On epiphanies, penises, The Pill, and my ROCKIN BOD
CHAPTER I, In Which Our Heroine Drinks Too Much Wine and Has an Epiphany in a Blue Silk Bathrobe
It was surprisingly warm last night when I was walked home at 4:17 in the morning. When I got home, I had an incredible Drunken Epiphany - probably the greatest of my life, which is pretty damn great considering I manage to have at least a minor D.E. every time I drink. It's difficult for me to put into words the realization I finally made, which is probably the point. People can't explain certain things to you, you've got to figure them out for yourself. Although sometimes I wish we could just mindmeld, 'cause that seems a lot easier.
CHAPTER II, In Which She Praises the Pencil
Regarding the insult "pencil dick": I realize it's supposed to imply that you've got a small one because pencils are skinny, but let's consider that the average pencil is seven inches long and has a half-inch eraser. The average penis is between 5 and a half and 6 and a half inches long, depending on which month's issue of Cosmopolitan you're reading. In other words, the average pencil has at least an entire inch on the average dick, if not more. So I'd take that as a compliment, unless you're really packing.
CHAPTER III, In Which She Complains Seemingly Endlessly (note: this chapter may be skipped)
My hair and I are in a painful standoff. I want it to be long and full and nice and it stubbornly refuses to respond to my love (and conditioner). It is thin and dull and grows incredibly slowly. In its defense, I am at this moment considering either bleaching it all and dyeing it midnight blue, or stripping off the color to get back to my blonde, two options which would be nearly equally destructive to it. Perhaps somehow it can sense these murderous thoughts. Then again, maybe bad hair is yet another wonderful side effect of The Pill. It is difficult for me to describe the jaw-clenching, fist-pounding hatred I have for The Pill and, were I not in a relationship where it serves an important purpose, I would never, ever take it. It has wreaked absolute havoc on both my body and at least one past relationship. Of course, were I to become pregnant, I could say goodbye to my body, my relationship, and my life as I now know it. This depressing realization feels like one of those "Head, meet desk," moments.
CHAPTER IV, In Which She Says Something Nice About Herself and Consequently Looks Narcissistic Because She Is Female
My tits look great, but this has been consistently true for a while. You should see them. Too bad. Joining an art class would probably be your only chance at this point unless you are in Tri-Chi or are named Daniel Clark. I feel as though I might have gained a pound or two in the hip area, and, while I know that, as a girl, I should be feeling absolutely devastated and worthless and oh how will I ever compare to those girls in Maxim now?, I secretly am loving it and touch myself far too frequently.
It was surprisingly warm last night when I was walked home at 4:17 in the morning. When I got home, I had an incredible Drunken Epiphany - probably the greatest of my life, which is pretty damn great considering I manage to have at least a minor D.E. every time I drink. It's difficult for me to put into words the realization I finally made, which is probably the point. People can't explain certain things to you, you've got to figure them out for yourself. Although sometimes I wish we could just mindmeld, 'cause that seems a lot easier.
CHAPTER II, In Which She Praises the Pencil
Regarding the insult "pencil dick": I realize it's supposed to imply that you've got a small one because pencils are skinny, but let's consider that the average pencil is seven inches long and has a half-inch eraser. The average penis is between 5 and a half and 6 and a half inches long, depending on which month's issue of Cosmopolitan you're reading. In other words, the average pencil has at least an entire inch on the average dick, if not more. So I'd take that as a compliment, unless you're really packing.
CHAPTER III, In Which She Complains Seemingly Endlessly (note: this chapter may be skipped)
My hair and I are in a painful standoff. I want it to be long and full and nice and it stubbornly refuses to respond to my love (and conditioner). It is thin and dull and grows incredibly slowly. In its defense, I am at this moment considering either bleaching it all and dyeing it midnight blue, or stripping off the color to get back to my blonde, two options which would be nearly equally destructive to it. Perhaps somehow it can sense these murderous thoughts. Then again, maybe bad hair is yet another wonderful side effect of The Pill. It is difficult for me to describe the jaw-clenching, fist-pounding hatred I have for The Pill and, were I not in a relationship where it serves an important purpose, I would never, ever take it. It has wreaked absolute havoc on both my body and at least one past relationship. Of course, were I to become pregnant, I could say goodbye to my body, my relationship, and my life as I now know it. This depressing realization feels like one of those "Head, meet desk," moments.
CHAPTER IV, In Which She Says Something Nice About Herself and Consequently Looks Narcissistic Because She Is Female
My tits look great, but this has been consistently true for a while. You should see them. Too bad. Joining an art class would probably be your only chance at this point unless you are in Tri-Chi or are named Daniel Clark. I feel as though I might have gained a pound or two in the hip area, and, while I know that, as a girl, I should be feeling absolutely devastated and worthless and oh how will I ever compare to those girls in Maxim now?, I secretly am loving it and touch myself far too frequently.