Fucking Roulette

So, when you hop in the sack with someone, there's only so much you can know in advance. Ya know, before you actually take the thing out for a spin.
With cars, you can look at the exterior, the interior, try to get a general idea of how the vehicle is going to perform ahead of time. You can even take the puppy out for a test drive around the block to make sure nothing weird pops up.
Dudes, it turns out, are similar. The real challenge is finding out as much as you can as quickly as you can, so you don't end up investing too much time in a dud.

This is where judgment of outer appearance comes in handy. If the dude's got a swagger, a look of confidence, and is comfortable walking up and conversing with new people, chances are his last date didn't come from the sock drawer. nothing against masturbation, but you don't sit at home with Jenna Jameson all day and then talk to real girls at night. it's usually either the real girls, or the imaginary ones.
A little bit of experiential wisdom from Big Momma, though, is that nice clothes, good hygiene, and a nice job don't mean shit in the sack. If you want to actually date the dude, then of course these things are of value, but if you're just looking for a fun romp, it turns out that hobos, old folks, stinkies and uglies can be good in bed. I'm speaking from experience here, it's sad but it's true.

Most people become good at sex from experience. anything you do by yourself, though it can be helpful, is not experience. that would fall under the category of Research and Development.
So, it follows that any indicator that someone's had a lot of sex is a good indicator that they'll be able to curl your toes. Age, for example, is usually a good indicator. This is why there are absolutely no porno scenarios of ladies taking young, virginal boys roughly for the first time. No woman really want to take a dude's virginity, because she could just as easily spend those 15 minutes trying to clean her ears out with her toes, and cause less bodily harm with less awkwardness. (Teaching young things some moves is a sexy enough fantasy, but who really wants a fucking 16 year old virgin boy with a couple of pubes and a cracking voice?) Older dudes, with more experience, have been to Vagina Town, walked around, checked out the sights, and probably have a few favorite spots there and in the outlying areas. Plus, they're familiar enough with the area to follow directions.

Guys who drink a lot can be good in bed, too, although you may need to match them for inebration to fully appreciate the experience. This is because drunk people get horny and hook up. the more often you drink, the more horney nights you'll spend learning a few new tricks from someone who's last name you'll never know.

People who appear exsessivly cool can go either way. It's the whole hot chick/fat chick debate; on the one hand, she's a hot chick, but on the other hand, the fat chick will be soo gratefull...
Seriously. Hot and cool folks tend to get laid more often because everyone wants to do them. but there's always a strong chance thast, because of their apeal, they've never been told, "hell no you can't stick that in my ear!" so they might try to do some funky, lame, or just plain immature shit to you. Your best bet here is someone who used to be nerdy, geeky, or generally unlikeable, but has recently overcome that awkwardness to mature into a super hottie. Then, on the inside the person is still insecure and in need of validation and subseqently with aim to please, but on the outside is the stone cold fox you would have been thinking about in bed with someone else.
That's what we call a win-win.

A warning sign that I'm sure we all know to watch out for is religious affiliation. But I'm gonna restate the obviouse in case you're new to the world of fucking. When seeking a sexual partner (expecially short term) the best religious affiliation is no religious affiliation. God doesn't belong in my pussy, and God shouldn't be hanging around your dick. Religion often makes people think stupid thoughts like, "i should be in love when i have sex" or "masterbation is wrong" or "someone besides the leather-clad chick in the corner is watching me and judgeing me".
All serious downers.
There is the exception of the recently fallen religious person, who wants to make up for lost time, and you can find a lot fo great enthusiasm there. But there's always the chance of a painful relaps into religosity that may include crying, and enthusiasm can't always compensate for skill and experience.

but, ya know, you've all been out there a lond time, grabbign ass and scoring drinks, so you know what you're doing.
And this has gotten really long.
So, mother fuckers, be safe out there, and tell people when they're fuckin it all up! The next person will thank you.

So, I have lately begun stalking my ex-boyfriend. Not for any really reason, mostly out of boy-boredom. He and I broke up when I was in High school and he was in college (how did I now see that cliché playing out, I know!) and I've never really had any interest in him since, but I gotta admit, just knowing he's someone that at one time in my life I didn't mind spending a couple of hours a day with makes him pretty attractive.
The majority of the population, of late, can abuse me socially for about 45 minutes before I start to fantasize about throwing them out the nearest window.

Many of you might not be professional stalkers, but my close friends and I are, so they'll know exactly what I mean when I say that, after spending fake time learning about fractions of his life, i start thinking stupid things. Like how we should hang out. And how it would be cool to catch up. And how he really wasn't that weird looking, nerdy, and obnoxiously sinophilic. And then I begin to wonder if maybe he's thinking about how much more awesome I've most likely gotten since we last talked, and thinking about how much hotter I am than him.

None of these thoughts lead anywhere other than the highway to stalker town. Where increasingly weirder thoughts begin to brew.

Which is why I need a new hobby. And not crocheting. That has never held my attention for longer than a week. Maybe a hearty Ritalin habit?  Or I could start working part time as one of the crazy fuckers who begs for money drunk. That would incorporate some of my pre-existing hobbies, like drinking and being loud.
hrm.

It has taken me a while to figure out where I am in the post-breakup universe of feelings and stages. Maybe it's taken so long because the end of my last serious relationship left me completely numb for over a year and ignorant of my sexual needs (which included a very man-free first semester of college). Finally, after hours of quite reflection in bed with the covers pulled over my head, I think I've finally diagnosed my post-break-up condition; I am in desperate need of a rebound fling to satisfy the physical (and not just sexual) needs burgeoning within in me but have neither the means nor the capacity for such a fling.

For one thing, I've never been one who really enjoyed ‘dating’. I just actually hate it. The nervous phone calls, then getting to know someone who will invariably maintain a level of attraction completely different from you, nervous and expensive dates, the “When do we finally fuck and can we cuddle and does one of us have to call afterwards and what if the quality of sex is better/worse than the relationship that was a shame to begin with” bullshit. Nothing about it appeals to me. Not to mention the fact that my last relationship has, in fact, left me dead inside and the cold, unfeeling shrew I've become has no interest making small talk of coffee I don't drink anyway.

Finally, I happen to live in Arcata, a small college town that is geographically and even culturally isolated (I mean, where else do people actually still sell tie dye? Costume shops?). So even if I wanted to go out there and find some cute-ish nice enough guy to spend a few meals with and take for a couple of spins around the ol’ bedroom, the chances of me finding a suitable guy, who I haven't already fucked, and hasn't dated one of my close friends, and isn't gay, and isn't somehow personally connected to me, are slim. Winning the lottery slim.

Which is why I have surrendered myself to a strict regimen of television, beer, and online shopping to get me through this rough patch. As long as my credit cards hold out, and my roommate keeps renting movies, I know I can make it through this, and move on to the next stage in my post-breakup development; whoring around like there’s no tomorrow!

Sober Andrea just talked about her poop and how she most enjoys wiping it. Durnk Andrea now wants to talk about her period, and how she most likes to "maintain it".

Now, all you boys who've never had a period, or those boys (ALL of you fuckers) who've had a serious girlfriend and never gotten to know the nature of her menstrual cycle, will need a warm up conversation detailing the essentials fo the periods and period-time materials.

Here's the break down:

Every month every girl (who is not chemically altered in some way) gets her period.
If the bitch is on the pill (which is one way to be chemically altered, BTW) she gets it every 21 days based on her consistency with taking her pills. With current technology, there are variations therein that I will delve into at a later date.

When a girl gets her period, in addition to her PMS (which seems to be what most boys are concerned with, because it's the only aspect of a girls period that affects them regardless of their behavior), she also bleeds from her Cunt.

*** this is the interlude where I explain that I use the word Cunt not because I'm an alterna-whore, but because Cunt, which means "anatomical jewel" is waaay better than vagina which means "sheath for a sword". To quote my lady Inga Muscio, "Ain't got no vagina!***

In an effort to conduct business as usually, ladies need to somehow incapacitate the bleeding they experience from their Cunts to go on with life normally. Most do so with tampons or pads. Ladies back in the day used pads attached to belts called "sanitary napkins". Ladies waay back in the day used rags, weeds, and other objects at hand to stuff up their Cunts or wedge against their garments to prevent the bleeding from cramping their style. Today, ladies have an multitude of choices. I'm gonna talk about my favorite. The Sponge.

**This is the part where I tell you that you could learn all of this by reading Cunt by Inga Muscio**

Since for a long time, women have off and on used Sea Sponges to stop their menstrual flow. It makes a hell of a lot of sense for the busy, sexually aware lady of today because; 1) it is completely non-toxic, unlike tampons and pads made with things like fiberglass, asbestos, and rayon which can, in turn, cause Toxic Shock Syndrome, which leads to 2) the sponge is completely non-toxic and harmless. In other words, you could lose the bitch up in the inner caverns of your Cunt and, worst case scenario, it falls out or dissolves. Fuck the numbering, here are the brass tacks. Sea Sponges are Cheap (about $2 for about a year's worth of use, or $2 a month if you're a huge pansy/prude), Healthy (NO dangers of Toxic Shock Syndrome, or any other know illnesses. it's natural and it'll stop sucking fluids out of you when you stop giving), and relatively easy.
This is where I run into the most trouble. USE of a sea sponge means that you buy the mother fucker, boil it in water to eliminate the chance of bactieria, then insert it into your vag. When it gets full (and if you've had your period for more than a year you'll know), you reach up into your cunt, pull it out, and rinse the blood out before reinserting for the next run. The bonus is tatt you can just keep using it until it starts to break apart. The bad news is that there's no easy way to pull the bitch out. I( usually have to reach a good 2 fingers up my chach to grab a hold of the bitch and pull it out.

All that being said, I used the sponge for a few months, then quit for a few months ( for a stupid boy/reason) and Just came back to the sponge.


Lemmie tell you ladies. I would NOT have written this much about sea sponges if I didn't love them up, down, and cross ways!!!!
period.
Now, go get one!!!!

Today I used my last Kandoo. For the uninitiated, Kandoos are "flushable toilet wipes" for kids learning to use the toilet. They're also moist, sturdy, and make your butt smell like apples!

I learned about Kandoos from Laura, who astonished me when she first told me about her own apple-butt-smelling expereince. This is mostly because Laura really isn't the kind to talk about her butt. Or her poop. She's really not that big into poop. But I am!!

I love pooping and anything that makes it cleaner, more fun, more smelly, or allows me to talk about it! I love the idea of buying a special kind of toilet paper just for pooping!


And Kandoos really do help in the pooping process; you can poop with greater abandon when you know you've got a sturdy, moist wipe waiting for you, to get that final clean up done. Ass-splatters be damned, the Kandoo is larger than normal toilet paper, and designed to be stronger and thicker, so there's no finger-blow-through! Because Kandoos are moist and not dry like traditional toilet paper, you can achieve that just-showered or bidet-fresh feeling for your anus every time you wipe! And even though Kandoos are designed for toilet training children, I think everyone who occasionally comes down with a case of the whiskey-shits could use a box of easy-to-dispense Kandoos with which to wipe clean your bung hole.

I also used my Kandoos for tricky menstrual time peeing.

But now I am out of Kandoos, and the question is, am I too cheap to buy more, or can I just not live with out that fresh apples smell on my ass.

My Love Affair with Birth Control...

I got my period yesterday. Again. I calculated it, and I've had over 140 periods in my life so far. That's a fuck load of blood, craps, bitching, being horney, crying, beings snotty, eating everything in sight, and wacking off. Ya see, masturbation is my own personal no-fail cure for cramps. But I digress.
I remember my first period. Before all the bleeding, i was being a pissy little bitch. I remember actually being pissed that a 5 year old girl got more easter eggs than I did on the easter egg hunt. This girl was my friend and i was 12 freakin years old.
I also remember years of subsequent periods. In junior high, sitting in the school's admin office waiting for a telephoned okay from my mom so that i could limp home from school because my cramps were so bad i couldn't concentrate in class. Even rubbing one out couldn't cure them back then.
I remember trying my mom's old trick of stuffing two tampons up my vag, one after the other, in an effort to stop the hemorrhaging. That was fun. Can I get a what-what from all the chicks who’ve ever doubled up the tampon and pad situation in an effort to control the blood, and still ended up with stains on her new panties/skirt/pants/bath mat.
Point being, thanks to the magic of three little pills, all of these problems have faded into the background. My cramps now tentatively appear on the first day I bleed, and are never enough to make me do more than clear my throat. My additional bitching is now discernable only to those most familiar with my personality, and almost all of my blood for the day soaks neatly up into one or two o.b. juniors. The occasional panty liner is used mostly as a precaution. And yeah, sure, Ortho Tricyclin’s snotty younger sister Depoprovera may have taken my period away for a few months, and then brought it back at a maddeningly constant slow drip, but my light blue, dark blue, and white pills have never steered me wrong. They’ve managed to make the last 72 or so periods really manageable.
Thanks, Birth Control!


(On a side note, I spell checked this mother, and it turns out Microsoft Word does not recognize the word “horney”. I got “horned”, “honey”, “hornet”, and “honeys”. And while honeys may get my horn going, and my giant hornet knows the way to a sweet honey pot, none of this is really quite the same as being able to say “I’m Horney and I’m, proud”. Bummer.)

Right now I can hear my neighbors having some really loud sex. From across the parking lot. Either that, or someone's taking their time in killing this poor girl.


I feel like this must right some karmic wrong. Sheila, Jenna, Anja, Laura, Parisa, everyone who lived within a one block radius over the past few years; I'm sorry.

Hobo Jungle

Last Sunday some of my dear friends and I went for a walk in what is affectionately known as Hobo Field.

Armed with a couple of cans of spray paint, two bottles
of beer and a disposable camera, we commenced to tag the large cement blocks in the field.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Andrea’s not nearly ill enough to go out tagging. Was she perhaps accompanied by some more street-wise, possibly even thuggish accomplices? No. I was with Jenna, her boyfriend, her sister and her cousin. Two dykes, a kitten lover and a pushover. Which implies that tagging is no longer the domain of the hard core. Especially since the least hard core person was the first to complete her image. Admittedly, it was a kitten face, but…

i am so tough.

My dearest chums and I have recently come to a series of revelations concluding in the creation of a (I know it is so damn cliché now...) MySpace group, "Birth Control Has Left Me Dead on the Inside"

please consider this an open invitation to other bitter whores like myself and my associates who agree with what we feel:

We represent an organization, nay a generation, of women who are tired of the same old bullshit. We watched Disney movies and Saturday morning television where people were capable of changing the world and finding love with the first hot guy that rode past on his white horse.

Then we grew up. Eventually, we all began to use some birth control. Maybe at first it was to control the bad skin that Barbie and Jem never had, but eventually it was to create a barren wasteland in our once fertile wombs. This was not out of bitterness or with any real thought to population growth, but so that we could have carefree, worry free sex knowing that the best birth control was redundant birth control.

Years later we’ve fallen in and out of love. We’ve tried bad guys, good guys, gay guys, jocks, nerds, losers, idiots, and pretentious assholes. They’ve all been disappointing in one way or another. We’ve dumped them and they’ve dumped us, we’ve rebounded so often that there are divots in the pavement. We’ve tried the friends with benefits, the committed relationships, living together, leather, celibacy, lesbianism, threesomes, random hookups and A LOT of masturbation. And all of it has left us generally under whelmed. Between the repeated disappointments in our love and sex lives, we’ve grown bitter, cynical, and difficult to impress.

Naturally, as personal disappointments mirror professional disappointments, the general cynicism bleeds into other aspects of our lives. We don’t cry at Hallmark commercials, or at the end of Meryl Streep movies. Most of us don’t even like that bitch. We prefer Margaret Cho, Sara Silverman, Janeane Garofalo, Michelle Rodriguez. Bitches who make us laugh, chicks we can respect. We don’t get all worked up over things that don’t affect us directly, we don’t see the point in making a scene unless it’s a really big one, and most of the world never sees that. Most of the world sees us as generally under whelmed. We feel generally under whelmed. A little dead inside. And while birth control has merely created an unnaturally long winter in our wombs, freezing our reproductive mechanisms into inactivity while we search for a reason to revive them, the connection between our sentiments and our ovaries has not escaped us, and irony is always interesting, usually effective, and often very funny.

That is why we say Birth Control Has Left Me Dead on the Inside.

Yesterday's butt-rock is today's poetry

Today is my first day of real unemployment. By this I mean that today is the first day that i woke up early, but stayed in bed debating what to do first until sometimes after 10 am. It is a dangerous path further down this road. I need to start earning some money soon, and I really need to not get into the habit of staying up until 6 am watching DVDs and then sleeping until the afternoon.

On the plus side, all of the sudden I feel this deep responsibility to do a lot of bullshit online. The plus side is that all of you jamokes get to enjoy the fruits of my non-labor. Enjoy!

But I still live in Humboldt County where it is notoriously hard to find a job and i still have bills coming in and rent due on the first. The idea is that if i find a good enough job, I'll still be able to save up a few pennies here and there for future travel and the Big Purchase; someday entering the adult world completely and buying an automobile.
In Conclusion, as fun as it was to be awake for sunrise but not for TBS' early morning Dawson's Creek marathon, I need to take a shower, wash some clothes and hit the pavement. I wager it's going to be an interesting next few weeks.

Sheila created me just today, using nothing more than a mushy lump of old oatmeal and some glitter paste. I feel very pretty and very new, and i hope to be a bright spot in the universe, even though i am ever so small right now.
But, if i eat all my vegetables and work hard, i can grow up big and strong, so that i can one day take over the world and remold it into the form that i prefer, in much the same manner that sheila has molded me.

thank you, Jesus-Sheila