The Vagina Monologue

I know I'm supposed to be posting The Best of ABCM, but I have a funny, yet painful story to tell you. After you laugh your asses off at my expense today, you'll be happy I waited. To my male readers, I apologize in advance for the numerous vagina references that will ensue. Here's a link to something you'd rather occupy your time with. Don't click it if you're at work. Or school. Or church. Or your kids are within fifty feet of your computer. You've been warned.



I hope I don't gross you out too much because this is a story about my recent, failed attempt at hair removal.

I don't like using razors because, as some of you know, the texture of a black person's hair makes shaving an almost painful venture. Add to that the fact that razor bumps look atrocious and I'm sure you see my point. I'm not a big fan of using clippers because you have to do it damn near everyday and it leaves a look that's similar to stubble. Also not attractive. Home waxing kits have a tendency to take off your skin. Ouch. So being gainfully unemployed and therefore unable to indulge in spa hair removal, I was down to my last option: depilatories. Yes, I tried to use Nair for my personal...um... landscaping.

I know you're laughing at my stupidity by now, but in my defense, the bottle said it was "safe for the bikini area." Who knew that crap was going to seep into my lady bits? 

So there I was with Nair carefully placed along the perimeter of my hoo ha, Nair covering both of my hands because boy, can that shit get messy, and suddenly my clitoris was on fire. And not in a good way. It had taken me all of fifteen seconds to apply it and by second number sixteen, I felt like there was something eating through my skin. Turns out, that's exactly what was happening. 

It took fifteen more seconds to get all the gunk off my hands and yet another fifteen to get it off my crotch. All total, the depilatory from hell was on my body for approximately forty-five seconds. In those forty-five painful seconds, it had broken my skin and left me bleeding and raw. I felt like a cat had clawed its way into my pants. And although there are long lines of people waiting to get into my pants, that's just not the way.

It took me and my friend, a Reiki II and a Reiki master respectively, to heal my aching lady parts. Truthfully, I probably could have done it myself, but there are some things with which you take no chances. Vaginas fit in that category. I could barely even walk on Saturday, but by Sunday morning, thanks to Reiki healing and a healthy dose of Percocet leftover from some surgery or another, I was 99% better. Today, I'm at 100 percent.

It's times like this that I'm glad I don't have a job. How the hell do you call your supervisor and explain that you can't come to work because you burned your cooch?

I guess this means I have to go back to shaving. I know everyone is going to come on here and give me advice about the best razors and what not, and that's fine, but I think I've tried them all. Maybe I'll go all rogue hippie and just let it grow into a wild, wiry overgrown garden kinda thing. I do like gardens... 

You can stop laughing at my dumb ass now. It was a momentary, albeit tortuous, lapse in intelligence. Okay, you don't have to stop. That shit is hilarious and even I know it. When I told a few of my friends, they were very sympathetic, but I know they were laughing inside. All except one friend who just laughed outright in my face. Bitch. That's one of the reasons I love her, though because I always know where she stands. Gotta love a bitch who will laugh in your face and not behind your back.

Tomorrow, for sure, I'll feature my best posts from this past year. You won't want to miss the bitching, the name-calling and the judgments that I've passed on people this year. I even called a woman the "c" word once, and I hate that word. 

But that cunt deserved it.

It's Time For a Quickie

I just had one, so since I know that many of you aren't getting it regularly either, I thought I'd share mine. You can thank me with cash. That would make me a blog whore, huh? Oh, well, it's better than giving it away for free.

 

Jazz.

What is that about? 

It's as difficult to navigate as Shakespearean poetry. It's akin to nails scratching a a chalkboard. In a word, annoying.

Whenever a man wants to impress a woman, he tells her he likes Jazz. I thought guys stopped doing that, but I swear, I heard a guy saying that to a blonde with big boobs just yesterday. Every time someone wants to seem "deep" or "mature," they proclaim to like Jazz.

Nobody likes Jazz.

That's the biggest crock of bullshit since Tom Cruise pretending to be in love with Katie Holmes so no one would know he was gay. Please. Jumping up and down on Oprah's couch. Who does that? He looked like a fucking idiot.

Straight guys were like, "Dude! Get your dumb ass off that couch and go to a gay bar or something."

Gay guys were like, "Don't send his jazzy ass over here. We don't fuck with him like that."

So yeah.

Jazz. Tom Cruise. Bullshit. 

Don't ask me why I keep fucking with Tom Cruise. Something about him just bothers me. Maybe it was how he was on TV telling women they shouldn't take medication for postpartum depression. Hey, asshole: no uterus, no fucking place in the conversation.

And yes, I realize that I've used the word 'fuck' a lot today, maybe even more than usual. Well...it's that kind of fucking day.

My one year anniversary is coming up soon, so stay tuned for The Best of ABCM. I've written some gems that many of you have yet to read. Needless to say, you're in for a treat.

There's Bullshit Afoot

They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. You know who said that? Some bitch who steals people's shit.

I realize that I am the most creative bitch the internet has seen in awhile. I know. But just because I've got ideas spewing from my every orifice doesn't mean that you can take your pick of them without giving me at least a cursory backlink on your blog when you take my idea and do a whole fucking post on it like it was YOUR idea.

For example, last week on Facebook, my friend Micael Chadwick had this to say: "If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, why does my soul want to scream with every fiber of its being: 'GET YOUR OWN FUCKING IDEAS!!!!'"


When I read this I yelled at my computer screen, "I know, right!" It reminded me of a time when I did a blog post that I will not mention and then a reader did a similar post shortly thereafter and didn't even bother to mention where their brilliant post idea came from. I immediately thought of writing this post, but then life and its incessant bullshit happened, so I said fuck it. 


But then...then... it happened again. Now I'm calling bullshit.

Maybe you don't know that it's bad manners and all sorts of fucking assholeness to take a fellow writer's idea and pass it off as your own. It is. I know how hard it is to come up with fresh ideas all the time to entertain your readers. That's why my ass isn't on here everyday wowing you with my brilliance. I'd love to, but some of the shit that goes on in my brain should actually stay there. 


This, however, is not one of those things.


Every time I read an article or blog post that sparks an idea for my own genius, I make it a point to mention from whence that genius came. I expect the same respect especially if you have the nerve to call yourself my loyal reader, or worse, my friend.


Let me be clear about what I mean. I do a blog post about, say, cute kittens (which I would never fucking do) and you love it because your kitten is incredibly adorable. You make a comment and inform me of such. Next week your kitten does the cutest backflip trying to catch a toy mouse and you must blog about it. That's not what I mean. That's your cat and your experience and you're a weird cat person and I expect you to write about cutesy bullshit stuff.


No, what I mean is this: I write about, say, stem cell research and its pros and cons and then you, dear loyal reader, write about the exact same thing the very next day. And nowhere in your post is the sentence, "I was reading a post on ABCM and it got me thinking..." That's what the fuck I mean.

Unlike Micael, I don't mind if you borrow my ideas. To the contrary, I'm an attention whore and anytime someone uses an idea they got from me, I feel good. Important, even. But I want my fucking credit and from this politically correct, non-confrontational post and beyond, I will call your ass out. I will post a link to your stolen post so that all of my actually loyal readers can come to your blog and call you a thieving bitch. Or something like that. 


Don't think I don't love you though. I do. This is what we crazy bitches mothers like to call 'tough love.' I both adore and welcome any opportunity to express my tough love.


Pay close attention to the number of followers to your right ~~~~~~~>.


If the number goes down, you'll know that I have offended the perpetrators. 


I don't give a fuck.


But then, you knew that, didn't you?






On a totally unrelated note, I want to say a GI-FUCKING-NORMOUS thank you to all of my friends for sending me your love and support during my time of bullshit overload. This is probably a sad thing to admit, but you guys in my cyber world are some of the best friends I've ever had. For some reason, I don't have a lot of friends in real life...I wonder why that could be?


Oh, yeah. I'm a bitch.


Anyway...


Big kisses and inappropriately long hugs to you all!