This is the post where I talk about the time I crapped my pants while viciously vomiting in The Pilot's parents basement while the said parents and The Pilot happen to be having a dinner party upstairs.
Yeah, that statement? I never thought I'd have to write that sentence in my life ever. This is my life, this is what my life is about. Crapping my pants in the basement during a dinner party.
It all started when we had the bright idea of going to The Pilot's parents for a few days because it seemed like the best idea ever after I went to school and paid a shit ton of money and suddenly became instantly poor. You know, because I gave them all my money. And they took it without ever making eye contact and treating me like every other John on the street who's dick they suck for money. But, you know, like the metaphorical dick of money. Because I don't have one. Or, at least, I think I don't have one.
So, between running to the bank and paying the school and packing up our stuff we happened to forgot to eat before we left and that's a big no no in this household because if The Pilot doesn't get three square meals a day that's packed full of meat he starts murdering little baby kittens and turns them into baby kitten angels.
OK, I haven't seen this happen yet but I can assure you that's what he probably does.
Half way to his parents we stop at Tim Horton's for some quick food because we figured it would be better than the other options and also, hello, we're fucking Canadian. Duuuhhhhh.
We eat it, continue our journey, get to his parents, have a great time, spend the night, and don't have sex because it's his parents house and that'd be weird. Also, we didn't bring condoms. Duuuhhhhhh.
The next day we get up and help around the house with some painting and moving things around when mid-day The Pilot starts feeling like crap and is all poopy. And I make fun of him because that's sympathetic to his plight.
And then a few hours later, right before a dinner party his parents arranged with family members, I start to get fucking poopy. Like, this poop? It's not even poop. It's orange water coming out of my ass.
But that's OK! Because I can power the fuck through this and while in the basement trying to get dressed I figure, BATHROOM TIME! And I get up and get to the door and BLAAARRRFFGGGGHHHHH! I vomit all over the brand new carpet that was just installed the day before we got there. And it just keeps coming.
When there is a break between the throw up I rush to the bathroom to finish throwing up only for it not to finish. It just kept coming.
And then I fucking crapped my pants because of the force of the vomiting.
Yes, I crapped my pants. Like, no just a tiny squirt. Full on crapped. Pants destroyed. Underwear ruined. Dignity shattered.
The best part? Everyone upstairs was having a good time and laughing. It sounded as if they were laughing at me crapping myself. It was the perfect soundtrack to the shame I was feeling at that very moment.
I probably kneeled at that toilet for a good ten minutes crying my ass off because I had just crapped myself in The Pilot's parents house. I never thought I'd have to carry around that dirty secret ever. It's not like when I first came into their home I was secretly thinking "I'm so going to fucking ruin your carpet and shit myself all over the place, just you fucking wait."
But it gets better! Once I've cleaned the bathroom, myself, and changed into The Pilot's pajama pants and stashed my shitty pants outside in a bag, I go to the stairs and ever so quietly call "The Pilot!" up the stairs in hopes my baby whisper would come to his attention.
Thankfully his dad noticed and told The Pilot to come downstairs. And then I burst into tears telling him I shit myself and vomited all over the floor and I need his help cleaning it up.
The Pilot takes one look at the vomit mess I had made and the fucker throws up twice as worse all over the place in response.
Because he's sick too. And always throws up at the sight of vomit. That part I should have remembered when I was asking for help.
At least he didn't crap his pants too.
The people upstairs? Still laughing.
And the pooping? Didn't stop.
I bet these people are so happy to have me as part of their family.
Showing posts with label Awkward Relations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Awkward Relations. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
And Then I Was Drowned By The Ghost Of Valentines Love
The Pilot kind of has it rough the last month of the year and the first two months of the year because it's expensive for him because of Christmas, and my Birthday, and then Valentine's day. Normally I'm all "Fuck yeah, I'm a greedy ass bitch that JUST WANTS GIFTS!" but considering the fact that he gave me a wicked awesome Christmas gift, Birthday gift and then proposed the day after my birthday, I figured I'd give him a pass at Valentine's day and we can just eat our food on the floor and watch television like hobo's. Well, not exactly like hobo's, per say, because we've got a television. That makes us classy hobo's.
The Pilot being The Pilot straight up refused to just let this holiday pass us by without making any type of effort so he had planned it out that he'd do something romantic to try and keep in the festivities of what this holiday is about.
"They are having a couples firework show with fire dancers and bonfires and hot chocolate, let's go to that!" he declared while throwing the poster for the event at me, "It will be a great Valentines Day!".
"But this starts shortly after we get off work! That leaves us no time for dinner! And all the traffic! And we'd be home late! And you'd get hungry!" I said throwing the flyer for the event in the garbage because I really hate traffic and being out late on a work night and fireworks? Fuck that, I want to eat Chinese food on the floor of my living room because I'm bad ass.
So we compromised and decided that we were just going to eat steak dinner at home and watch whatever happened to be on television, on the floor, and be happy with that.
It was my job to pick up the steak after work at the nearby butchers and it was The Pilot's job to pick up everything else on his way home from work.
I got my job done. But it took him forever to get his job done because I guess he was running around trying to buy flowers on the biggest flower day of the year and couldn't find any so he came home instead just with food and when I jokingly said "Hey, where's my flowers?!" he kind of had a mini breakdown while ranting about how "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN I TRIED!". And then he gave all my Valentine kisses to the dog as revenge.
So we ate an awesome steak dinner made by myself truly and then The Pilot said he had a surprise for me and that I had to go hide in the bedroom until it was ready. I heard him singing in the bathroom the whole time I was waiting so I was half expecting to be called in and shown what an amazing heart shaped dump he had made for me because that's usually the only time he sings in the bathroom is when he is pooping.
But, lucky for me, it wasn't a heart shaped dump. It was a bubble bath drawn just special for me! And what was that? A candle? A candle lit bubble bath for me? AMAZING!
Until, that is, I had to get into the bath and he turned off the lights and left me with a glass of sparkling lemonade to enjoy my bath. Do you know how creepy the bathroom is in the dark with only a single tea light candle to light it? I've seen horror movies. This is how people are killed by insane ghost clowns people.
And my only defense against insane ghost clowns? A glass of sparkling lemonade. That shit burns the eyes, you know.
And then the dog wandered in and got curious about the candle and ended up puffing it out so I was left in the dark with the sparkling lemonade and a fiance that suspiciously couldn't hear my calls for help. That is of course until he did hear them and turned the light on for me.
Afterwards we had some dairy queen ice cream cake because we bought that bitch on the weekend as a giant HIGH FIVE to painting the apartment and had a bitch ton left.
And then we watched a movie in bed that was completely ruined by the worst fart in the world that smelled like a million dead bodies covered in goat cheese that came out of a million dead goats asses.
That was my fart. Because I'm lactose intolerant.
And farts are the only way to make sure Ghost Clowns don't kill you in your sleep.
It also has the unfortunate side effect of killing any and all romance.
And then I went to bed safe from Ghost Clowns.
The Pilot being The Pilot straight up refused to just let this holiday pass us by without making any type of effort so he had planned it out that he'd do something romantic to try and keep in the festivities of what this holiday is about.
"They are having a couples firework show with fire dancers and bonfires and hot chocolate, let's go to that!" he declared while throwing the poster for the event at me, "It will be a great Valentines Day!".
"But this starts shortly after we get off work! That leaves us no time for dinner! And all the traffic! And we'd be home late! And you'd get hungry!" I said throwing the flyer for the event in the garbage because I really hate traffic and being out late on a work night and fireworks? Fuck that, I want to eat Chinese food on the floor of my living room because I'm bad ass.
So we compromised and decided that we were just going to eat steak dinner at home and watch whatever happened to be on television, on the floor, and be happy with that.
It was my job to pick up the steak after work at the nearby butchers and it was The Pilot's job to pick up everything else on his way home from work.
I got my job done. But it took him forever to get his job done because I guess he was running around trying to buy flowers on the biggest flower day of the year and couldn't find any so he came home instead just with food and when I jokingly said "Hey, where's my flowers?!" he kind of had a mini breakdown while ranting about how "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN I TRIED!". And then he gave all my Valentine kisses to the dog as revenge.
So we ate an awesome steak dinner made by myself truly and then The Pilot said he had a surprise for me and that I had to go hide in the bedroom until it was ready. I heard him singing in the bathroom the whole time I was waiting so I was half expecting to be called in and shown what an amazing heart shaped dump he had made for me because that's usually the only time he sings in the bathroom is when he is pooping.
But, lucky for me, it wasn't a heart shaped dump. It was a bubble bath drawn just special for me! And what was that? A candle? A candle lit bubble bath for me? AMAZING!
Until, that is, I had to get into the bath and he turned off the lights and left me with a glass of sparkling lemonade to enjoy my bath. Do you know how creepy the bathroom is in the dark with only a single tea light candle to light it? I've seen horror movies. This is how people are killed by insane ghost clowns people.
And my only defense against insane ghost clowns? A glass of sparkling lemonade. That shit burns the eyes, you know.
And then the dog wandered in and got curious about the candle and ended up puffing it out so I was left in the dark with the sparkling lemonade and a fiance that suspiciously couldn't hear my calls for help. That is of course until he did hear them and turned the light on for me.
Afterwards we had some dairy queen ice cream cake because we bought that bitch on the weekend as a giant HIGH FIVE to painting the apartment and had a bitch ton left.
And then we watched a movie in bed that was completely ruined by the worst fart in the world that smelled like a million dead bodies covered in goat cheese that came out of a million dead goats asses.
That was my fart. Because I'm lactose intolerant.
And farts are the only way to make sure Ghost Clowns don't kill you in your sleep.
It also has the unfortunate side effect of killing any and all romance.
And then I went to bed safe from Ghost Clowns.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Some One Should Give Me A Tiny Naked Man For This.
Do you know what sucks balls? I know, I know, your first thought was most likely "Old people, because they are old and gross and their balls hang down to their knees and look like someones been sucking on a Jawbreaker too long and drained all the fun, vibrant colours from it." and normally, I'd totally fucking agree with you.
However, today, I've got to say apartment hunting is far worse than nasty old man balls that look like wrinkled bath fingers. It sucks even more when your a province away from where you want to live and can't actually visit any of the places you are interested in. All you have is a wing you ripped off a bird and a prayer you are forcing for a priest because you threatened to beat him with the bloody wing you ripped off of a bird in front of him.
Searching for an apartment this way, dear readers, means I've got to trust the Internet and what it tells me and you know how I know I can't trust the Internet? Because I'm on it.
So it isn't really that far fetched to know that after spending all weekend searching for places on line and making spread sheets of questions we need to ask and calling people about their available spaces for March, I had a mental break down and refused to do anything more "Let's not live on the street" related and instead watched a Full House marathon.
Naturally this distressed The Pilot who was attempting to keep a brave face about our search and he kept trying to entice me with places that looked cool and could compete for my attention more than Stephanie getting stood up by some type of school Jock because she is the least likable Tanner girl.
"Look, this place has two bedrooms and a neat kitchen!" He would say as he tried to shove the computer in my face. Which didn't work because I was really into the Full House marathon and it seemed that every place he found would turn out not to accept animals or not have a good enough place to park his corvette.
Finally, I had another mental break down inside of my first mental break down and it was something the Tanner family couldn't save me from.
"Where going to be HOMELESS!" I declared throwing my arms up in the air and kicking over the TV tray next to me, " All because of your stupid car and that stupid devil dog. We're going to have to live under a bridge and we wont even be able to afford cardboard to make cardboard furniture out of."
And before The Pilot could say anything to stop me, I took a deep breath and continued, " And when we have children they are going to be raised by homeless people because we can't afford to send them to public school and you know what you learn in hobo school? ALCOHOLISM! And they wont even be able to afford that!"
The Pilot opened his mouth to say something I started all over again, "Maybe we can find a horse and cut it open and live on the inside of it like that stupid dude from Star Wars. And maybe we can upgrade to Pinto in the future. And a few little ponies as we expand our family."
"But Baby ---" he tried again but was cut off because the phone rang and I had to answer it and who'da thunk it? It just happened to be a landlord calling us back about their place to rent that was two bedrooms and dog friendly for a cheap price a block away from my school and who was more than happy enough to rent a place out to us suite unseen and people unseen and all we had to do was fill out a fucking form!
Once I arranged for her to fax the application to work for today, I hung up with a happy assurance we're going to get a "cute place" and I jumped on The Pilot declaring, "We're going to have a place to live! Can you believe it? It's a good thing I never gave up hope even though you sat there telling me we were going to be some type of fucking homeless beggars on the street forced to live in horses. You sick fuck."
And all he could do was push me off the couch and attempt to smother me with a pillow because of all of his negative energy.
It was really bringing me down, man.
However, today, I've got to say apartment hunting is far worse than nasty old man balls that look like wrinkled bath fingers. It sucks even more when your a province away from where you want to live and can't actually visit any of the places you are interested in. All you have is a wing you ripped off a bird and a prayer you are forcing for a priest because you threatened to beat him with the bloody wing you ripped off of a bird in front of him.
Searching for an apartment this way, dear readers, means I've got to trust the Internet and what it tells me and you know how I know I can't trust the Internet? Because I'm on it.
So it isn't really that far fetched to know that after spending all weekend searching for places on line and making spread sheets of questions we need to ask and calling people about their available spaces for March, I had a mental break down and refused to do anything more "Let's not live on the street" related and instead watched a Full House marathon.
Naturally this distressed The Pilot who was attempting to keep a brave face about our search and he kept trying to entice me with places that looked cool and could compete for my attention more than Stephanie getting stood up by some type of school Jock because she is the least likable Tanner girl.
"Look, this place has two bedrooms and a neat kitchen!" He would say as he tried to shove the computer in my face. Which didn't work because I was really into the Full House marathon and it seemed that every place he found would turn out not to accept animals or not have a good enough place to park his corvette.
Finally, I had another mental break down inside of my first mental break down and it was something the Tanner family couldn't save me from.
"Where going to be HOMELESS!" I declared throwing my arms up in the air and kicking over the TV tray next to me, " All because of your stupid car and that stupid devil dog. We're going to have to live under a bridge and we wont even be able to afford cardboard to make cardboard furniture out of."
And before The Pilot could say anything to stop me, I took a deep breath and continued, " And when we have children they are going to be raised by homeless people because we can't afford to send them to public school and you know what you learn in hobo school? ALCOHOLISM! And they wont even be able to afford that!"
The Pilot opened his mouth to say something I started all over again, "Maybe we can find a horse and cut it open and live on the inside of it like that stupid dude from Star Wars. And maybe we can upgrade to Pinto in the future. And a few little ponies as we expand our family."
"But Baby ---" he tried again but was cut off because the phone rang and I had to answer it and who'da thunk it? It just happened to be a landlord calling us back about their place to rent that was two bedrooms and dog friendly for a cheap price a block away from my school and who was more than happy enough to rent a place out to us suite unseen and people unseen and all we had to do was fill out a fucking form!
Once I arranged for her to fax the application to work for today, I hung up with a happy assurance we're going to get a "cute place" and I jumped on The Pilot declaring, "We're going to have a place to live! Can you believe it? It's a good thing I never gave up hope even though you sat there telling me we were going to be some type of fucking homeless beggars on the street forced to live in horses. You sick fuck."
And all he could do was push me off the couch and attempt to smother me with a pillow because of all of his negative energy.
It was really bringing me down, man.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Ring, Ring, Ring! Fuck You Phone!
Considering that I've only been engaged for a few days, I got to tell you -- it already feels like forever. When we got home from that flight where The Pilot didn't kill us, he promptly decided that the best thing to do Post-Engagement was have a nap. That nap was totally interrupted by his phone ringing off the hook because people saw things posted on Face book and his parents and my parents had spent the afternoon phoning up everyone in Canada to tell them the great news.
This phone ringing? That wouldn't stop? It totally made The Pilot start having a hissy fit as he was curled up in a ball on the bed, rocking back and forth while whispering "Make it stop, please make it stop." and all I could do was cackle because I found it funny because nap times are precious to him. And I'm an asshole who can't let him nap.
It's sort of like when you see an innocent child sleeping undisturbed and you're over whelmed with the greatest urge to just shake it awake because if you can't be content and restful, they so fucking can't. That's what it's like when The Pilot naps.
The phone ringing didn't stop for hours and days and it got to the point we both wanted to turn off our phones and ignore the world but we couldn't because everyone wanted to know if we had a date set, and what we were going to do for the wedding, and oh my fucking god, have you set a date yet?
And then we did it.
Just joking! We couldn't do it because the phones they just kept ringing.
But we did make a lot of fucking toast.
We got a toaster, you see, and it was the first time we got to taste delicious bread on a constant basis in two years.
We had sex with that toaster.
Not kidding.
We totally fucked it good.
This phone ringing? That wouldn't stop? It totally made The Pilot start having a hissy fit as he was curled up in a ball on the bed, rocking back and forth while whispering "Make it stop, please make it stop." and all I could do was cackle because I found it funny because nap times are precious to him. And I'm an asshole who can't let him nap.
It's sort of like when you see an innocent child sleeping undisturbed and you're over whelmed with the greatest urge to just shake it awake because if you can't be content and restful, they so fucking can't. That's what it's like when The Pilot naps.
The phone ringing didn't stop for hours and days and it got to the point we both wanted to turn off our phones and ignore the world but we couldn't because everyone wanted to know if we had a date set, and what we were going to do for the wedding, and oh my fucking god, have you set a date yet?
And then we did it.
Just joking! We couldn't do it because the phones they just kept ringing.
But we did make a lot of fucking toast.
We got a toaster, you see, and it was the first time we got to taste delicious bread on a constant basis in two years.
We had sex with that toaster.
Not kidding.
We totally fucked it good.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Not Dying 2300ft In The Air In The Middle Of A Snow Storm Was A High Point, Really.
Yesterday on my birthday when I turned twenty-fucking-four, it really hit home how old I have suddenly turned when I didn't want to do any type of birthday celebrations because I was so tired and just wanted to take my pants off and go to sleep. Since The Pilot is stupid old he totally jumped on the bandwagon of going to bed early and we just decided to postpone any birthday stuff until Friday, which is today.
See? Twenty-Fucking-Four totally has peaked already and it's full of early bedtimes and long naps and complaints about being tired, grump, old and not wanting to do anything.
In the morning, however, The Pilot woke me up early and declared "WOMAN! Get out of bed, we's going flying!" and despite having a boyfriend who is a pilot, I don't really get to go flying with him that much because of both of our schedules and I refuse to pay him to escort me around the skies. Naturally I sprung out of bed bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to meet the day and not at all anything close to being a person who didn't want to get up out of the warm bed and contemplating throwing something heavy at him.
At the airport as we got the plane ready the winter day started to snow and get cold and ice was everywhere and the clouds were low with a threat of spitting in our faces and ready to throw crap at us. The Pilot hemmed and hawed about following through on flying until he finally gave a big old fuckit, and demanded that I get into the plane.
We flew up to 2300ft and right when I was like "Holy crap they all look like ants down there, I wonder what would happen if I started throwing stuff out of the plane, would it hit someone? Because that'd be cool." The Pilot demanded that I pay attention to him and stop pretending I'm going to ruin the people behind us, and he pulled out a box and said "So, are you going to marry me or what?".
But of course he asked it in sort of a long winded "I love you so much" sort of speech before he got down to asking the question and looking at me in an expectant way because it was obvious I was supposed to say yes. Like, you don't tell the person flying you "No" because that scenario only ends up with fireballs and death.
It was a no brainer to say yes and immediately after I gave him a sloppy kiss and put the ring on, we got caught in an ice storm and had to almost emergency land the plane safely so we didn't die in the snow.
Because that'd suck to die so shortly afterwards. People would have thought I said No.
See? Twenty-Fucking-Four totally has peaked already and it's full of early bedtimes and long naps and complaints about being tired, grump, old and not wanting to do anything.
In the morning, however, The Pilot woke me up early and declared "WOMAN! Get out of bed, we's going flying!" and despite having a boyfriend who is a pilot, I don't really get to go flying with him that much because of both of our schedules and I refuse to pay him to escort me around the skies. Naturally I sprung out of bed bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to meet the day and not at all anything close to being a person who didn't want to get up out of the warm bed and contemplating throwing something heavy at him.
At the airport as we got the plane ready the winter day started to snow and get cold and ice was everywhere and the clouds were low with a threat of spitting in our faces and ready to throw crap at us. The Pilot hemmed and hawed about following through on flying until he finally gave a big old fuckit, and demanded that I get into the plane.
We flew up to 2300ft and right when I was like "Holy crap they all look like ants down there, I wonder what would happen if I started throwing stuff out of the plane, would it hit someone? Because that'd be cool." The Pilot demanded that I pay attention to him and stop pretending I'm going to ruin the people behind us, and he pulled out a box and said "So, are you going to marry me or what?".
But of course he asked it in sort of a long winded "I love you so much" sort of speech before he got down to asking the question and looking at me in an expectant way because it was obvious I was supposed to say yes. Like, you don't tell the person flying you "No" because that scenario only ends up with fireballs and death.
It was a no brainer to say yes and immediately after I gave him a sloppy kiss and put the ring on, we got caught in an ice storm and had to almost emergency land the plane safely so we didn't die in the snow.
Because that'd suck to die so shortly afterwards. People would have thought I said No.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Christmas: Still Alive But Will Probably Change
One of the wonders of being on Christmas Vacation is not having to get up in the morning and drag my ass out of bed because I've got to work. Instead, I get up in the morning and drag my ass out of bed because someone may or may not be making me homemade blueberry waffles because that's how it rolls in The Pilot's house. Waffles, bitches.
We got to The Pilot's parents house on Saturday after a sleepless night at the Disco tech because when I book a fucking hotel I apparently book the party hotel and don't even get invited to the fucking party. It's like high school all over again where it's the Womb Mate throwing the party illegally at my parents house while I'm away for the night babysitting and when I get driven home by the parents of the kids I'm babysitting? Yeah, kids are totally puking over the balcony. Talk about awkward. That's what that hotel stay was like.
High school kids can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.
And then we nearly died on the road because it decided it was going to be a bitch and just suck. Ice? Snow? Rain? Icy Snowy Rain? WHY THE HELL NOT? Mother nature wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't wake up in the morning and decide that "You know what's the best part of waking up? Fucking with those two assholes trying to have a Christmas vacation." and that's totally what she did.
And then she put in her tampon because she was obviously bleeding out of her vagina and flipped a logging truck for good measure so we'd get stuck on the highway for an extra two hours.
Mother Nature can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.
But thankfully The Pilot gets us there while I spent a majority of the time napping and his parents welcome us with open arms but more importantly dinner I didn't have to cook or order at a window,and all is right with the world.
Ha, as if I was totally going to leave this with a fairy tale ending because what type of person would I be if I did that? Probably one that punches cancer kids in the face to steal their wish from that magic foundation and sees nothing wrong with what she did when Hospital security begin to question her credentials and connection with the cancer victim.
We decided to go shopping and that apparently offended Mother Nature because she decided to piss all over the hill leading to The Pilot's parents house and then freeze it so that we almost crash into the ditch and off the face of a cliff and nearly ruin our tires to get up the hill because sliding down it backwards wouldn't work because it'd be a domino effect and just kill the people behind us but that's slightly OK because hopefully their mangled bodies and broken cars would soften our fall.
Mother Nature can massage my balls, is all I'm saying.
We got to The Pilot's parents house on Saturday after a sleepless night at the Disco tech because when I book a fucking hotel I apparently book the party hotel and don't even get invited to the fucking party. It's like high school all over again where it's the Womb Mate throwing the party illegally at my parents house while I'm away for the night babysitting and when I get driven home by the parents of the kids I'm babysitting? Yeah, kids are totally puking over the balcony. Talk about awkward. That's what that hotel stay was like.
High school kids can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.
And then we nearly died on the road because it decided it was going to be a bitch and just suck. Ice? Snow? Rain? Icy Snowy Rain? WHY THE HELL NOT? Mother nature wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't wake up in the morning and decide that "You know what's the best part of waking up? Fucking with those two assholes trying to have a Christmas vacation." and that's totally what she did.
And then she put in her tampon because she was obviously bleeding out of her vagina and flipped a logging truck for good measure so we'd get stuck on the highway for an extra two hours.
Mother Nature can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.
But thankfully The Pilot gets us there while I spent a majority of the time napping and his parents welcome us with open arms but more importantly dinner I didn't have to cook or order at a window,and all is right with the world.
Ha, as if I was totally going to leave this with a fairy tale ending because what type of person would I be if I did that? Probably one that punches cancer kids in the face to steal their wish from that magic foundation and sees nothing wrong with what she did when Hospital security begin to question her credentials and connection with the cancer victim.
We decided to go shopping and that apparently offended Mother Nature because she decided to piss all over the hill leading to The Pilot's parents house and then freeze it so that we almost crash into the ditch and off the face of a cliff and nearly ruin our tires to get up the hill because sliding down it backwards wouldn't work because it'd be a domino effect and just kill the people behind us but that's slightly OK because hopefully their mangled bodies and broken cars would soften our fall.
Mother Nature can massage my balls, is all I'm saying.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
That White Stain You've Been Sleeping On? Yeah, That Totally Could Have Been Your New Brother
Do you know what I think is gross besides old people? I know, it’s really hard to imagine that something is grosser than old people because these old people? Yeah, they totally sit around in homes that are designed to make them understand how unwanted they are and then they’re left to shit their pants. That right there? Disgusting. And the only thing that can be the mostest grossest is having sex at your parent’s house.
No one should have sex at their parent’s house because who wants to take the chance that their parents have already had sex on every single surface ever and you know what that means? If you even just think of having sex on something you’d most likely be rolling around in your ejacuborted siblings that will never have had the chance to grow into human beings that will steal some of your inheritance because your parents didn’t want anymore kids and figured why not throw them on the ground where they belong, because they are unwanted. Why is that sperm all over everything? Because your parents are too old and carefree for condoms so they just use the good ole fashioned “pullout” method and since they’re retired, they don’t have to clean up ever.
Who wants to be doing the nasty when you’re potentially sitting in a sperm graveyard made up of siblings that weren’t loved as much as you were?
Nothing kills the moods faster than sperm graveyards.
This post is brought to you by Family Vacations; the only vacation I will not have sex with you.
No one should have sex at their parent’s house because who wants to take the chance that their parents have already had sex on every single surface ever and you know what that means? If you even just think of having sex on something you’d most likely be rolling around in your ejacuborted siblings that will never have had the chance to grow into human beings that will steal some of your inheritance because your parents didn’t want anymore kids and figured why not throw them on the ground where they belong, because they are unwanted. Why is that sperm all over everything? Because your parents are too old and carefree for condoms so they just use the good ole fashioned “pullout” method and since they’re retired, they don’t have to clean up ever.
Who wants to be doing the nasty when you’re potentially sitting in a sperm graveyard made up of siblings that weren’t loved as much as you were?
Nothing kills the moods faster than sperm graveyards.
This post is brought to you by Family Vacations; the only vacation I will not have sex with you.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Because When Eat Soup, You Automatically Have To Shit
I’m not sure about you but I’m pretty sure boys are one of the most disgusting things on this planet. Like, anything that doesn’t daintily sit down to urinate just screams DIRTY! DIRTY PENIS THING! And, honestly, I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything dirtier than a penis. Like, have you ever looked at a penis before? It’s hideous. At least vagina’s have the decency not to flop out there for the world to see if you happen to be wearing no underwear and those sport shorts. Not to mention uncircumcised wieners. Those make me sob. If I was ever faced with one up close, I’d have a nervous breakdown.
Now, I bet you are all wondering “What the hell is with all this penis talk? Like, I come on this blog for friendly advice on how to de-cancer my baby kitten angel and she’s talking about the horror of uncircumcised dinks? I WANT MY MONEY BACK!”
SURPRISE! You can’t have your money back because this talk about dinks? Yeah, it’s totally segwaying into the fact that someone in my household who has a penis and isn’t a dog totally decided that it was now OK for the people of the world to eat their lunch while sitting on the toilet taking a big old dump. Because, what makes your soup taste more delicious and flavourful? Why, sitting on the toilet taking a crap!
Needless to say I was horrified when I burst into the bathroom with some type of bathroom area emergency and since we only have one bathroom in our apartment it’s pretty much a given I will burst into the bathroom for any given reason to do whatever. Or maybe it’s that sometimes he hides in the bathroom to get away from me and I just have to burst in and find him because I am the champion of hind-n-go seek. It’s pretty much even more of a given that the dog will kick at the door until it opens up so he can, GASP!, realize that you aren’t in fact dead and he will be alone for ever, and ever but you are just going potty and you know what? It totally wasn’t worth kicking the door open so he wanders off to eat balloons. No joke. Balloons.
So imagine my surprise when I burst in and he’s sitting on the toilet taking a dump, reading a magazine and so casually sipping the soup that he so conveniently had in a cup. Imagine his surprise when I started going “Ew, who the hell eats when taking a dump? ARE YOU EATING WHILE GOING THE BATHROOM? PEOPLE DON’T DO THAT! ARE YOU AN ANIMAL? ARE YOU A FUCKING HORSE? THEY EAT AND POOP AT THE SAME TIME BUT THEY ARE HORSES! THEY HAVE AN EXCUSE!” and I’m pretty sure I yelled that loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear or maybe or neighbours but it’s OK, I’ve screamed out a lot worse stuff and it totally explains why they don’t make eye contact with us in the hallway.
After my scream fest The Pilot casually said, while sipping his soup and reading his magazine, “Let me be a man. Men do this stuff. If I want to save time and eat and use the toilet at the same time I have that right because I AM A MAN!”
“No, you’re a fucking horse.” And then I took his soup and his magazine to teach him a lesson in that he’s being gross and he couldn’t chase me because he was on the toilet.
So, tell me, pooping while eating? Gross? Yes?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
And Then I Made Him Cry & The Universe Thanked Me.
The Pilot, who I should mention off the top of my head is someone that I love dearly and truly wish to have his Guido babies even though he isn't really a Guido but more of a Frenchman so I'm basically saying I want to his have Froglet's, has this thing with his pillow. It's an odd thing, with his pillow, that I'm not sure I fully understand.
You see, his pillow is an old and I would like to call it stinky but I haven't actually found it to be stinky and I can only assume that it's because when The Pilot sweats he sweats delicious smells but I'm probably just mistaking his sweat for Fabreeze or something and this pillow is flat and gross looking and he demands that he cannot sleep without it because it's his lifeline and his very, very, bestest pillow friend in the world and he'd just die without it. He's also had this pillow since he was a toddler and despite the fact that he asserts a "wizard gave this to me as a gift upon my birth" it's just a ratty pillow long past it's time and I hate the thing with all my heart.
Because it's gross.
And it touches my pillows. All five of them. That I sleep with. Because I like making a Captains Chair out of them so I can feel as if a space ship flies me away in my sleep.
This pillow happens to be one of the only problems that plagues my golden relationship because I'm in the position where that pillow is almost 30 years old and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have fluff in it anymore but just ten pounds of human skin dandruff that attracts bed mites that then have sex on his face while he sleeps and I can't kiss someone who's face has been sexed up by bed mites. He's in the position that this pillow his is only reason for living and that without it he'd be a broken husk of a man and if I ever did anything to it he'd probably break up with me and take the dog with him. Or something like that, I usually tune out when he goes into his pillow hysterics.
Naturally, because of his attachment I've taken a stance that I'll go above and beyond the call of duty to hide this pillow and attempt that he'd never find it and be forced to buy a new one. So far it hasn't worked and as he'd claim he's spent several hundred nights of being tortured because his pillow has gone missing.
Last night, I came close to throwing it off the Balcony of our apartment and if it wasn't for the fact that The Pilot threatened to break-up with me, take the dog and never tickle my back before bedtime I would have thrown it. I can't do without those back tickles, you see.
So I had to consent to give him back his pillow and enjoyed it while he begrudgingly gave me back tickles and he made me promise never, ever, to do this again and I could only promise "I wont touch your pillow for another six months" because, honestly, we are moving in six months and it wont be my fault if that pillow doesn't make the move with us.
Or, maybe it totally will be my fault.
Because, honestly, I can handle it if those bed mites are having more sex than I. On my bed. Where I sleep.
You see, his pillow is an old and I would like to call it stinky but I haven't actually found it to be stinky and I can only assume that it's because when The Pilot sweats he sweats delicious smells but I'm probably just mistaking his sweat for Fabreeze or something and this pillow is flat and gross looking and he demands that he cannot sleep without it because it's his lifeline and his very, very, bestest pillow friend in the world and he'd just die without it. He's also had this pillow since he was a toddler and despite the fact that he asserts a "wizard gave this to me as a gift upon my birth" it's just a ratty pillow long past it's time and I hate the thing with all my heart.
Because it's gross.
And it touches my pillows. All five of them. That I sleep with. Because I like making a Captains Chair out of them so I can feel as if a space ship flies me away in my sleep.
This pillow happens to be one of the only problems that plagues my golden relationship because I'm in the position where that pillow is almost 30 years old and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have fluff in it anymore but just ten pounds of human skin dandruff that attracts bed mites that then have sex on his face while he sleeps and I can't kiss someone who's face has been sexed up by bed mites. He's in the position that this pillow his is only reason for living and that without it he'd be a broken husk of a man and if I ever did anything to it he'd probably break up with me and take the dog with him. Or something like that, I usually tune out when he goes into his pillow hysterics.
Naturally, because of his attachment I've taken a stance that I'll go above and beyond the call of duty to hide this pillow and attempt that he'd never find it and be forced to buy a new one. So far it hasn't worked and as he'd claim he's spent several hundred nights of being tortured because his pillow has gone missing.
Last night, I came close to throwing it off the Balcony of our apartment and if it wasn't for the fact that The Pilot threatened to break-up with me, take the dog and never tickle my back before bedtime I would have thrown it. I can't do without those back tickles, you see.
So I had to consent to give him back his pillow and enjoyed it while he begrudgingly gave me back tickles and he made me promise never, ever, to do this again and I could only promise "I wont touch your pillow for another six months" because, honestly, we are moving in six months and it wont be my fault if that pillow doesn't make the move with us.
Or, maybe it totally will be my fault.
Because, honestly, I can handle it if those bed mites are having more sex than I. On my bed. Where I sleep.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Because I Just Can't Shut Up Before Bed
The Pilot: OK, it's bed time. That means you put your head on your pillow, shut your mouth, and be silent. No more noise, no more questions, no more conversation. Bed. Time.
Me: But all I'm saying is that if I paid for a penis transplant, I'm sure as hell going to show it to everyone that I can. I'm not just going to tuck it in and forgot about it like a vagina! I already have one of those.
The Pilot: Silence, it's sleep time!
Me: Oh c'mon, I just want to talk about my hypothetical, mythical penis transplant.
The Pilot: No, seriously, it's bed time. I'm going to sleep. I'm not talking to you anymore.
Me: But...have you brushed your teeth yet?
The Pilot: Yes.
Me: Your penis?
The Pilot: I will brush your vagina if you don't stop talking to me like that and go to sleep.
Me: Stop being such a prosititute.
The Pilot: You're a messed up chimp and I hate chimps. Good night.
(Ten Minutes Later)
Me: Psssst, did you just call me "a messed up chimp"?
The Pilot: Yes.
(Ten Minutes Later)
Me: Pssst, why can't I be a well-adjusted, socially responsible chimp? Why do I have to be a messed up chimp from a dysfunctional family. Why do my parents need to be alcoholic drug addicts?
The Pilot: Seriously?
Me: I want to go to Chimp University and have a bright future! I want to be a socially responsible chimp, you know.
The Pilot: I'm sleeping on the couch.
Me: But all I'm saying is that if I paid for a penis transplant, I'm sure as hell going to show it to everyone that I can. I'm not just going to tuck it in and forgot about it like a vagina! I already have one of those.
The Pilot: Silence, it's sleep time!
Me: Oh c'mon, I just want to talk about my hypothetical, mythical penis transplant.
The Pilot: No, seriously, it's bed time. I'm going to sleep. I'm not talking to you anymore.
Me: But...have you brushed your teeth yet?
The Pilot: Yes.
Me: Your penis?
The Pilot: I will brush your vagina if you don't stop talking to me like that and go to sleep.
Me: Stop being such a prosititute.
The Pilot: You're a messed up chimp and I hate chimps. Good night.
(Ten Minutes Later)
Me: Psssst, did you just call me "a messed up chimp"?
The Pilot: Yes.
(Ten Minutes Later)
Me: Pssst, why can't I be a well-adjusted, socially responsible chimp? Why do I have to be a messed up chimp from a dysfunctional family. Why do my parents need to be alcoholic drug addicts?
The Pilot: Seriously?
Me: I want to go to Chimp University and have a bright future! I want to be a socially responsible chimp, you know.
The Pilot: I'm sleeping on the couch.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Pillow Talk
(Conversation between The Pilot, the man I've decided to attach the rest of my life too, and myself after watching the last Harry Potter movie. In Bed.)
The Pilot: I wish I new Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.
Me: Why?
The Pilot: So I can beat up anyone I want and ask questions with my closed fist and gets answers in blood.
Me: Who would you beat up?
The Pilot: All those annoying people in the theatre. Like, those parents that made out and let their four year old run around wild at a movie that started at ten at night. Or those people next to us who whispered loudly throughout the whole movie.
Me: I can get behind that.
The Pilot: I'd use my powers for good and just take down the people everyone wants to beat up but can't. Because they don't have super Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.
Me: So, you'd be a superhero fighting for Justice?
The Pilot: Yeah, I'll be beating up all the rude and inconsiderate people and all the people I just want to beat up just because.
Me: So, basically your idea of Justice is whoever annoys you at the moment.
The Pilot: Sort of. Maybe?
Me: That makes you a Supervillian. A dickish Supervillian who's idea of Justice changes depending on your own level of annoyance.
The Pilot: Why are you trying to ruin this for me?
Me: I'm not, I'm just pointing out the holes in your dream.
The Pilot: OK....maybe I'd be a Supervillian.
Me: Now, that's a dream I can get behind.
The Pilot: I wish I new Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.
Me: Why?
The Pilot: So I can beat up anyone I want and ask questions with my closed fist and gets answers in blood.
Me: Who would you beat up?
The Pilot: All those annoying people in the theatre. Like, those parents that made out and let their four year old run around wild at a movie that started at ten at night. Or those people next to us who whispered loudly throughout the whole movie.
Me: I can get behind that.
The Pilot: I'd use my powers for good and just take down the people everyone wants to beat up but can't. Because they don't have super Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.
Me: So, you'd be a superhero fighting for Justice?
The Pilot: Yeah, I'll be beating up all the rude and inconsiderate people and all the people I just want to beat up just because.
Me: So, basically your idea of Justice is whoever annoys you at the moment.
The Pilot: Sort of. Maybe?
Me: That makes you a Supervillian. A dickish Supervillian who's idea of Justice changes depending on your own level of annoyance.
The Pilot: Why are you trying to ruin this for me?
Me: I'm not, I'm just pointing out the holes in your dream.
The Pilot: OK....maybe I'd be a Supervillian.
Me: Now, that's a dream I can get behind.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My Sixth Grade Milkshake Brought All The Boys To The Yard
Recently, as I decided that I was going to be an awesome girlfriend and proactive members of society and avoid being forcefully put on that Hoarders show, I went through a lot of the boxes and bags that is filling our second bedroom and looking as if a clutter monster had sex with himself and ejaculated all over my floor.
Or perhaps I was hiding in there to avoid boredom and it was a change to escape from the dog because I’m pretty sure I’ve got him convinced that the room is haunted because every time he goes into it I throw things at him while hiding behind the door and screeching like a banshee the whole time until he runs out and takes cover under the kitchen table for a good hour.
I’m pretty sure this makes me the bestest dog trainer in the history of dog trainers because you don’t need some fancy Ceaser Milan certificate to train dogs. You just need to be bored enough not to care if what you are doing is borderline psychologically damaging to your animal.
After I briefly pondered the ethical implications of making my dog scared of ghosts and the bedroom, I realized that I was pretty awesome and didn’t have to worry about that and started rooting through boxes. I found books, and old books, and stupid things that I forgot I had and creepy things I wish I didn’t have and then I found a box of keepsakes my mom had given me like when I was five. Or eighteen.
Inside of it was stuff I had done in Elementary school because it’s only natural that the stuff I did in High school wasn’t important enough to put into a cardboard box and this only tells me that my mom thought I peaked in grade six.
Right at the bottom was a handmade grade six yearbook that my teacher, Mrs. J, had made us as we “graduated onto bigger and better things” such as you know, the 7th grade, but since my mom figured I peaked already she didn’t save any of these later years. Because of the peak, you see.
I was really touched at first that I found this and started reading all the farewells that were written to me because I was moving at the end of the school year and now I’m highly suspicious that our family move wasn’t because “Dad got a better job offer” but “You’ve made it as far as you could go in this school and we’re going to take you out of province and keep you out of school but SURPRISE! It’s apparently against the law to keep you out of school so we are just going to ignore your whole high school career because we don’t care.”
And then it hit me. In a flowery, flattering way that she figured would completely go over the head of a ten year old but jokes on her and me I grew up and learned how to read between the lines and realize that she was totally calling me a slut.
“I’ll always be amazed at your unique ability to befriend every single boy in class this year.”
Very funny, Mrs. J, you got me. If I wasn’t still ten I wouldn’t have realized how much you hated me so god damn much. Was it because I made friends with all the boys and you didn’t? Was it because my milkshake brought all the boys to the yard and your milk shake only had one real eyeball and the other was fake and I was the only kid in class who laughed when it fell out and rolled on the ground? Because I wouldn’t want that milkshake either.
Just because the boys in class always had the best lunches doesn’t make me a slut. If anything it totally made me a user because I’d only be the bestest best friends with the kid who’s mom packed him the best sandwich and treats because, really, if you don’t have the best lunch on the playground you might as well go kill yourself because no one will like you and your mom probably hates you because she backed your shitty lunch that wouldn’t get you a sixth grade girlfriend.
You are lucky, Mrs. J, that there is no such things as a 6th Class Reunion because just to be a vindictive dick I’d show up dressed like a prostitute only to claim it was your inspiration comment that turned me to the lucrative life of a whore because I was so damn good at making all the boys my friends.
Actually, it probably didn’t help that I was the only sixth grader in my school with giant boobs.
Maybe my mom was right. I totally peaked in sixth grade.
Fuck.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Pooping At Work. I Don't Do It.
Taking a doody at work is awkward enough because you never know if someone is going to walk in and look under the bathroom stall and see your shoes and immediately identify you by either saying your name and starting up a conversation and you hope to Baby Jesus that the "plops" don't happen in a lull in conversation or they just simply snicker to themselves and suddenly you're considered the "Work Pooper" and everyone knows that you have no problem dropping that load in a public toilet when, in fact, you really hate going doody in public because it's most likely a sin against evolution and one should only poop in their own toilet because then you can't be judge by the various levels of sound emitting out of your anus.
The only thing that can take the whole "It's awkward to take a dump at work" scenario into the realm of unreal awkwardness is when you finally give in because you really really got to take a doody and you hurry to the bathroom and thankthelorditsemptyandIcantakethisdumpinpeace! And as soon as you drop your drawers and start someone walks into the bathroom and instead of identifying you by your shoes or starting the work nickname "Work Pooper" they do something completely unexpected and just throw their breasts out there and begin to pump milk with a motorized breast pump.
Once you have set your mind to work poop there's no turning back so the only thing you are left to do is either hold it in until you possibly die from the strain or try and time the "plops" to the "sqooosh" of the pump and it's totally awkward because you know the person is letting her tits hang out and Breast Pumper knows that you are totally trying to take a poop and timing the sounds so her breastyness hides the fact. In which case it becomes awkward for everyone.
And the next thing you know you're sitting in the bathroom for half hour because you're trying to play the "Who will either magestically finish their poop first or who will run out of milk first" game and it's a game you really don't want to play but you also don't want to loose so you wait until the point your ass is kind of getting numb and she finally finishes and leaves and then when you do finish your poop it's not anywhere neaer magestic and bordering on rabbit poop and it's a disappointment you waited that long for such a small pay off.
Then you realize you totaly missed a meeting because you just won The Great Poop Wait Off 2011.
But not that this happened to me or anything. It happened to a friend
The only thing that can take the whole "It's awkward to take a dump at work" scenario into the realm of unreal awkwardness is when you finally give in because you really really got to take a doody and you hurry to the bathroom and thankthelorditsemptyandIcantakethisdumpinpeace! And as soon as you drop your drawers and start someone walks into the bathroom and instead of identifying you by your shoes or starting the work nickname "Work Pooper" they do something completely unexpected and just throw their breasts out there and begin to pump milk with a motorized breast pump.
Once you have set your mind to work poop there's no turning back so the only thing you are left to do is either hold it in until you possibly die from the strain or try and time the "plops" to the "sqooosh" of the pump and it's totally awkward because you know the person is letting her tits hang out and Breast Pumper knows that you are totally trying to take a poop and timing the sounds so her breastyness hides the fact. In which case it becomes awkward for everyone.
And the next thing you know you're sitting in the bathroom for half hour because you're trying to play the "Who will either magestically finish their poop first or who will run out of milk first" game and it's a game you really don't want to play but you also don't want to loose so you wait until the point your ass is kind of getting numb and she finally finishes and leaves and then when you do finish your poop it's not anywhere neaer magestic and bordering on rabbit poop and it's a disappointment you waited that long for such a small pay off.
Then you realize you totaly missed a meeting because you just won The Great Poop Wait Off 2011.
But not that this happened to me or anything. It happened to a friend
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Hotels: They Ruin Relationships.
Have you ever found yourself booking a fantastic hotel that is so magically special that it resides in the worlds largest mall, each room is a different theme, and has a giant Jacuzzi tub in the middle of the room and suddenly your excitement is turned to soul crushing disappointment because your "better half" decides that the room is far too expensive and that we should stay somewhere cheaper or possibly even sleep in the fancy hotel for one night and then change to a cheaper hotel for the other night and that the reservations should be cancelled a day after they were made and you feel like such a god damn idiot for cancelling you call up your little sister who lives in a different province and ask her to cancel it for you? Yeah, me too.
Or when you try and argue with your "slightly less then better" half about the why it would have been awesome to have had that room and you point out if we sleep in a cheaper place we'd probably get bed bugs and anally probed by mysterious visitors in the middle of the night because he decided to be a "tight wad" and when he asks you who ever would spend four hundred dollars on a hotel for one night and you point out that your little sister did the night she got pregnant and immediately lose the argument due to the whole "baby trap" clause that was written into your relationship who knows when? Yeah, me too.
Or that after hours of talking about it you finally win and your boyfriend agrees and says that you can go ahead and rebook the first hotel you cancelled but you just end it with "I don't want to stay there anymore" and somehow find yourself the bad guy in the situation? Yeah, me too.
Needless to say we will probably be sleeping in the back of the vehicle when we travel to Edmonton tomorrow. To make it even awkward we are bringing The Pilot's Gay Husband with us.
That's a threesome I never thought I'd have to be involved in.
Ever.
Or when you try and argue with your "slightly less then better" half about the why it would have been awesome to have had that room and you point out if we sleep in a cheaper place we'd probably get bed bugs and anally probed by mysterious visitors in the middle of the night because he decided to be a "tight wad" and when he asks you who ever would spend four hundred dollars on a hotel for one night and you point out that your little sister did the night she got pregnant and immediately lose the argument due to the whole "baby trap" clause that was written into your relationship who knows when? Yeah, me too.
Or that after hours of talking about it you finally win and your boyfriend agrees and says that you can go ahead and rebook the first hotel you cancelled but you just end it with "I don't want to stay there anymore" and somehow find yourself the bad guy in the situation? Yeah, me too.
Needless to say we will probably be sleeping in the back of the vehicle when we travel to Edmonton tomorrow. To make it even awkward we are bringing The Pilot's Gay Husband with us.
That's a threesome I never thought I'd have to be involved in.
Ever.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Breaking News: I Sext Like A Grandmaw
The other day I got a phone call from my little sister, who for the record would like to be mentioned more on my blog because she's pregnant and I guess in the "needy" trimester where she needs tons of attention and has decided that she will be called Womb Mate despite the fact that she has something growing in her womb but her first few attempts at spelling womb involved several extra letters, about an embarrassing thing she had done.
It would seem that she, while shopping with her fiance The Welder, had decided it was a perfect time to try and sext him or in her own words "sext him as a joke" and wrote something about the size of his special man organ and sent it off. It just so happened that seconds after she sent it off he checked his own phone so she figured nothing was up and he was responding to her text.
The response she got back was something along the lines of "Terrible, and gross, and this is so wrong" and it confused my Womb Mate and she laughed only to ask The Welder why he would send that text in response to her flattering sext. Only when he proclaimed he had no clue what she was talking about she realized what she had done.
She had sent the penis text to my younger brother. After she told me the story I laughed at her for hours because when they showed up to my parents place later that day neither of the three involved could look each other in the eye. I also told her I was never stupid enough to do something like that.
That is, until last night.
I accidentally sexted my Womb Mate. The first text was something about "The Pilot, you need to get home like really really fast and right now" and that alone wasn't really "sext-y" per say until I followed it up with a "because we're doing it tonight!".
I realized my mistake the moment the last text message was still in the middle of sending and I frantically wished for a recall button because two seconds later my dear, pregnant, turd faced Womb Mate called me up and laughed in my ear for five minutes straight.
Then she told my little brother so she wouldn't look like such a perv. And then she told The Welder. And they all agreed that my sexting is like that of a grandmother or an eight year old who has some vague knowledge of sex but not enough to be crude.
Needless to say I'm not living down the words "Do It" anytime soon.
It would seem that she, while shopping with her fiance The Welder, had decided it was a perfect time to try and sext him or in her own words "sext him as a joke" and wrote something about the size of his special man organ and sent it off. It just so happened that seconds after she sent it off he checked his own phone so she figured nothing was up and he was responding to her text.
The response she got back was something along the lines of "Terrible, and gross, and this is so wrong" and it confused my Womb Mate and she laughed only to ask The Welder why he would send that text in response to her flattering sext. Only when he proclaimed he had no clue what she was talking about she realized what she had done.
She had sent the penis text to my younger brother. After she told me the story I laughed at her for hours because when they showed up to my parents place later that day neither of the three involved could look each other in the eye. I also told her I was never stupid enough to do something like that.
That is, until last night.
I accidentally sexted my Womb Mate. The first text was something about "The Pilot, you need to get home like really really fast and right now" and that alone wasn't really "sext-y" per say until I followed it up with a "because we're doing it tonight!".
I realized my mistake the moment the last text message was still in the middle of sending and I frantically wished for a recall button because two seconds later my dear, pregnant, turd faced Womb Mate called me up and laughed in my ear for five minutes straight.
Then she told my little brother so she wouldn't look like such a perv. And then she told The Welder. And they all agreed that my sexting is like that of a grandmother or an eight year old who has some vague knowledge of sex but not enough to be crude.
Needless to say I'm not living down the words "Do It" anytime soon.
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