Can I Lick Your Dick Into Liking Me?

When I was younger, I was severely deluded about love. That being said, I have not become substantially less deluded about love in the ripe old age of twenty two. I have, however, realized a few things.

Love is not found in a blow job. By the standards of my loose generation, I was a late bloomer. In eighth grade, while my friends were all giving h- jays on the bus to the Baltimore Aquarium, I was pretending to sleep so the-love-of-my-life at the time wouldn’t expect me to receive his tongue in my mouth. Truthfully, I had severe anxiety about French kissing, an anxiety so real and fervent that it caused me to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night, long after my allowed computer time hours were over, and Google websites with kissing instructions and how-tos. Nothing was ever very helpful: swirl your tongue in clockwise and then counter clockwise directions. Bite on his lip to wow him with a kiss he’ll never forget.
Well maybe, random magazine article. But maybe perfecting our form and learning just the right trick, just the right angle to make him cum on command isn’t what makes us unforgettable in a man’s eyes. Maybe we should be instructing our young ones, the future generation of potential male servicing women to fall in love, rather than to fall into bed with guys to practice our tricks. Maybe the best trick is to give unto the man you want yourself, your entire an unguarded self and let that be what he loves about you. Not that you are adventurous enough to toss his salad.

I did not stop at Googling “French kissing”, if you were wondering. I also Googled “the art of the blow job”, “which position he’ll like best”, and even, if memory serves, “how to 69 in such a way that your butthole isn’t directly enveloping his nose”. A reverse 69 will land a man’s asshole on your nose, regardless of careful positioning. It is not recommended, especially with the unwashed asshole that rested on mine.

I recently ended a relationship with the only man I’ve ever truly loved. I’m positive that he will not be the last man that I ever loved, but at this moment in time, the blow is crushing. To think I’ll never feel his sweaty hand in my hand, or that I’ll never awkwardly try to plow through his lips with my tongue when he’s aiming for a peck, gives me chills. Gives me sick, violent tremors in my whole body. The memories are already slipping away so quickly that I can barely type them fast enough. He taught me a lesson, though. It was never about the skill I possessed with my tongue; he would have loved us together regardless. Learning how to love someone with whatever your body has to offer, that’s what is special.

I will always love you in some way. I commemorate the good aspects of our love here today. Thanks for loving me through and through and teaching me that, after all, I have to learn to love my self.


UPJ Crampus My Style

Changing leaves. It just was the favorite time of year for most, but this brief intermission between Summer and snow is leaving everyone a little uneasy. The leaves have turned from green to reds and yellows, and settled in a light brown pie crust over the grounds. College campuses across the East Coast have undergone similar transformations during the Fall semester. I find myself comparing my old alma mater to my new place of work often. Similar qualities comprise both campuses: a spread of stone buildings, illuminated by soft November sunlight, large shady trees, and sweatpants-donning students as far as the eye can see.

The only difference? It is no longer my haven to enjoy, to take for granted. Now, when I walk the concrete pathways, I don't hear the patter of cheap plastic flip-flops, but the harsh staccato of high heels. I can't mosey from class to class, in fact, "moseying" is explicitly forbidden in my job description.

Where am I? Better yet, WHO am I? Procuring a steady and full time job in my MAJOR no less was supposed to put me on the right track. Instead, it has only made me long for the track I was once on.

But, unfortunately, my tree has shed it's tender, green leaves and replaced them with forever frozen, bare appendages.


Totes Quotes

“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” // Eleanor Roosevelt

Every artist was first an amateur.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.
Helen Keller

Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.
La Bruyere

In the hopes of reaching the moon men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet.
Albert Schweitzer


By The Way...

Hate my life.

That is all.


Cooking Up A Meaning For My Life

This sentence is uttered often and in different variations: “I hate my life, my purposeless, driven-less, pointless existence.” Sometimes, a pronouncement of this sort can work in magical ways. What appears to be a simple statement confided in a spouse, therapist, or any non-confidant is often meant to soar straight into heaven, landing on God’s ethereal ears. It is a cry for help. He, knowing that the source of distress was merely a person who had not yet arrived at their meaningful moment, will give them (sometimes) a gentle push in the right direction. People often describe their moment of clarity coming suddenly, surprisingly, and right in the nick of time.

But what of those not destined to cure cancer or touch a life or paint a Mona Lisa? Does he bother to help them? What of the people He simply created without planning, like a thoughtless batch of sugar cookies on a Sunday afternoon? Without the effort of, say, a soufflĂ©, couldn’t he theoretically make easy desserts that serve no purpose out of boredom? Space-fillers?

What an awful notion. Everyone wants desperately to believe that they were put on this Earth with a special plan in mind because we are force fed the idea that we are all special and different and wonderful in God’s eyes. But surely this can’t apply to everyone.

When one of these space-fillers complains, space-fillers who don’t realize they’re space-fillers, and yearns for the same gentle shove, is his answer to consume them? I’m picturing a musing, androgynous mix of bearded grandfather figure and plump, motherly, kitchen-dwelling woman; Santa Claus meets Mrs.. Cleaver. I picture prayers floating around this figure like snowflakes. Some, he chooses to let dissolve on His tongue, yet others land, negligently absorbed, in the snow. A person who needs guidance to fulfill their life’s meaning will get help when asked. But does our creator care to council those who are just…here? That completely depressing thought (that maybe some people just aren’t worth saving or helping) washed over me. It was disgusting. No cavalry is sending me a “purpose” to trip over just when I think all hope is lost. Maybe God or Allah or whatever is up there or around HELPING those who need guidance, gets sick of hearing the complaints from the worthless people. So he just invented adult chicken pocks. Or accidental pianos falling on people in the street. All those goofy ways to die are just God’s way of sifting out the riff raff. And…am I the riff raff?

The question remains, can we assign meaning to our own lives? Do we have the power? When we send up our prayers, mourning, and weeping is it all for naught against the grains of fate? How do you know if you’re a soufflĂ© or a sugar cookie?


Like Smelling Your Own Farts; In a Phrase... Please Hire Me?

While I was in the bathroom this morning (the place and time where all truly inspired thinking occurs) I finally understood why I was not landing a job. It's all about the resume, but slightly about my inability to be liked by a person when they first meet me.

In my Technical Writing/Communication class, my professor likened a resume to a blind date, which seems to be a standard comparison. It makes sense; you acquaint the other person with the basics: your name, interests, skills, alma mater, previous work experience. Now, the important part is to make your 8 by 11 sheet of card-stock stand out among the billions of other fish in the sea. You must pay attention to font and pleasing spacing throughout the page, much like one would pay more attention to their dry elbows and uni-brow when meeting for drinks at the Castle Pub. All the cardinal rules of resume writing line up with the small-talk chitter chatter that two people use when deciding whether or not to date. With a resume, you're simply trying to establish a relationship with the company.

This sounds relatively easy. Well, the standing out part, maybe not so much, but most people are confident enough to go on a date thinking "They're definitely going to fall in love with my _____ (something) tonight!" At least on some unconscious level, most people believe that they've got one hook that they can offer that no one else can at the time.

Herein lies the rub: first impressions are my complete downfall. I've always referred to myself as "an acquired taste" when dating. It takes a date or two to get used to my nervous obnoxious laughter and my moderately off-putting jokes about flatulence. If a man is just desperate enough (or that entranced by my double d's) to stick around, he will usually fall in love with me.

Now, I'm not vain enough to suggest that every man I've ever spent time with that extended past dinner and a movie was proposing to me, but I seem to have a certain quality that keeps me busy with at least 2 or 3 obsessive suitors at a time. I just take some getting used to.

This is why I haven't found a job. I haven't been allowed the courtesy of an interview or even a second interview, so my resume is failing miserably on that first date. Like sushi or learning to appreciate the smell of your own farts, I just haven't been given a decent shot! I never get the chance to run into a company at Wal*Mart and guilt it into a second try, another go-around at Applebees.

Someday, I'm sure, some fortune five-hundred monstrosity of a company will be camped outside my house, begging for me to move into its cubicle and do data entry, or life as it knows it will simply not go on. the company will go on and on about my indispensable assets that it knows I'll bring to the relationship and say it can't live another moment without my charisma and charm.

Or maybe its the boobs.


My nasty, clever boyfriend.

I recently decided that my boyfriend will only be allowed to refer to me by pet-names if they are seasonally appropriate. He just called me "blumpkin pie"...

He can be a real pain in my ass, more so than horror stories of other boyfriend flaws I've heard, but my god do I love him.