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 in a pickle.

Normally I bumble through my life and somehow, maybe by the Grace of God, I manage to pretty much make it through unscathed. Then there are moments like now and the predicament I am currently in.

I've pretty much quit sleeping. That's really not that germane to this story except I need you to know why I am often in a drug induced stupor. Because I cannot sleep and also it's kind of fun.

Ambien is one Hell of a drug. It works. Very well. And I had the conversation with my doctor where I asked her if I would wake up in the morning with a Baby-Ruth stuck in my hair because I'd been sleep-eating and she says 'Nooooo. That's really rare.' She did not warn me however that once you take the Ambien you had better be where you plan on staying for a couple of hours because it is almost instantaneous stupor.

You need to take all of this into consideration right about now because I'm getting ready to tell you about the pickle I'm in.

I am on a steady birth control regimen (No, I'm not preggers. Thaaaaaaaat would be way more than just a pickle of a predicament.) and I would like to take this moment to thank the folks at Merck for coming up with this brilliant form of birth control where I don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, the NuvaRing. I'm not sure why I continue to take said birth control because my poor uterus isn't seeing much action these days but one can never be too careful so hence I am on said birth control. The convenience of not having to take a pill everyday is somewhat offset by the fact that when it is time to remove said device from your vaginal cavity you have to reach up there and get it. No big deal.

Except when you've put two in. And the second one has squished the first waaaaaaaaaaaaay up there and your fingers are just too damn short, no matter how far you can get your legs behind your head. All this because you decided to take your Ambien before you put your first ring in and then woke up the next morning and panicked that you forgot and went ahead and stuck the second one in. Fast forward an hour or so and you start to kind of have remembrances of maybe putting one in the night before but you aren't sure because you were in a daze from the Ambien and the only choice left to you is to go on a spelunking mission looking for one, or both, of them.

I'm no medical expert but I'm reasonably sure that they only want you to wear one ring at a time. (Is it considered 'wearing' when it's not on the outside of your person?) I'll probably actually have a stroke in the next couple of days unless I manage to get this thing out. And I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to get this done. This is just simply not one of those favors you can call in to your best friend(s).

'Hi Bestie! How's it going?'

'Good, how are you?'

'I'm in a pickle and I need your help with something.' (Notice how I don't say what it is. That would be favor suicide.)

'Sure thing. What is it?'

'Weeeeeeeeeeeell I might need you to stick your fingers in my vagina and fetch my NuvaRing.'

'----  uh. ---- Hmmmm. ---- ---- ---- You know Anna, I really gotta go. I have to go ---- do ---- things. But Good Luck!'

Maybe I should have just asked for a crochet hook instead.

This is why I need a boyfriend.

I'm sexual and It's awesome.

I was reading this article* at jezebel.com about this girl who is 'asexual' and about how awesome it is and how she has all these great intimate relationships and how they're so awesome and then I saw a link on the side-bar about a dubstep cat and I immediately lost all interest I had in hearing said girl's tale of woe about not being respected as an 'asexual.' For serious, dubstep cat is the greatest thing ever btw. Check him out: DUB-STEP! Cat yo!.

For some reason this seems to be a hot topic lately, it even made it to an episode of House which I consider to be the epitome of the medical frontier. Asexuality, not dubstep. Although dubstep does seem to be quite popular these days...

Look, I don't care if you're asexual. Exactly like I don't care if you're heterosexual or homosexual or trisexual or whatever-sexual you want to be just as long as you shut the hell up and quit bitching about it. You, as an asexual, cannot even bitch about not being able to get married because you're aromantic and don't want to be married so exactly what are you complaining about?

Oh, you're complaining because people ask you if you have 'someone special' in your life? You're whining because people actually care enough about you to inquire as to your happiness? Aaaaand they're nice enough to not assign a gender to it. Should we just look at you from now and say: 'Gee Connie are you non-suidicidal today?' Count your lucky stars that you're mother doesn't take you down the kitchen accessories aisle in every store and gesture no-so-surreptitiously to the turkey basters and wink at you because even she now assumes you've got no chance in hell of scoring a significant other. According to you, you have a significant other. According to you, it's awesome being asexual. Why do you feel the need to write about it and prove it to people?

(I'm going to leave out my theories on your gender identity issues since you abbreviate your name to initials only. Not there is an issue with that. Own it, I say. Say it loud: I'm confused and I may be proud?!)

You've got a vagina, might as well use it right? Never mind that whole biological imperative business where we as human being, nay animals, have a biological imperative to procreate. Hell, even the plants have sex. It's the burden of being a higher order organism. Let us all shake our fists angrily at evolution and its need to introduce genetic diversity through this clever mechanism!

I think your general displeasure with the societal acceptance of being 'Ace', which is about the lamest pseudonym I've ever heard in my life by the way, is your general displeasure with life. Okay, you're best friends forever with a couple of people and you don't bone. You know what? The next time I get the urge to have sex, I'll think about you and feel sorry for you that you can't appreciate the richness that sexual activity lends to a relationship.

Congratulations on being asexual and owning it and willing to advocate for it.

I'm sexual and it's way awesomer than you remember. 

*Here is the article if you want to read it for yourself. If you can get through this entire article without being distracted by dubstep cat you're clearly a psychopath.

I hate movies that make you cry and how this relates to my ex-boyfrands.

I have had it.

I have had it with movies that make you cry.

Lord help, I do realize that I've got a pretty super case of PMS and that I'll shart blood out of my vag soon and thus aaaaaall of my emotions are all willy-nilly over everything but good people that still read my blog even though I totally said I was going to start posting more and here it is halfway through the month and I've written what 2 posts so apparently I really do still suck at life, oh sorry about that.

Avoid My Sister's Keeper.

I imagine the book would make you cry as well. Good God I sobbed like a child through the whole thing and I even stopped it in the middle and took a 6 hour break in hopes that it would dull the histrionics. Yea, not so much.

It started out with what seemed like an interesting legal posit and WHAM uncontrollable sobbing.

I haven't cried this hard at a movie since I Am Legend or The Notebook.

Yes, I realize you're now currently wondering why I cried at I Am Legend and I'll tell you why. That is a sad fucking movie. The dog gets bitten and turns into a zombie. I was doing pretty good until ol' dude aka The Fresh Prince starts screaming 'Sam! Sam! Sam! Samantha.' And when I realized that the dog was a girl I lost my shit and embarrassed the shit out of my bff who was sitting beside me and hissed:

'ARE YOU CRYING AT A FUCKING ZOMBIE MOVIE? YOU KNOW THIS ISN'T REAL LIFE, RIGHT? YOU KNOW WE ARE IN PUBLIC, RIGHT?'

To which I muttered incoherently: 'Yeah, but the dog was a girl.'

To which he said: 'What? You don't cry when boy dogs die?'

I then said: 'Yes. I cried when Old Yeller died.'

So if the Confederate Railroad* song rings true, then dozens of past boyfriends should have cried when I left but I'm not really sure that they did.

They may have cheered. I don't stop to poll them.

*If you're not familiar with this piece of Southern Americana here's a link to a you-tube video of a fairly patriotic trio singing the song I'm referring to.

And yes, I'm aware that I just admitted to knowing a Confederate Railroad song. For what it is worth I have like 3 black friends. So there.

Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

*<i>This is like the 9th re-try of this post. I kept screwing up the formatting. Sorry bout that.</i>

Because I cannot fetch a proper relationship I've been attending this weight lifting class. Actually I've been attending this weight-lifting class to tone and firm my body but I'm doing that for the aforementioned reason so there you go.

Please see my last post on whether or not I need/want a relationship. It's not that I really want one, I just feel that I need one. Mostly because I wake up in the mornings and find my uterus doing a jig at the end of my bed sticking its tongue out at me with its thumbs in its ears and proving yet again that I still suck at life. SCORE! Before you ask, yes I do find it odd that my uterus has ears. I don't know either.

And I feel that if I am indeed going to be reproductively successful I'd like to have a partner to do that with because we, as humans, have the reproductive strategy that benefits from the pairing of two individuals in order to raise a tiny human. And someone else is going to have to change the tiny human when it poops because I am not doing that. I am currently accepting applications for 'Tiny Human Collector of Poo.'

So I've decided once again that I'm single because I'm fat and not because I'm fucked up as a football bat. I do so enjoy making these decisions.

Except damn ya'll, I'm getting kind of HAWT. I hate to brag but damn. The waist keeps getting smaller and while as yet the bust is shrinking it looks bigger because my waist is smaller and my ass is just getting higher and tighter. God I look like Gena Lollobrigida (I have no clue how to spell this). Doesn't that suck? MWA HA HAA, Right, yes it does actually because I look like that in this, the 21st century. You menfolk think I'm fat.

Frack the lot of you.

Anyways. SO I'm doing this weight lifting class. And for our chest we do these flys with free weights and then about 9 million push-ups. And in the midst of doing these 9-million push-ups I glance into to the mirror and guess who I see in said mirror on the stair master staring into said room?

Oh that would be Sex-on-Skates.

Maybe you do not have awesome breasts. I do. Maybe you can do multiple push-ups. I cannot. I can do a bajillion flys and and a bajillion bench presses but apparently if I was dying and had to support my upper body weight with my T-Rex arms I'd die in about a minute and a half. Mebbe just a minute. They're awesome, my breasts, but it sucks trying to move them. I mean I can do it. I amm hardcore. I just cannot do it often right now. Because I'm a girl. And I have T-Rex arms. And breasts.

So anyways that is my opinion on why breasts are not conducive to push-ups and I don't think that I should have to do them. Not that I do a lot of them to begin with but still.

I'll leave you with this lasting thought: You know those uber-hard-core muscle bound women on those fitness shows that can do one-handed push-ups and all the other assorted sundry push-up type things? Do they have attractive breasts? Do they even have breasts at all?

Ooh! I just thought of something else! Chickens! Chickens have significant breasts, because they're genetically modified but still, and they cannot do push-ups either!

There you go. Conclusive proof that if you have breasts, you cannot do push-ups.

And yet, I still continue to suck at life.

So you, blogger-nation, don't know this but the thing-of-which-I-must-not-speak fizzled into nothingness as he broke up with me before we even started dating. TRUTH.

Why, he did this I'm not sure because what I had said was 'Let me know. We'll stay in and watch a movie.'

I'm sorry and it may be because I'm old but I seriously thought staying in watching a movie was in 'Single' vernacular code for: Let's fuck because I'm afraid of commitment and do not want to go out into the public where people may see me. Apparently he thought differently. I'm not sure why?

So I've been brave. I've been resuming my normal schedule, which right now is not my normal schedule because I'm dealing with my mother's gaping, open wound twice a day and freaking because she's halfway running a fever and I'm scared to death she's going to DIE because that is how my life works. She'd be fine and then I'd trot my happy ass over there one AM to change her bandage and she'd be dead. Because I SUCK AT LIFE AND TO PROVE IT THEY'D KILL OFF MY MOM. Oh God I'm a mess.

So anyways, fast forward to this evening and the complication of tripe that is my emotional status right now and I make the ever prudent decision to invite the one person I know would go out to have a drink with me because I self-medicate like any adult person. Guess who shows up at the bar? The obtuse bar out of the way? OH IF YOU GUESSED COACHY TYPE PERSON AWARD YOURSELF 40-MILLION BONUS POINTS. I had even forgotten about him because I'd chatted up this HAWT undergraduate who had majored in Philosophy and thankfully I remembered some shit about teleological ontology. Seriously that is all I remembered. The actual phrase. I have no clue what it means. But he was interested in me because he waved at me when he left. I'm having roomie FB stalk him tomorrow. Roomie doesn't know this yet because he's in bed but he's graduating soon and he's majoring in philosophy and he is a total fucking hipster which I totally hate but he's suuuuuper cute and told me I wasn't old when I told him my real age. Plus he was this total ugly fat girl. I can say that because she was plumper than I and guess what ya'll? I apparently am hot bitch status. BOO-YAH. So Roomie: (The rest of ya'll ignore this part) He's at our alma mater, you know which expensive southern private school that is, and he's majoring in philosophy and Dr. Lewis is his major advisor, brunette, about 5'11, glasses, HAWT, probably interested in shit that Dr. Lewis would be interested in besides flax seed oil and silver plated things. So now that we're done with that we can continue our conversation about COACHY TYPE PERSON AND HIS OBVIOUS LACK OF TASTE.

It is one thing for him to show up at the bar that I frequent that is ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY HOUSE on the one night THAT I TOLD HIM WE GO THERE. It is another thing entirely for him to show up at the random bar out of the way on a Saturday night and then RUN THE FUCK OUT THE DOOR FOR HIS FRIENDS TO SETTLE HIS TAB. And maybe he's not cut up over me, that is completely possible. Then maybe if he wasn't he would have a sac and walk over to me and be like 'Hey Anna, how's it going?' like I did last week after the whole 'Hey I'm not looking for a relationship debacle?' And he was all like 'Why wouldn't we be cool?' That really is an admirable quality about you menfolk. You forget shit in 0.48 seconds. Oh I sent you a text message breaking up with you before we even went out, why in the world would we not be cool? I'll stand here awkwardly and stare longingly at your tits and kick myself and then proclaim 'WHY WOULDN'T WE BE COOL?' After I've approached and asked 'Hey, are we cool?'

Clearly he has not met me. I invented 'Hit it and quit it.' Seriously that new song 'Toot it and boot it.' I get royalties from that. If I wanted a real relationship I'd have one, why? BECAUSE I'm too damn stubborn to not have what I want. Yes, I bitch and moan about being single but you should all thank THE LORD ABOVE I am still single otherwise this blog would be much less funneh and much more 'OH GOD I AM GOING TO WITHER AWAY AND DIE!' because I'm in a an actual relationship. My favorite relationships are the one's I don't know I'm in until I'm preggers.

Oh damn, that's right. I'VE NEVER HAD ONE OF THOSE.

The point of this post being this: GO THE FUCK ON AND STAY AWAY FROM MY BARS. WE HAD A CONVERSATION ABOUT THIS AND YOU ARE CLEARLY AS FUCKED UP AS I AM SO WHY ARE WE DOING THIS? I don't go to your bar. LEAVE MY BARS ALONE.

UGH. OR AT LEAST GROW A SAC AND SAY HELLO. You're talking to a bitch in a romper.

I'M NOT INTIMATED BY THAT. MY RACK IS STILL BETTER THAN HERS AND WE KNOW THAT BECAUSE YOU VERY OBVIOUSLY RAN THE FUCK AWAY.

BOO-YAH BITCHES.

Except you don't really care do you? GOD MUST I STILL SUCK AT LIFE.

Mebbe I'll die soon.

Hope is just another four-letter word.

If you tried to access this blog about a minute ago and found a blog entry titled 'HO' please feel free to make the appropriate jokes, my wireless keyboard quit synching and fate obviously intervened.

You know, I've figured out my problem, the source of my crazy. I'm hopelessly hopeful.

Seriously, it's kind of stupid the amount of hope that I carry around in my heart that everything is going to be okay and that things are going work out and people will be better and blah blah blah. No matter how damn cynical I am and how realistic I try to be, force myself to be, there is always the small Anna cheering for me, or you, or whomever in the back of my head.

Sports games, I'll watch until the end because the team may come back from the blowout. Funerals creep me out because I actually then have to admit that so-and-so is actually dead and didn't recover. When my relationships end (excepting a few) I always have this feeling that said person may realize the atrocities they've committed and come running back to me. They never do and I'm enormously grateful. Eventually.

Well except for that one that kept running back and we were just too damn caught up to realize we should have left well enough alone, which he finally realized and everyone is eternally grateful. And that first relationship I was in for four and a half years which was four and a half years too damn long. That one I wasn't hopeful about; the only hopeful thing about that was that I wouldn't end up with some long-lasting venereal disease. Praise the Lord and say amen we (The woo-woo and I) were clean. Also there was that other relationship with he who-must-not-be-named where the only hopeful feelings I had toward that was that I would maintain my sane stance that it is still illegal to maim people in the great state of North Carolina. Aaaaaand that other one, I was just hopeful that he would one day forgive me for being a total asshat. Okay, so maybe it's just the relationships that I don't end that I retain hope for. Go figure.

I mean I get over that whole hopefulness in the ones where I keep it pretty quick because raging bitch stabbing warrior-princess takes over pretty quickly. Things usually get better from there.

So in lieu of anything else, I'm remaining hopeful. A little self delusion and humiliation never hurt anyone and it sure as hell isn't like I haven't lived through it before. Props to that bitches.

I have got to get a hobby.

So there is some pretty tragic shit going on in my life right now and I've pretty much bought the farm and gone cray-cray. There is the thing of which I cannot speak, my mom's upcoming kidney-ectomy and last night my gramma ran away from the assisted living place where she habitates. (No I do not care right now that habitates is not a word. It's where she be livin' these days. )

Bear with me while I'm crazy. I know it's a somewhat pain in the ass for everyone involved because unfortunately I go bananas and drag everything down into the quagmire of crazy with me. Most people go lovingly and some try and fight back but eventually we're all sitting around at the bottom of the crazy pit watching me smear mud over my body and lick psychedelic frogs. Good times ensue.

Anyways I found this article on Jezebel about what to do if you have a huge crush on someone. Here. and seeing as how I can only control one of the three crazy things in my life right now I figured I'd follow the directions and give it a shot. How bad can it be?


Step 1 directs the reader to stay away from Facebook. Check and done. We aren't facebook friends for this exact purpose. Plus I'm not sure of the rules on adding people on the facebook. Hence I don't 'add' people, they add me and I'm not sure he knows my last name because I didn't tell him. The only reason why I know his last name is, well I'm not telling how I know his last name. That's kind of creepy.

For step 2 you need to figure out your crush's day of birth which I've done. Then you're supposed to head over to this website to figure out your astrological compatibility. Don't do this! For some reason this website loads those repetitive porn windows that never close. Which I'm sure the ITS people will appreciate when they're reviewing my internet business. It will be like that time I was trying to buy a swim-cap at Dick's Sporting Goods and figured the website for this store would be dicks.com. Just a heads up, it's not.

Step 3, go to a different, more innocuous astrological site and see what they say. What they say is that we're doomed. Or more correctly: 'Both can be tortured souls in their own ways, and may need to channel their agony into a creative outlet. Without this, they can become depressed and self-destructive.' Oh joy.


Here are the next steps: 4. Email/IM a friend and ask what she thinks. 5. If your friend is not convinced you and your crush are soulmates, get annoyed with friend and email or IM a different friend. That's what we're doing here, in case you weren't aware. I'll only respond to comments in which you tell me whether or not you'll be able to attend the wedding. It will probably be themed.

Next I'm supposed to plug these dates of importance into a biorhythm reader. First of all it took me a minute to figure this out and I spent an entire semester studying the actual science of biorhythms and this whole website is probably a load of crap but the point is that the graphs seem okay so we're gonna go with it. Here they are:

We's compatible yo.

The line in the middle is where we're going for the graph peaks. Apparently we're super compatible emotionally and not so much physically but I still maintain that we were drunk and drunk people shouldn't have sex. It NEVER works well. Once I've got these graphs I'm supposed to email them to people, which I'm doing here. Again.


Step 8 involves staring at a picture of my crush and admiring their qualities. Which I'm not doing because that is creepy. I know what he looks like and if I do look at his picture it's only for a minute or two at a time because that is less creepy than continual staring. Right?

Step 9 involves imagining the perfect conversation: 'Your crush says something terribly clever. You're quick with a witty rejoinder that is both insightful and hilarious and makes your crush laugh, a deep, full laugh. But then your crush looks at you with a mixture of admiration and intrigue and says, "You're amazing, you know that? You have made me revaluate everything about my life."' I've already done half of this. I'm good with that whole 'witty rejoinder part that is both insightful and hilarious and makes him laugh a deep, full laugh.' We're still working on that whole 'You're amazing Anna, you know that?' part. It's coming, I just need to work harder. sigh.

10. Promise yourself you will stop obsessing.

I'm still working on that last step. It's not that I don't have enough to worry about it's just that I need something I can do something about.

Someone come and hide my phone from me. Every time I get a text message these days my stomach drops and I hope it's this person and it's usually not and then I give up and then wham it is and the whole process starts all over again. Jeezy Creezy I need a tranquilizer.

Who's got baby fever?

Now before you jump to conclusions I need you to do one thing.

Sing 'Who's got baby fever?' to that punchy latin conga line beat and repeat it several times whilst shaking your bum and doing the conga arms.

Okay now that you've done that we can move on. You can go ahead jump to your conclusion and assume that it's me. But you'd be wrong. For the first time in a long time I don't want babies. At least not now. At some point in the nebulous future I'd be willing to entertain the notion of squirting a child out, maybe even more than one. I mean I don't want a litter or anything, just a nice smattering of offspring.

I think what I'd really like is to open the door to my apartment one day and find a baby in the hall. It'd be super convenient if Sex-on-Skates could find it at the same time. Then we'd have an equal obligation to spend the rest our so-attractive-it's-painful lives together raising said child. At this point I think that's the best bet I've got, well at least until peach season and then we can repeat the sex-pie.

It seems that every female I know and love and cherish is hankering to have a child right now. Someone buy me a cabbage patch doll. That can be my baby. While all of my girlfriends are preggers and oohing and cooing over baby stuff, and after I've bought them all duck-themed things, my baby can be hatching at the cabbage patch. Wherever that is. There's a Toys-R-Us down the street. That works right? Hey, it may not be real, it may not be alive but damnit I cannot be left out in the cold so that my nuturing, maternal instinct can wither up and die. At least I'll have something to mother.

That and I can totally tote it to the bar with me.

The day after the meltdown

Today is the day after the earth stood still. Or at least it is for me. I have no doubt that the world kept spinning for everyone else yesterday and to be honest my world kept spinning too, I just watched objectively from an anger filled stupor.

Today, I'm a mess. A for real mess. Seriously it's one of the advantages of having a vagina. The amount of fluid a woman in pain can squeeze between her eyeballs could arm a flotilla. Seriously I have not cried this much in a long time and I feel like a bitch. Not a thug bitch but one of those puss-box bitches that cannot buck-up and defend herself in a fight. Even though we all know that isn't the case. I'm a tough bitch. Even if I do sob inordinant amounts. Sobbing is not indicative of a lack of toughness, in case you were wondering.

Today the anger is gone. Today the hurt and disappointment have settled in. I was really excited about seeing England. Shit I was excited about seeing whats-his-face. I cancelled my ticket today.

The thing I'm confused about is this. Why in the hell was I not important enough for him to say to her 'Hey, look. I've met someone and we've really hit it off so we're going to have to be friends.' Ugh. We all know why. She is there and I am here and he is there and I am not; that is why. It's not fair but it is what it is; it's still stupid. And it still is asinine and obnoxious. And it still hurts my freaking feelings. Even though I'm practically 30 years old and I've spent the afternoon crying like a bitch. Which makes the supposition that I suck at life all the more obvious.

Plus I feel a liiiiiiittle bad for eviscerating him on the interwebs. I mean he is an asshole and all and deserves what he gets but still, I just feel a little guilty is all I'm saying. I'm sure by tomorrow I'll be angry again and I'll have regretted feeling bad. I guess all I really want is an explanation. And a time-line. And the truth.

Hopefully I'll get over all this business soon and get back to being my normal catty, bitchy self and you won't be subjected to my emotional rants. I just need to get it out and it makes me feel better to get it out and this is the media in which I do it. So you're subjected to it and I look like a whiny bitch.

Shrug. Oh well, if the shoe fits.

The Most Awkward Hook-Up Ever

I thought I'd continue in the 'ex-boyfriend' drama collection for this post. Although this story isn't about an ex-boyfriend. He's more of an ex-hook-up-partner, if that makes sense.

A few summers ago, I forget how many, I ran into this guy who I developed a liking for and we established something. I wouldn't call it a relationship because it wasn't and I wouldn't call it anything else either because it was really nebulous and somewhat unidentifiable. It was tenuous at best and downright uncomfortable at it's worst. We had this great chemistry we were just uncompatible sexually. Completely uncompatible. We just couldn't jive to the same beat.

Over the course of that summer we'd randomly get together and try to get the deed done, it just would never work out for one reason or another. We'd both end up a bit miffed and really confused at the end of an evening together and finally out of sheer frustration we kind of gave one another the proverbial finger and moved on. Fast forward to the following summer.

We both happened to frequent the same bar so we'd see each other randomly and after some time we began to be nice to each other again and it's really just a slippery slope from there. Nice leads to flirting and flirting leads to sexual mores which lead to inuendo and then an outright declaration of 'Let's do dirty things to one another.'

Off we trot to do said dirty things to each other. We're excited. Apparently we'd forgotten our past troubles or if we hadn't forgotten maybe our time apart had strengthened our resolve to get it done. My mind works like that. I will make sure the deed gets done out of sheer willpower. (Any deed, not just boning semi-friends from the bar.) If you want to guarantee I do something just let me fail at it a few times. At this point I was ready to take a literal leap of faith to get it done. If you catch my drift.

In the front door we walk. I open a piece of mail, toss it on the dining room table and we proceed to my bedroom. We didn't bother cutting on the lights, we just get started. We're making out and getting hot and heavy and peeling off clothes and things are moving smoothly. I remove the last stitch of clothes I have on.

I am completely naked when my friend says 'Oh God.' Followed quickly by 'I have to wash my hands.' He runs to the bathroom. I sit up in my bed lounging on my elbows and I say 'Okay,' quizzically. While in the bathroom he then says 'Oh shit! It's 1 AM! I have to go.' I say 'Okay,' quizzically. He runs out of the bathroom, out of my bedroom and down the hall and out the front door. I say 'Okay,' quizzically.

I roll over to get up to go lock the door and what do I roll over into? A wet spot. Yes. Dude jizzed on my bed and ran away. Did you get that? Dude jizzed on my bed and ran the fuck away.

By this point my paradigm has shifted. I honestly felt it move. I was so freaking clueless as to what just happened I couldn't even process. So I just texted him and apologized for it being so late to which he responded by telling me good night. You really have to respect a person for that. Being able to be polite when you've prematurely ejaculated cannot be easy. Rather than be pissed about the whole situation I just took it as a compliment. It's not every day you cause an eruption just by getting naked.

What it did do was gave me even more drive to get the deed done, which we still haven't accomplished, but I'm willing to accept that this may be one of those situations beyond my control. I personally cannot help that I'm a freaking hot bitch and I shouldn't hold it against other people. But it did kind of disappoint me for at least 6 months afterwards when other men didn't immediately lose it when they saw me naked. That was kind of a buzz kill.

No one wants to be the lone tampon in the jar.

Ya'll. Shit is getting real up in this biatch.

You remember when Captain Cynical was mortally wounded and came back from the brink of death to recover her cynicism and reclaim her bitch card?

Well, she may have been dealt the death blow today. We all know she's not getting any younger and she spends the majority of her time in whiny uterus mode so it's only natural that she looks forward to building something with someone. You remember how she's flying across an ocean to have relations? Well yeah, that's actually going to happen. Lord help us all if it doesn't. Lord help us all if it does. Europe will never be the same. We're just waiting on the federal government to quit cock-blocking and on global warming to kick in in England and we're there. Say you what you will but I'm still not willing to freeze my nads off for anyone. Not that I have an actual set of nads but if I did I'd wait until it was warm. Because I'm a wimp. Hopefully he can deal with that. Hopefully he isn't reading this and if he is...I'm totally talking about Prince Harry. I'm gonna be his date to the royal nuptials. Miss you! Mean it! Hugs and kisses! Hide the whiskey and cookies, company's coming over!

Anywho, this bar that I go to always leaves tampons in a jar in the girls bathroom and I always feel sorry for the lone tampon left. It always seems so sad to me. Because at home, any sane woman buys tampons when she's down to her last three; you never really have one lone tampon unless it's in your desk drawer but it's cold and dark in there and that tampon probably deserved that punishment. The point being is that people are like tampons; no one wants to be the odd man out when everyone else has found a warm, dank place to hide for a few hours.

My ex boyfriend 'Joel'

Lately I've found myself slipping into whiny uterus mode and in fear of being flogged by my best friend and roomate I find that it's easiest to combat this trauma with tragic stories of exes, in efforts to slay my thirst for babies and companionship.

Today I thought I'd share about 'Joel.' His name isn't really 'Joel' but that's the name I've picked and we're running with that.

I've always found Joel to be super cute even though he's not the normal blond hair, blue eyed, hunk of man I normally go for. He's waaaaay to skinny. And brunette. And has facial hair. And wears his hair long. Only one man can get away with that and he dresses as a pirate. Yum Johnny Depp! But every time I ever saw him, Joel, and even when I run into him now, I have to catch my breath. Something about him I find super physically attractive! And then he opens his mouth. (Then again I wasn't really in it for the titillating conversation. He was dragging me out of a shit relationship into a fun and fancy free existence of perpetual singlehood for which I'll be forever grateful.)

Nevermind that on our first real date he showed up in his duck hunting camo (I'm surprised he took off the waders.) and essentially proposed to me in the middle of a mexican restaurant, I still gave him a shot. (I've never been an ace at good judgment.) Joel, the sweetheart that he was, was in kind of a rough spot too. He wanted that 'picket fence idyllic life' and I wanted to shotgun whisky shots until I forgot about my most recent foray into romantic partnership or blacked out into oblivion, whichever came first. We should have been ships that passed in the night, but we gave it the college try.

I almost killed Joel one night. I wasn't drunk, high, discombobulated, unhinged, crazy with rage. I was completely and totally with it. Had I gone through with it, it would have been pre-meditated. I would have done serious time in the slammer.

You see, my dear, dear Joel snored like a banshee. Omg you can never grasp the magnitude with which his deviated septum interrupted my sleep schedule. I struggle to find words to describe the sheer volume at which he was able to project his snoring. It was like there was a fucking John Deere tractor in my bed. And of course the asshat fell asleep in 0.2 seconds so I never had a chance to get to sleep first and just sleep through it. You remember my plan to shotgun whisky into oblivion? This was the only way I ever got any rest around that man. Who knew that a person so skinny could have such a serious case of sleep apnea?

I'm a compassionate person, I didn't immediately resort to fantasies of asphyxiation. I rolled him over time and time again. Bought breathe right strips, slathered him up in vapo rub and made him sleep practically sitting up. Nothing worked. Still I suffered. He slept like an angel, a mouth-agape-tractor-shaming angel but an angel no less. He slept the sleep of the dead, almost literally. I used to finally just give up and go sleep on the couch in the living room. Oddly enough me getting out of bed was enough disturbance to wake him the fuck up! Into the living room he'd saunter and go 'What's wrong?' I punched him in the jaw once out of sheer frustration.

The thoughts of suffication came fleetingly at first. Just hints at the back of my mind that went away upon immediate dismissal. Glimpses really. Then they began to linger. I started to just sit upright in the bed and stare at him hoping that he'd wake up from the creepy 'someone is staring at me' feeling. He didn't and the next night we'd repeat this whole exercise over again, all the while these hints became malignant and began to consume my thoughts.

I distinctly remember sitting upright in my own bed, staring at the back of Joel's head (He slept on his stomach.) and thinking to myself: 'I could take the pillow and put it over his head just long enough for him to stop breathing.' I kind of muttered it out loud after thinking it because I needed to see how it sounded. It wasn't that I wanted him to die; I needed some fucking sleep. I needed him to stop snoring or to wake the fuck up or to have the bed open up and swallow him like in that Freddy Krueger movie, but I could not spend one more night on that damn futon in the living room. I simply could not do it.

So, I broke down into histrionics and sobbed and wailed and gave his god-forsaken snoring a run for it's money. Still he did not wake up.

Joel is the only man I've ever broken up with at 6:30 in the morning before he's even had time to brush his teeth. That day, I slept the sleep of the dead. And it was glorius.

I realized that night, that if I was seriously considering suffocating him then we were never going to work out. We could never be together because eventually I'd talk myself into it and the sane part of me that said 'Omg you just considered killing this grown man, in Your bed, which would make it a pretty open and shut case of pre-meditated homicide.' would eventually lose the argument.

Frustrated Anna is, well, frustrated.

I'm having trouble sleeping these days and have been for a while now. I'm tired and all but then I get to bed and I just lay there. Turning over and adjusting pillows and huffing and puffing until I finally just get up and do something or read until I'm tired again and the whole process repeats ad infinitum.

I cannot figure it out. I've never had issues sleeping. Never, ever. I could seriously sleep through the next World War. I have no doubt about it.

Except for now. Now I'd be awake to fight it. I'm not sure whose good fortune that would be but if WWIII pops off anytime soon we're good, as long as we fight it from the hours of 1-4 AM EST.

After doing some pseduo-serious soul searching (I tend to not do it a lot because what I find is somewhat disturbing. Not crazy ax-murderer shit but enough conundrums and circular logic to drive any sane person batty. It's easier just to stay out of it and let it be.) I've discovered that I, Anna Gray, am Frustrated.

Yes, Frustrated with a capital 'F.' An all-encompassing frustration that is indicative of a proper noun. I don't believe I need to spell it out.

But what is a girl to do? She tries to combat the Frustration with exercise and that helps but it really doesn't get to the crux of the problem. No, this is a resolute and unyielding frustration.

It looks as if our hero Captain Cynical will be waiting it out because that seems to be the only solution that has presented itself currently. Either that or I can get over myself and invest in that whole 'Skype' thing.

As for the sleeping issue I'll just try a double shot of jack and a tranquilizer or two. That seems reasonable.

The Federal Government is totally cock-blocking me.

You'll remember my new year's resolutions:

Insert the word 'mother-fucker' into my every day lexicon. Check.

Books with pictures. Kind-of-Check. I haven't read a whole lot of anything this year.

Get a passport...I'm trying.

Now you have to make an appointment to get a passport which means that I unnecessarily went to the post office, which I am afraid of, only to have them tell me that I need to come back a different day. Actually I did not talk to them, my mom did. (What? Yes I took my mother with me to the post office, I told you I was afraid.) Needless to say that I have to go back AGAIN next week.

It's not that I'm in a hurry, I'm not. The only place that I'm really anticipating going is the UK (You remember when Captain Cynical was mortally wounded, well it just so happens that said antagonist of Captain Cyncial happens to live in the UK. Because I cannot find someone to sleep with here in the contiguous 48. I have to be difficult, you've met me. Plus I kind of dig him. He only reads this blog sporadically and hopefully this won't be the week that he deigns to read it. That would be AWKWARD. But if you are reading this, 'Hey! Miss you! Hide the whiskey and cookies, company's coming over!' Jesus I am such a dweeb. ) and I'm not going there it's at least 65 degrees (Fahrenheit. Not Celsius.) for a significant period of time. The only other place that I want to go where one would require a passport it's warm all year long so no hurries there. Except for the fact that they're all on an island in the middle of the ocean and global warming seems to be ticking along at a reasonable pace so I need a passport within the next 20 years or so.

Now I have to get up the gumption and the courage to go visit the Post Office again and I know my mother will not go with me a second time. She didn't want to go the first time, something about me being 'a grown woman' and about 'how it's time to put away those childish irrational fears' and what not. Geez, whatever Mom.

I'm blaming the Federal Government for this one. It's just unnecessary.

Captain Cynical has been mortally wounded.

It's a bleak outcome for our hero Captain Cynical.

I am actually digging someone. Emotionally. Not just physically, which is a big step for me.

You'd be proud of me. I actually used my big girl words to tell said person that I like him instead of my normal method of shaving my snatch and hoping he can interpret what that means. I'm not an ace at communication.

It's tough though. Being that vulnerable.

We've met me. I don't do anything in moderation, nothing. So now I'm sitting here kicking myself because all I can think about is you know what.

Caring is kryptonite for Captain Cynical.

Kryptonite.

I'm a mess. Just let me be.

Today, at work, I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours.

I won't regale you with the details of why I sobbed in my office for a solid two hours but let's just say I'm having a rough day.

A really rough, rough day.

(But I did stick to my diet and eat my good, healthy lunch. Only because there were green beans involved. Without the green beans I'm pretty sure I would have lost my shit completely.)

I find that I'm the kind of person that walks the line kind of shoddily while still managing to get it done. For the most part I'm a semi-functioning adult type person with some serious emotional issues. But then somedays, I just fall the fuck off the tight-rope. Then comes the nose-dive into the moat of muck that surrounds my emotional stability. While I'm down there I usually take a couple of days to wallow around in it. Get myself good and covered. Just to convince myself that indeed, I do want to be out of the muck. There is no good that comes out of muckraking. Especially when you're the one in the muck being a rake.

I don't know why I don't cop to it. If I would come to terms with my eventual lapses of sanity I would be much happier. Hell, if I could see them coming I could just prepare for them and at least warn people.

'I'm sorry Anna cannot come out to play today. She's going to blow a gasket in about 3 hours.'

Knowing about your shit and doing something about it are two completely different things. I heard that in an episode of Grey's Anatomy and I swear to God I'd tack it up on my bathroom mirror if it didn't make me look like a total loony tune. But it's true.

I'm grateful to everyone in my life who realizes this about me and loves me anyway. It's rough sometimes and I realize that. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry.

You'll have to excuse me. I must go. I have an appointment for my mud muck wrap.