I'm reasonably sure my woo-woo looks like a dead baby bird.

This is another one of those blog posts that tells you waaaaaay too much about myself but that's who I am so I'm rolling with it.

I do not, nor have I ever really, had much occasion to examine the morphology of other women's vaginas.

I've always assumed that theirs resembled mine and that mine resembled theirs and that we all walked around with similarly looking twats and all was right with the world. I even avoided all those pictures of Hollywood stars climbing out of their Porsches and Lambos with a short skirt and no underwear on because I figured 'I've got one too, why do I need to see theirs?'

Well then the curiosity bug jumped up and bit me.

For some reason within the last month I have managed to become self-conscious about it. Mostly because I did lots of investigating when I was trying, in vain mind you, to fish out the extra birth control ring I shoved in it in my Ambien stupor. So with an elaborate set-up of mirrors and flashlights to see if I could see inside it I got the occasion to look at it. Actually look at it.

It looks like a dead baby bird.

No, mine doesn't have a beak or those really superficial veins in it or eyeballs (Wouldn't that be super fun though!) but if you take the time to really consider it and think about it, it has that kind of greyish-pinkish pall that dead baby birds have. Especially once their feathers have started to grow in but haven't completely broken through the skin yet so its just all bumpy but you can still see where the feathers would be when they do finally grow in. (I'm not a natural blonde.)

But wait! This story does have a happy ending. I mean my vagina doesn't sprout wings and fly off somewhere but I am getting to a point here.

Apparently there is this new trend in women's health where women are doing craaaaaaazy things to make their nether regions look prettier for their partners. Here is what I have to say about that.

In my lifetime, my dead-baby-bird vagina's lifetime, no one has ever taken a look at my woo-woo and said 'You know what. I cannot make love to you because your vagina is simply not pretty enough.' And if someone ever did look at my vagina and say that, I'd make them wish that my vagina really was a dead baby bird because I'd go all Velociraptor on their ass. They'd wish for a little pecking and chirping. It is a sad state of affairs when our fellow women feel the need for vaginascaping above and beyond spending the minutes it takes to shave all of the hair off of that thing.

It is a vagina. It is supposed to look like a vagina and damnit you should be proud of it. You should thank God that he had enough good sense to bless you with your sex organs on the inside of your body where they won't get smashed all to bits by anyone with a vendetta against you or because you're a clumsy mother-fucker. I for one am. That's right. My vagina looks like a dead baby-bird and I'm proud of it.

I am preparing for my stint in Hell.

I am probably going to Hell. Who are we kidding? I'll be driving the bus to Hell.

The way I cuss and binge drink socially combined with my inherent belief that some people just deserve to die; I'm a prime candidate to spend eternity amongst the sinners and those doomed to roast ad infinitum. 

But I am starting to wonder if I'm beginning my endurance training for it now. Do you want to know the temperature of my office?

It is currently 80.4 degrees Fahrenheit in my office. Yes, that is right. 80.4 degrees. Everywhere I go it is HOT. At night, my room-mate who has absolutely zero circulation keeps it HOT in our apartment so I sweat, all night long. I wake up and the first thing I do is sigh because I'm suffocating in the heat. The heat of my own house.

The crazy thing is that I like the heat. I like it outside, when the sun is shining, and some kid named Pablo is bringing me a margarita, and I'm baking in the sun like a Thanksgiving turkey. That's the color I aspire to in my tanning - Thanksgiving Turkey. Well not really, but kind of. I do enjoy having a tan. Mostly because it is one of the few things I do well. It combines actually laying around, without pants, and sometimes drinking. Are you kidding? I should have a medal in tanning. I do all of those things superbly well.

Anyways I digress. Must I spend the rest of my dying days suffering everyone else's poor circulation and slow metabolism? Am I doomed to sweat every second of every day for the rest of my poor, pitiful life? Must I throw open a window every 15 minutes and shove as much of myself as I can get out the window to have a respite from the heat? (Which by the way is quite dangerous for me because I'm totally top-heavy and unless someone is holding on to my feet I'm a goner.)

I would think that maybe I'm having a hot-flash except for the fact that IT IS 80 FUCKING DEGREES IN MY OFFICE.

I wonder if anyone would notice if I took off my pants in my office...