Apparently, Colostomy Bags Do Not Double As Sex Toys...

My husband, Chris, and I are no strangers to kinky sex. After all, we've done the missionary position, and we've done that bit where I'm on top, and (I'm blushing even thinking about typing this next thing...) one time, I let him touch my boobies when we were doing it. We're crazy, y'all. So, you can imagine our absolute shock when we discovered that there are sexual options beyond the aforementioned marvels (missionary, girl-on-top, booby touching.) Truly, are there no limits to the wonders in this world? Apparently not, because it also turns out that if your colon starts being

This Blog Had a Good Run, But Now It's Time To Say Our Goodbyes, Because I'm Headed To Jail...

I wanted to use the few seconds of freedom I have remaining to tell you how much I've appreciated your support and kindness as I attempted to create a blog that would make you smile, make you think, or make you just a little less bored while you were on the toilet with access to only your phone. Indeed, the time has come for me to bid you a fond, fond, fond farewell. So, with a heavy heart, I am saying goodbye. This will ostensibly be my last post, as I am certain the police will arrive momentarily to take

There Are Moments That The Words Don't Reach (And, Yes, I Stole That From The Hamilton Musical, Which You HAVE To Listen To, Because It's BADASS!!)

My husband went to bed hours ago, and I can hear him snoring as I type. I should be in there with him, his bear arms wrapped around me, me playing the (not-so-)little spoon to his big(ger) spoon. But the clock struck midnight hours ago, and I am waiting for the dread to descend. Fourteen years ago, on this day, my eldest sister, Dawn, died. She choked on her own vomit at a house party where she was working as a prostitute. Some cocktail of alcohol and drugs left her unconscious, and when her client noticed that she

10 Reasons the Stargate Series is Better Than Your Stupid Game of Thrones

Whenever my husband needs proof that I love him more than hipsters love the Hamilton musical*, I remind him of our engagement story. We took a lovely stroll through a historic city at sunset, looked lovingly at each other over candle light at a fancy restaurant, and then went home to enjoy some, ahem, romantic adult activities. And then, Chris left. No ring. No proposal. Nothing. All flash, no bang. Well, I mean, there was some bang(ing), but you get my drift. The next night, I was sitting on the sofa in my ratty PJs, slurping leftover spaghetti, and

Let's Pretend This Is A Catchy Title You Can't Resist. But Not A ClickBait Title. We Hates Them, Don't We, Precious?

I just wanted to do my fucking job. And my job required that I sit on this damn passenger bus for several hours to get to some big work thing. So there I was. Me and two guys. And those two guys' assistants. They were pleasant enough, in that they didn't openly pick their noses or grab my ass. Still, something about the larger of the two dudes made me feel... well, pure revulsion. But we had to be on this bus together for HOURS, so I figured I needed to at least be polite. The big dude came right

Welp, I Don't Need My Purrnie Sanders Mug Anymore, And That Is Making All The Cats Weepy...

Today has been a cross between feeling this like this poor sucker of a kid: And this woman's crotch: I've never tried to hide my creepy love for Bernie Sanders, as evidenced in this post about his orgasm-inducing powers, this post about his vibrating namesake, and this post about my efforts to get my husband involved in some political role-playing. So when all of the primary election results started rolling in last night, I said, "Fuck it," and went to bed, because I couldn't face the bad news. I was all like: And then, this morning, I emerged from my

Brock Turner Is A Hairy Sphincter Pimple, And If The World Were Just, He'd Rot In The Dumpster Behind Which He Raped His Victim

The pictured zit above is the most true-to-life image I could find of rapist Brock Turner. And unless you've been living under a rock (is that an option? are there these huge rock mansions available for those wanting to opt out of reality? because people would pay big bucks for that...), then you know that this douche bag sexually assaulted an unconscious woman behind a dumpster, and instead of getting the minimum sentence of three years jail time as punishment, this festering pile of moldy pig excrement was only sentenced to six goddamned months behind bars. I'll repeat this, because

Some Stranger in India Thinks I'm Sexy, And I'm Alarmingly Okay With That

Facebook cock-blocked me. Except that cock-blocking usually refers to one dude preventing another dude from tapping ass... And I'm a chick... And I am pretty certain Facebook identifies as gender queer... And I wasn't trying to tap any one's ass... Okay, so this situation in no way actually meets any of the cock-blocking requirements, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a shitty thing for Facebook to do. Oh? You want to know exactly what Facebook did? Huh. Guess I should get to that, shouldn't I? Long story short(ish), it kept me from receiving the following message: "Hey, i'm from

The #1 Reason I Need A Kid Is...

A few weeks ago, my little sister, Carrie, and I got into a sick text fight. Lest you are confused and mistaking "text fight" for "text battle" (which, obviously, would be like a rap battle, but with awesome rhyming texts), let me clarify right now. It was not a badass virtual versification. It was an actual fight. Like, a mean one. Where the involved parties write to wound. I don't remember exactly how it got started... Okay, that's a lie. I'm a petty bitch, so I obviously recall every detail of my sister's offenses. She and I disagree on a

I Was Too Busy Finding Myself and Eating Chips To Blog. Would YOU Blog If You Could Set the World Record for Chip Eating? Yeah, I Thought Not.

Did you remember that today is our first anniversary? What?!? You didn't?!? Well, now this is awkward. In fact, it's just as uncomfortable as someone returning to her blog after a two month hiatus and launching into a justification as to why she abandoned you. ** Okay, so let's just jump to the part where I left you for eight weeks. I didn't plan on ignoring y'all, but I found myself otherwise occupied on a walkabout. For those not familiar with Aboriginal coming-of-age rituals, a walkabout is one of those quests in which you find yourself and your life's purpose while