My Husband Is Better Than Sex ... (Not That He's Bad In Bed. No, He *Really* Wants Me To Emphasize That He Has Skills.)

I've been in one of my funks lately. It started small, and then it swelled, and last night the bubble burst. I woke up in the middle of the night, panicked, frightened, and distraught. For some reason, my mind had convinced me that I have no good memories. I tried to think of my wedding day, but my brain kept diverting me to how my beloved grandfather was diagnosed with terminal cancer only days after our big party. I tried to think of my nieces and nephews, but my neurons fired in the direction of my infertility and how long

5 Reasons You *SHOULD* Vote For Future President Donald Trump

1) No reasons. 2) None at all. 3) Why the fuck would you consider voting for a douche casserole? 4) If for even one sliver of a second you thought this small-balled bigot capable of our nation's highest office, then you need to go to be checked for a brain injury. 5) Go vote for a real person. Or a Muppet. They at least have better hair. And skin color. And stuffing in their heads. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. Why

I Just Disappointed My Mother-In-Law AND Famous Singer Josh Groban

I'd barely exchanged brief pleasantries before the mustachioed man named Ivan roughly pressed a gun against my flesh, drawing blood. My husband, Chris, unchivalrous shit that he is, froze and didn't say boo as I sat there, hyperventilating and shivering and pissing my panties. (Okay, so I didn't really urinate, but only because I was too damn scared to recall that I was in possession of a bladder.) And then, five minutes later, Ivan said, "We're done," and I unclenched my eyes, and there it was: my first tattoo. I've never been particularly drawn to the idea of having ink

All I Want For Valentine's Day Is A Labiaplasty (And Maybe Some Doritos...)

You know the worst thing about growing up? No. It's not paying bills. Although that sucks. And no, it's not your body's sudden and alarming decay, although that super sucks, too. And no, it's not the myriad of responsibilities, societal expectations, and lack of nap time, although those all suck, as well. Shit. I don't remember where I was going with this, but I definitely don't want to adult anymore. Can I teenage? That was fun, right? Or maybe tweenage? Yeah. That one. I want to tween. Or twerk. I'm not really clear on the distinction here. Anyway, I was

Today Is The One Year Anniversary Of The Day I Didn't Kill Myself

I love Enya. So, it's little wonder that on Feb. 4, 2015, I planned to slowly drift into a permanent sleep while cuddling my kitties and listening to that Irish goddess's mollifying melodies. Sail away, indeed. To answer your immediate question, yes, I was a tad disappointed that my life's final bow was basically a middle-aged cat lady's wet dream, but my preferred options weren't as workable. Initially, I thought I could be like Beth in Little Women and contract scarlet fever whilst nursing impoverished scamps. But I'm not really an other-people's-kids person. Then I envisioned myself as Juliet, dying

Today's Life Question: Is My Roommate An Asshat Or A Furbaby?

One of the truthiest truths of adulting is that roommates suck. Or at least, mine have. Okay. Well, one of them has. And that one is my husband. He's a gross blob of human-esque parts. He leaves up the toilet seat. He sneezes on me. He picks his toenails. While on my goddamned bed. When I'm in it. But as bad as Chris has been (and it's atrocious, y'all), he apparently isn't the most cringe-inducing bunky ever. I was perusing the website Reddit the other day, and I found this horror story: "My roommate spent Saturday night vomiting on my

Toilet Paper Taught My Niece That Penises Are, Like, So Rachet

I go through toilet paper like a mother fucker. Seriously, you can never use enough. Never, ever. Unless it clogs your toilet. In which case, it's still not excessive, because your husband will totally come do that whole plunger-thingy for you. Apparently four of my 11 niblings agree. Well, except for the plunger part. My husband isn't going to cram their crap down the can. Anyway, my sister, Audrey, called the other day to tell me that her kiddos used 12 rolls of off-brand Charmin in 10 days. Or they used 10 rolls in 12 days. I don't really remember.

Here's Bookin' At You, Kid: A Bi-weekly Bibliophile Bonanza! (Free Therapy Edition)

As most of you have guessed, I'm in therapy. Oh, boy, am I in therapy. On an almost weekly basis, I cower on an unmemorable couch and, after an enormous amount of coaxing, finally agree to let all of my emotion cats out of the metaphorical bag. Then I cry as my wrinkly psychiatrist wrangles those (again, imaginary) feral felines and beats the beast out of them. With an astounding agility for a toad-esque man of about 80, he tackles those critters one at a time and does battle with their (okay, my ) many, many flaws. And somehow, against all

Does 69 Belong In The Bedroom Or The Flea Market?

I love me some pudgy nerd. For real, is there anything in the world hotter than a tubby techie/trekkie? Answer to my question: No. Answer to your question of "Is this bitch joking?": Definitely not. My man is hefty in both body and brain, and it does it for me. That being said, this is not really a post about sex. Instead, it's more about thrifting. If thrifting got sexy. You're intrigued now, aren't you, you perverts? Anyway, earlier this week, when this story starts, my husband (Chris) and I were strolling through a flea market when I found

I Wish Snow Zombies Would Eat Off My Face So I Could Skip My Health Psych Test

I'm super duper pissed, for two reasons. Reason #1: Not one single woodland creature has broken into my apartment to fold and put away my laundry, which is complete bullshit, because Disney promised me that's how adulting would work. Reason #2: Forecasters guaranteed me a blizzard, but it's all sunny up in this bitch (and by bitch, I mean Atlanta.) For real, y'all, when meteorologists across America recently predicted Snowpocalypse for us East Coast-eners, I was maniacally giddy at the thought of being dusted with even one inch of that Yankee cotton. Like, I might have peed and/or drooled