If I ever doubt she sprang from my loins…make me reread this unsolicited text conversation, please.
Fellow smartphone users who are unhappy with the size of their asses… There is this awesome app, that I adore, called My Fitness Pal (and, no, they haven’t asked me to advertise for them, but now, they should…well…actually…hang on to that thought for a minute, because, like everything on this blog, it’s about to take a dark turn). Last year, I took off about 16lbs using it. It’s super easy and helps you track all of your activity and food intake. ANYHOOOO…it has been brought to my attention that among the millions of food listings…that this food item is in their vast library of choices.
Who, exactly, is this for? Either A) You are so anorexic, that you’re concerned about the caloric load of a single blow job, or B) You are giving so much head that it’s effecting your diet plan, in which case…I’d like to see an entry for how many calories giving a blow job burns in the first place. I’m guessing you still come out ahead. HA! A…Head. Get it? (sorry, even I hate me right now)
One last thought before I burn in hell…is anyone else concerned that they felt they needed to specify that the sperm was human? Anyone?
Some background… My ex-husband has this funny habit of not paying his child support, and of canceling the kid’s health insurance without telling us. He’s a winner…it’s a wonder we didn’t last.
Tracy: “So what was his response to the email about the kid’s insurance?”
Me: (laughing) “That I wouldn’t care about things like the kids being able to go to a doctor, if I moved on with my life, and it was time that I finally got over him.”
Tracy: “Oh, please. You were over him two years into a nine-year marriage. Can you think of ANYTHING nice about being married to that asshole?”
Me: (long pause) “Well, when we were together, I thought it would be sort of romantic to keep a secret running count of the number of orgasms he gave me.”
Me: “Yeah. After all…how hard is it to count to three?”
(I also deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for not telling him every time he fucks something up…which is all the time.)
To be clear…if you’ve been reading this blog AT ALL, you’ll be just as shocked as I am, that I’ve managed to raise a child with common sense bordering on prudishness, but somehow, THAT happened.
Caolinn: “The only good thing about the locker room in gym, is that now I know who I will and will not be hanging out with.”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
Caolinn: “Oh, you can totally tell who’s going nowhere in life, just by seeing their panties. You’re wearing a hot pink thong with a hashtag on the crotch? Pretty sure you’re not making good decisions. Same for the girls with ‘sexy’ written on the ass. You’re fourteen…who is that for? And those stupid Marvel panties that you and I saw in Target and made fun of? Yeah…I’ve seen them on two different people. Be your own hero, damn it.”
For the record, this is what she’s talking about, where feminism and common sense took a dump in Target’s Junior’s department.