Even Albinos have lubrication needs.

I decided I needed to go to Planned Parenthood to get different birth control.

The reason being, my old birth control had left me with spotting- random bleeding because God hates me. On three separate occasions I have left a fucking crime scene after a slutty yet fulfilling hook up. The first time I left a decent sized blood pool on the bed (my bad), the second time there was a smaller blood pool, and the last time there was a fucking abortion of blood everywhere. Whoops. Funny thing is, only the last time was because of the birth control. The first two times it was because it was right before I was supposed to get my period and that little “jabbing” was all I needed to open the flood gates. Should I write these guys thank you notes for the timely piercing of my cervix?

This particular Planned Parenthood is located in the “bad” part of town (“bad” because there are poor people there, and nobody likes poor people) on the corner of a very small strip mall. I had been there once before a few days prior without incident, but today was different. The windows are still all covered up so as to deter any neighoborhood poor people or republicans from looking inside to glare judgingly at the ladies patiently waiting for their routine womb cleansing.  How are we supposed to abort the deaf kids named Hunter that are causing conflicts with gun control policies in pre-schools… if we can’t safely get an abortion?

However, as I walked up on this particular day, the door swings open and I am standing face to face with a large and manly female “security guard”. That’s new. Taken by surprise I step back and consider running the fuck outta there but I’m paralyzed by her butch haircut. She finally breaks up the awkward eye-fuck fest and asks me for identification before letting me in through the door.

ME: “Is everything okay? I was here last week and I don’t remember there being a ‘security guard’ (inside giggle) here asking for i.d.”

BUTCH: “Oh, yeah everything’s fine. This is just something we do to make sure it stays that way. We started doing this about a month ago.”

Now that is bullshit because I think I would remember seeing a rent-a-cop guarding the door as under aged penis cushions walk out with their little brown baggies of birth control and condoms, hanging their heads in shame while assholes wave signs in their faces saying “God hates your vagina! What is a vagina, anyways? B-T-Dubs, can I see your vagina? No seriously, I really want to get laid tonight. Don’t worry, we can abort the unwanted child with the VIP program where you can sneak in the back of the clinic for an extra $400, so we can wrecklessly screw while also maintaining our Pro-Life values.”  Anyway, I decide not to pick a fight with Butch McButch-a-lot today as there are pressing matters at hand. I need to be able to get my fuck on without the fear of babies growing in my mother-hole. I sit down and wait to be called.

MEANWHILE, another bitch is walking up to the door and Butch jumps to her feet to greet this bitch with “can I see some i.d.?” like we’re in some exclusive high class lounge-VIPs only. Well, holy shit.  I should have trusted Butch’s butch instincts. This ain’t no ordinary bitch. This an ALBINO bitch. Wearing grey sweat pants with elastic on the ankles and the legs pushed up cinching her “cegs” (calf legs, where does one end and the other begin? No one knows). Her long flowing white hair pulled up into a rat’s nest of a pony and I’m pretty sure there was an acid wash jean jacket in there somewhere. Planned Parenthood etiquette dictates you do not stare at your fellow jump down/jumpdick, so I cannot recall many of the important details of her physical appearance. For instance, I do not know if she was a true albino (or would it be the feminine “albina”?) with reddish purple eyes. But I digress. The point is, the crazy bitch would NOT stop talking about lube!

She starts asking the receptionist about the security guard and the i.d. requirements, like “when did you start doing this” and “I don’t remember having to do this before”. Basically the same shit I was thinking but kept to myself because I’m not albino and I fucking know better. The receptionist is answering her questions like “we’ve always done this” and “no, we haven’t changed our procedures” et al. But Albina can’t let that shit go and keeps questioning the receptionist like “are you sure?” and accuses her of neo-fascist associations (who knew albinos know about neo-fascism, but whatev). Now, as this whole circle jerk of bullshit is going on in front of me I am sitting there with my eyes down (never make eye contact with albinos, this is just fact) trying hard not to take pictures, laugh until I pee my pants and/or beat the everliving shit out of some bitches. Then… the conversation takes a turn for the worse.

The Albina wants lube with her complimentary bag of condoms. Not just lube, EXTRA lube. But alas, the receptionist explains they are no longer receiving free shipments of lube, therefore they are no longer available as freebies. Oh. Shit. Albina is not having that. How dare we expect her to BUY lube. “Can you contact them and see if they will send another shipment? Or maybe see if another company will send some?” …Albina helpfully suggests. I am fucking speechless. Bitch is asking receptionist to ask various companies for free shipments of lube so she doesn’t have to pay the $5-6 for some lube. But wait, there’s more. Then she goes on and on about her lube preferences. She likes the jelly kind cause it’s not as messy, she likes warming lube because it makes her clit melt, etc. etc… Mind you this whole exchange is being played out in front of a waiting room of at least 5 other people, not a private exam room. It is clear she is quite disheartened about the lack of lube in her gift bag but, when the receptionist tells her there are still condoms in the bag, Albina wants to know if they are the female kind.

Receptionist: “Umm, no… just the regular kind.”

Albina: “Oh.”

This post was inspired by the true stories from four different sources. Thank you for your vulnerability and sacrifice as I serve to educate Amerrrrrica.

We got tom-toms over here bigger than a monsta.

“But I take a left and leave ’em hangin’ like a teste.” – Nicki Minaj, ‘My Chick Bad’ by Ludacris

You knew it was only a matter of time before something threw that special little happy place I was in for a couple of weeks straight into the commode of cynical frustration with the world.  It’s just how things are. It’s nature. It’s science.  So now I blog to you MFer(s). (You’re welcome, K-Money.)

After a little hiatus from workin’ for a living, in order to nurture some lil’ babies (you know, chewing their food and spitting it into their open mouths like a little bird), I’m having to look for a job in a fucking awful job market. Luckily I have semi-decent bazungas. You gotta pay for these titties, aight? Or at least pay my baby-sitter.  The upside to today’s job search was 2 extra hours of being kid-free, leaving me sitting here writing this bullshit, eating a leftover piece of my 4-year-old’s birthday cake, and sipping on a Bud Light “lime” beer, but the kind with less alcohol content because that’s all they sell in grocery stores in the arctic circle, and I was too lazy to go to an actual licka sto. The situation is that sad. Yet I’m strangely happy.

There are two main ways that I effectively deal with anxiety– 1) running, and 2) drinking… well, now that I no longer compulsively eat to drown out the pain…maybe I’ll write about that sometime.  The happy juice was my method of choice for about the first 3 months of 2012… and quite frankly, since July of 2011.  But there comes a time, boys and girls, when you look down at your love-handles and realize they’ve expanded beyond what can legitimately be considered love-handles. When they become too big to hold onto, for instance… they’re not “handles”.  So on March 22, I decided it was time to stop literally pouring cheap wine down my throat every night, and to begin the slow process of purging my body of toxins and rarely used stores of energy (i.e. “fat”). I began eating better, and exercising every single fucking day.

Believe me it was a good choice, and here’s why.  When you run, or do any sort of cardio exercise as far as I’m aware, your brain releases seratonin, a happy little neurotransmitter that makes you feel all squishy and satisfied (low levels of which cause depression). Chocolate does the same thing, but with alternate results to running, I’m afraid. Figure it out.  Your body also begins to release endorphins after 30 minutes, which minimizes your brain registering pain (praise the Lord Jesus!), and give you a feeling of euphoria.  This euphoria… this is a good thing. Sometimes situations in life leave me feeling so shitty and out of sync with the universe that running is the only thing I can do to make things right in my head.

Now, mama can’t rightly attempt this daily feat on her own, no sir. Mama needs some purty lil’ children to serenade me down the path toward what Sugardaddy and I jokingly call “beach-ready hard body”.  These sweet sweet voices… they go by the names of Nicki Minaj, Ludacris, Nirvana, Metric, Jay-Z, and Filter.  Some songs offer up a good tempo, other songs are energetic, but these speak truth right when you need it. And running is very much a mental game. If you’re thinking thoughts like “I can’t do this anymore”, you literally will not be able to do it anymore. If you imagine little lego guys rebuilding the muscles in your legs, and visualize your lungs opening wider so you can get that oxygen you feel short on, that shit’s gonna happen.  The songs below speak truth or power that put the right things in my head, all at just the right time, like sweet little angels in my ears.  And I find that running isn’t too different from life in general. The mental approach you take can greatly influence your actions and the way you perceive reality. Make sure your self-fulfilling prophecy is a good one, friend.

So I offer these up to you as a gift, with the hope that you will also experience this euphoria. It’s just good shit.  And somehow, after the two-hour long hard cry I had at the shock and horror I felt when I found out I needed to go get a job, I was able to promptly get on with it. Somehow, through running, I think I’ve managed to reverse some of the self-inflicted brain damage that may have occurred during my binge-drinking months as I was coping with my little baby’s close blows with death and the resulting halt of my career.

Here is my homage to the wind beneath my feet. You can go to the full playlist and listen to the songs HERE if you’d like. You’ll find more than what’s described below. What are the songs that help you live life better?

Did it on ’em by Nick Minaj. This song is probably what I’d consider my theme song for motivation, and gives me a sense of power over anything that gets in my way.

Notable lyric: “If I had a dick, I would pull it out and piss on ’em. Let let let let let let let let let let me shake it off.”

Hustle Rose by Metric. Emily Haines soft sweet voice will calm you during the moments that you need to calm your breathing and focus, slowing your pace to recover a little. But this beautiful song slowly progresses to get you back into a strong and steady place. The shift into awesomeness happens at 3:25, and you’ll be well on your way to another strong tempo.

Notable lyric: “If you’re looking for something life-like in this sardine nightclub… If every surface you touch is cold, never go home… You could throw me a bone, if I get too close you wake me up, remind me…”

Dirt Off Your Shoulder by Jay-Z. It’s easy to just get down on yourself when you’re running. There are too many times when you feel tired, weak, sore. You have to mentally push past that. And Jay-Z will help you with that, crackas. He’s like the coach telling you to keep going when you want to stop.

Notable lyric: “If you feelin’ like a pimp n***as, go’n brush your shoulders off. Ladies is pimp too, go’n brush your shoulders off… You gotta get that dirt off your shoulder.”

You Know You’re Right by Nirvana. This is another good song to get you to refocus at its beginning, especially if you’re at a really tough part of the run, and then Kurt Cobain starts pleading with you in his raspy voice to remember that you’re okay, because it sounds like he’s saying “you know you’re alright“. And I need that reminder. Thank you, Kurt.

My Chick Bad by Ludacris feat. Nicki Minaj.  Ludacris is one of my favorites. In this song, he’ll tell you how great you are, and how he wants to buy you Louis Viutton shoes and stuff.  Sometimes a girl just needs to hear how great she is.

Notable lyric: “My chick do stuff that your chick wish she could… Trash talk to ’em, then I put ’em in a hefty.”

My Chick Bad Remix (“Pussy Rules the World version) by Ludacris feat. Diamond, Trina, Eve. Again, this song just tells me how amazing I am as I embarassingly chug down the street.

Notable lyric: “I got swagga on the hund-ed, thousand, trillion… Now that’s what I’m all about, I’m the baddest… Still the Eve of Destruction, still pushing buttons that’ll do away the roof… So put your diamond rings on and get yourself a hustla.”

“Black men tell me my penis is huge”, and other half-truths.

As if I haven’t already publicly humiliated myself 100 times over with this stupid blog, I’ve decided to start a sex page called Big Touch. You can get to it through the top menu, too.

Maybe it is birthed out of a time a few weeks ago when I was eating juicy lucies at Matt’s Bar where my girlfriend was telling me she’s had jaw issues ever since she had braces as a kid, and then I told her that must be rough since I’m sure her husband has a really huge dick, and I’m sure she gives him head like ALL the time.  Or maybe it originates with my friend asking me why drinking a lot of wine makes it hard for her to cum during sex with her husband who has a penis that is on the shorter side, but of great girth (baby ain’t nothin’ wrong with that).  Or maybe it is because that vibrator I bought 2 months ago is actually for men, but I didn’t know because it didn’t say that on the package, and the very helpful ladies at Smitten Kitten must not realize that my husband doesn’t want me sticking vibrating shit in his ass. Nor do I want to stick shit (vibrating or no) in my husband’s ass.

I will say this… I am really fucking clueless. Not about how to have sex, but about sex culture. I was reading a column at Sexis the other day, where The Bloggess writes things that make my brain explode, and one of the other columnists, The Devil’s Advocate, was writing about the overuse of the word “misogyny” within the sex positive culture, and it occurred to me that I don’t even know what that shit is. I had to google “sex positive.” Oh, so it’s a whole movement– got it.  I’ve been a self-described feminist (and a self-appointed Ruler over Everything) for years, but I really gotta get with the program.  This is what happens when you study socio-economics and global urban poverty for ten years– you ignore the important things in life. Like my vagina.  And how can I effectively rule over everyone’s life when I don’t even know what the fuck is going on?

All food should have bourbon in it.

I’m starting an entire page of food with bourbon in it. I’ll add to it as time goes on, and as bourbon slowly begins to infiltrate its way into all foods, making for happier, warmer people all over the world.

For now, there is one item on the list. And it needs to get in my mouth. But I’m too lazy to make it, so I’m going to go workout, and when I get back, there better be some fresh beignets waiting for me on my kitchen table. Please don’t make me resort to child labor. Because I’ll do it.

Bourbon item #1… Beignets in bourboned butterscotch.

Boob-slapping (for my sister, of course)

I’d like to start out this glorious day in the frozen tundra by sharing this post. Just a little product-pushing, specifically for my little sister.  That little toast we made to 2012 on New Years Eve Eve is sure to come true with a little “pummeling”.  Read on, my love…