Allow me to be all at once bold and competitive: I’ve got the worst gas of anyone you’ve ever met. If society was somehow different, and my … gift, let’s call it, was better valued, I would be your Queen of Farts. I would command attention, take down armies. I would redraw the lines of femininity. I would be worshiped and adored. None of this is likely to happen, though, is it? So here I am, in this world, in this society, in which (I dislike the words “gassy” and “farty”) a gastrointestinally-challenged woman has a tough row to hoe. Consider the sheer, exhausting effort that goes into covering up your scent. My plight: I’ve got an ass like a machine gun, people. And it’s on a mission to ruin my life. Keep reading »
Profile for Sara Barron
I am pathetic for reasons too numerous to count, so for the moment, let’s focus on just one: I watch a stupid amount of daytime TV. So that means I’m well-schooled in various bits of contemporary pop psychology, like this little gem care of Dr. Phil: For a relationship to work in the long term, you must be aligned with your partner on three key issues: Communication, sex and money. That’s what’ll keep you together according to Dr. Phil. But what about what draws you together according to me and my cursory knowledge of pop psychology? Is it the stuff of long-term commitments? Or something else? A lit match with a fuse that’ll blow in, say, under two years? I’m talking the stuff that makes you, when you meet him, be like, Oh. Em. Gee. You and me 4 eva, boy. But then six months or two years later, you’re like, “Wait. Remind me how you wound up as my boyfriend? Oh, right. I liked that we both liked that Kite Runner book.” Let’s call them weak foundations, shall we? Our shaky rationales. So before you forsake all those fish in the sea, before you accept a diamond or preemptively move in together, before you run your mouth about how this time, really!, it’s different, make sure your relationship is founded on none of the things listed below. Any number of them can, of course, be one of the many reasons you’re together. But please. I beg you. Don’t let any single one of them be the reason you’re together. Keep reading »
Draw-out \‘dro\ \’aut\ n. pl draw-outs : An event that prompts you, dear lady, to prolong a relationship you know you ought to end.
If there’s one sure thing besides death and taxes it’s that you, whoever you are, have, at some point in your romantic career, drawn out a relationship longer than was healthy. You’re not to be blamed. It’s a simple law of nature: Relationships never end when they’re supposed to. We all need food and water to survive, we all need a month or two or 20 between that first “Uh oh,” and the final trigger pulling, when we put the stiletto to the metal and fly the coup to Single Land.
But the Draw-Outs … oh, the Draw-Outs. They’re the delightful little excuses that keep us keeping the relationship on. A Draw-Out can be something like, “Oh, it’s Christmas.” Or, “Oh, I’m in a wedding this month.” Or, “Oh, I just endured a phone call with my mother in which she said the word ‘cystic’ and then ‘ovaries.’”
The question, then, is “For how long?” For how long will your Draw-Out keep you in the game? The answer is dependent upon you, of course, and your personal ability to cling. I, for one, am highly clingy. Nay! Expertly clingy. And a gal like me? Well, let’s just say that I can Draw Out these suckers like it’s my job. No one drums up Draw-Outs more absurd, more niche, more pathetically impressive than yours truly. So do I gift unto to you my top five Draw Out greatest hits that you may feel free to avoid. Keep reading »
Allow me to be bold: I love masturbating. LOVE. “Then why don’t you marry it?” you ask. And I respond: “Believe me, gal, I would if I could. I would if I could.” I figured out the business at age 17, inspired as I’d been by some static-covered soft-core I’d watched on Cinemax, which left the rather dangerous impression that all future sex-makings would involve jewel tone, crushed velvet bedspreads. The revelation – of how to masturbate, that is; not the thing about the bedspreads – proved so delightful, so addictive, that after six days of the stuff, I awoke to find my right hand – the business hand – paralyzed. I kid you not. It was frozen in a manner to suggest I was holding a modest-sized grapefruit. But I was not holding a modest-sized grapefruit. What I was doing, was rather, suffering from a case of carpal tunnel caused by excessive masturbation. Keep reading »