about cars and food because Best of Tours was asking if I would maybe like to spend the entire day being driven around San Francisco in brand new Chevy vehicles, eating delicious street food for free and also there’s a gift bag at the end that has truffles and jam except they didn’t mention the gift bag up front but I went anyway and that was just a glorious surprise when it happened.

So that’s what I did yesterday. I drove around in a Camaro and ate hot dogs and creme brulee and all kinds of other street food and the moral of this story is that I’m pretty stoked that people seem to want me and my vagina at events that have nothing to do with me or my vagina but please keep it coming because I love free shit and I love being the person that everyone who is actually supposed to be at the event raises an eyebrow at as they’re all, “I checked out your blog” in a way that really means, “What the fucking fuck fuck are you doing here?” and I smile and say, “Oh yeah?” in a way that actually means, “DUDE I KNOW RIGHT??”

In conclusion, please keep inviting me to your really cool shit at which I don’t belong and I’ll keep coming and hitting on the presenters and eating the free food and enjoying the swag. Or, alternatively, if you don’t have a cool event to invite me to you should probably just invite me over to your house instead and we’ll bake coffee cake and drink tea unless of course you don’t like coffee cake or tea in which case we probably shouldn’t be friends in the first place.

This is probably a little redundant at this point, but I drink a lot of wine. Specifically, I drink a lot of Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s, which isn’t necessarily relevant but might be something you should write down just in case you’re ever faced with needing to buy me a present and you’re all, “Does she maybe want a sweater?” and then that little voice in your head can be like, “No bitch, of course she doesn’t want a fucking sweater, she wants a case of Charles Shaw.”

And I do. Like, all the time. Like, I want a new case delivered every single week. I mean, wait, what’s the appropriate amount of time in which to consume 12 bottles of wine? Assuming you do it with a roommate. And sometimes with friends. But also sometimes not with a roommate or with friends because you’re having a college flashback weekend and you’re too cheap to pay for drinks at bars and you aren’t slutty enough to flirt your way into getting free drinks from guys in bars and so maybe you pour an entire bottle of wine into an empty Smart Water bottle and it’s white wine so it kind of looks like urine and you’re drinking it IN PUBLIC while having the audacity to wonder why you’re single and constantly hungover.

But I mean, whatever, that type of shit is SO NOT THE POINT RIGHT NOW.

The point is this: while I was sitting around wasting space and being a cheap drunk, some glorious person out there took the time to make a giant wine glass that’s large enough to hold an entire bottle of wine. AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF WINE. IN ONE GLASS.

When I first found out about it, I sat there staring at its pretty little picture, fantasizing over the endless possibilities for a future of me + the glass that was clearly sent to my computer screen by a brothel of angels and I’m scrolling through the page and I see the section where they try to get you to buy corresponding shit by being all, “customers who bought this item also bought…” and then listing things that would complement a big giant wine glass. Except instead of normal shit like a corkscrew or a wine rack or a one way do-not-pass-go ticket to AA, Amazon is all, “Customers who bought this item also bought Boston Legal: Season 3” and I’m like, “Wait, what?” and Amazon is all, “Customers who bought this item also bought the Omron Body Fat Monitor and Scale” and I’m thinking okay, I can maybe understand drinking an entire bottle/glass/bottleglass of wine while watching a season of fake legal drama on DVD, but if I’m going to drink an entire bottle of wine, and I’m going to do it regularly enough to justify purchasing a glass for this specific purchase, you can probably just assume that I never even weigh myself on a regular fucking scale and therefore have zero need to know what my body fat percentage is after I’ve been able to consume an entire bottle of wine without even exerting the tiny amount of energy required to, you know, STAND UP AND REFILL A WINE GLASS.

But Amazon is a persistent and snarky little whore and was all, “Fine, customers who bought this item also bought Oxo Good Grips Locking Tongs with Nylon Heads. And a Neiko Super-Bright 9 LED Heavy-Duty Compact Aluminum Flashlight in Gunmetal. And the 5th edition of a book called Plain English for Lawyers.” Which is when I realized that actually, these things aren’t random and it all makes complete sense because there’s obviously some guy out there who really wants to be a lawyer, but English isn’t his first language and so he’s reading this book and watching Boston Legal and he’s on edition 5 and season 3 because he’s wanted to be a lawyer for so fucking long that he already finished seasons 1-2 and editions 1-4, but he got rejected from law school and started drinking heavily enough to warrant a glass that holds an entire bottle’s worth of wine at once and he got a little carried away with it all and his girlfriend left him for someone who isn’t an alcoholic and drinks manly shit like beer from the can and speaks enough English to get into law school and so now he sits at home and jerks off in the dark with nylon tipped tongs and makes shadow puppets on the wall using his super powered gunmetal gray flashlight.

Which is to say, somebody please buy me this fucking fuck fuck wine glass, stat.

I mean please. I mean maybe not. I mean actually yeah as long as I don’t somehow wind up masturbating with kitchen utensils.

So a while ago I started doing this thing on Twitter called #FuckingFunnyFriday that’s less of an actual thing and more of just a super selfish way to get people to link me to funny shit, but it’s overwhelmingly awesome and I now have a collection of the funniest links ever ever and I always get so excited for Fridays except I don’t always remember to do it because sometimes I’m hungover and unsure of what day of the week it is.

Which is to say, it’s that time again! And let me return the funny favor! Here’s a video I totally love.

And here’s another one.

And here’s a link to the guest post I wrote for ToyWithMe.com, my favorite sex blog in the entirety of the creepy pornographic internet wonderland and oh my god that reminds me, apparently a lot of people can’t access my blog at work because their work thinks my blog is a fucking SEX SITE and this is basically the best news I’ve ever heard and excuse me while I leave you to go run around with my pants down while yelling about how my life is one glorious glory hole after another.

Happiest of happy Fridays, you crazy Popsicle sticks.

When I first moved into this apartment, I noticed that 1. there’s a trash chute in the hallway and that 2. the opening for the trash chute isn’t actually big enough to put a single fucking trash bag through.

Which is when the baby thing came up. The realization that while living in this apartment, we wouldn’t be able to throw away anything bigger than a newborn baby, because that’s all that was ever going to fit down that hole.

And I mean, listen, before you freak out, I’m not saying I’m ever going to throw away an *actual* baby. I don’t even have a baby. I don’t even have access to a baby. And even if I did have a baby, and access to like 6 other babies, I wouldn’t throw any of them down the trash chute. It’s just a size thing. IT’S A SIZE THING.

The day after the baby thing though, we found our way to the trash room and realized that actually, we could just carry our non-baby sized trash down the stairs and put it in the dumpster ourselves. Which, okay, is awesome because at least we don’t have an entire apartment full of trash, but it’s also like, um, what the fuck?? Because why take the time to build a trash chute if no one in the entire apartment complex can use it for anything besides baby disposal?

Once in a while though, Jamie and I will get a small package in the mail (makeup, a sex toy, you know, the usual) and we’ll look at the empty box and scream, “IT’S SMALLER THAN A BABY!” and run and put it down the chute.

It happened again the other night. We were sitting on her bed, folding the laundry that we only do once every like four weeks and I was matching the socks together and freaking out about how I was maybe losing my mind because there were SO many socks that didn’t have matches and I tried over and over and finally I gave up and looked down at the ridiculous amount of pair-less socks and was all, “Jamie. Seriously. Jamie, look at this. This is the state of your life as a grown woman” and she looked down all skeptical and judge-y, like I’m the idiot who doesn’t know how to match socks with other socks and she sits and she tries and she’s holding them up and trying to make them fit together but they don’t fit together because it’s just a pile – I mean an actual PILE – of socks that don’t go together and she’s all, “What about these two!” and I’m like, “THOSE AREN’T EVEN THE SAME LENGTH” and she points to a few others and I’m all, “No. This one is wooly. And this one is tights!”

And we went on and on, trying to make pairs, circling back to the same fucking socks, yelling about how those two still weren’t the same length and how that one was STILL TIGHTS, until finally, we gathered them all into a big ball and walked them down to the dumpster, because the quantity of socks was > a newborn baby.

And I know, maybe we need to buy more socks. Or maybe we need to be put on some sort of trash baby watch list. Or maybe we need a new point of comparison. Or maybe we need to spend less time together because at this point we have our own language that’s so wildly offensive that we’re sometimes nervous about going out in public but I’m thinking that actually it’s fine because at least we still have enough social decency to create hand gestures for the really REALLY offensive things like the times we feel like we’re living in a trailer park or the times when we quote Katt Williams and wish we were black but I can’t do those hand gestures right now because I’m typing and oh my god please tell me you do things like this too so I don’t have to climb the long staircase down to hell all by myself.

So I came to this realization recently, and it’s less about grammar and more about arousal, but perhaps the most awkwardly horrible time to make a typo is while dirty texting. Because I mean, it’s all hot and sexy until somebody wants you to do something to their hard coke.  Or you’re so turned on that it’s making you wat.

Because you make the typo, right, but then what? Do you ignore it? Do you keep texting? Do you quickly type the hottest thing you can think of so as not to change the mood? Or do you acknowledge it and immediately text back with *wet! I mean wet! YOU’RE MAKING ME SO WET!

God technology complicates sex. Actually no, you know what really complicates sex? The fucking iPhone. The fucking iPhone and its fucking auto correcting of words for no good reason. Like, stop changing “fuck” to “duck.” Have I ever typed duck? No seriously, when’s the last time I ever, ever texted ANYONE about ducks? Never, that’s when. I’ve never texted anyone about ducks. But do you know which word I do use in almost every single text? Fuck. Do you hear that, iPhone? Fuck is my favorite word and you clearly need to just get your shit together already and start recognizing that I like fucking more than I like water birds. And, actually, while we’re having it out, I’d like to also request that you stop anticipating my needs and prematurely inserting the word “Bette” when all I’m trying to do is type “better.” I mean, who the fuck is Bette? There isn’t anyone in my contacts named Bette. In fact, I’m pretty sure there hasn’t even been a single person in the world named Bette since like 1957.

Which makes me think that the guy who programmed the iPhone has an enormous crush on some old chick named Bette. Or maybe his mom’s name is Bette. Or maybe he’s really old and back in college he used to get head from this super hot chick named Bette until she left him for a football player with a really nice car and he’s pissed as hell because he hasn’t had it that good since then and now he’s married and bitter because he spends his days programming iPhones and doesn’t even have a good blowjob to come home to and the crazy thing is that his wife totally *would* blow him, but he never bothers to go down on her first and has absolutely no idea that her clit is shaped like a wishbone or that all clits are shaped like wishbones which leaves him working for Apple and her wildly unsatisfied in the pants and me with an iPhone that thinks I want to duck Bette.

Wait, so, that wishbone thing. Did you know that? Because I totally didn’t and yet I’ve been wearing a small gold wishbone necklace for the past six months and talking about wishbones and luck and how I believe we make our own luck and then I find out last week that what I’ve really been doing this entire time is wearing a GOLDEN CLITORIS around my neck and maybe THAT’S why I’ve been having such incredible orgasms lately.

THE POWER OF THE NECKLACE.

Well, the power of the necklace backed up by the power of my newest favorite sex book, Moregasm: Babeland’s Guide to Mind-Blowing Sex that’s full of incredible tips and incredible photography and the incredible ability to turn me on from just flipping through the pages. Yes, it’s that awesome. Do you want one? I have four to give away. Four! Free! Books! About! Wishbone! Clits!

And I know, I know, between this and the Texts from Last Night book and the blog redesign I’ve been doing a lot of giveaways lately but it’s only because I think you bitches & dude bitches are fantastic and I love you and it’s Valentine’s Day and this is the last giveaway I’m doing for a while but it’s totally worth it because it’s a book that, among other things, taught me the real shape of my clit and if you’re still all, “enough already with the giveaways,” I sort of want to make it up to you by posting a picture in which I’m holding said book and am also maybe a little bit topless but I know that if I did that, somebody would get all snarky and bring up the fact that I’m 24 years old and therefore probably too old to wear pigtail braids but I don’t give a swimming horse vagina because I hate blow drying my hair and I fucking love pigtail braids and you can just shut your lips and and and no topless photo for you.

{Winners! Jessica, Ev’Yan, Jenny, and Alana!}

Sometimes I love that I don’t have a TV in my apartment. Like when I’m bored and instead of wasting time wondering how in the hell MTV can still call itself Music Television when they haven’t shown a legitimate music video since like 1998, I go online and find incredibly inappropriate and magical websites like Guess Her Muff, where it’s just picture after picture of fully clothed chicks and under each clothed picture there’s a link to a naked picture and the premise is basically to guess what each chick’s vagina is going to look like based on her clothed appearance.

Please don’t ask me how much time I’ve spent on this site, because it’s just absolutely crazycakes, and please don’t ask me why it’s so ridiculously gratifying to look at one photo and yell, “landing strip!” and then the next photo and yell, “totally shaved!” and then the next one and yell, “big giant bush!” and be right about EVERY SINGLE PHOTO and convince myself that I must be some kind of x-ray visioned vagina jedi person. It just is.

The only downside is that this damn website has more or less ruined my life because I find myself playing the Guess Her Muff game out in the 3D world, walking by woman after woman and guessing quietly to myself, mentally screaming, “Brazilian wax!” and then immediately hoping that I didn’t just risk getting assaulted by accidentally saying it out loud while pointing to her lady parts.

God, speaking of getting assaulted, last weekend there was a fucking shooting in my neighborhood. Like, an actual SHOOTING after two guys got into it at this shady club, got kicked out, and then the one guy fired 32 rounds at the other guy and killed him in front of a sex shop that’s next to the club and oh my god only in San Francisco would there be a club next to a sex shop and this is all very stressful for me because I love sex shops and don’t want to associate them with getting fucking SHOT TO DEATH.

Which is to say that maybe I should get a TV so that I can start paying more attention to the local news about who’s brawling with who in my neighborhood. Or maybe I should just become a complete recluse who spends hour after hour in front of her fireplace trying to guess the pubic hair situation of some chick posing for a photo on a boardwalk while simultaneously wondering where in the where they even FIND women who will submit both clothed AND naked pictures to a site that has muff in the title and how they’ve found enough of them that as of this morning, they were already up to girl number 1,367.

People are fucking weird.