Sassmouth

I've Got the World on a String

Joanna:

My reproductive years have been divided pretty evenly between taking sensible precautions NOT to get pregnant and feeling like a total chump for ever passing up any opportunity TO get pregnant as I found myself injecting synthetic hormones into the fat where my jeans dig in if I sit down too long. "I'll never use birth control again, and just take as many as I get," I proclaimed confidently, assuming that might total zero, or possibly one. 

For a long time that was working pretty well, what with all the subfertility, and then when Sophia was two, a mere couple months after my period returned (I know, right?! Talk about your lactational amenorrhea), I popped a second pink line and whaddaya know, it stuck. And is currently wearing footie pajamas with penguins, and insisting on one more drink of water. 

And then my period came back even sooner this time -- eighteen months, a mere eyeblink for me -- and it got regular. And stayed regular. Turns out all those things I do to manage my PCOS -- taking metformin, eating mostly protein and vegetables and healthy fats, exercising -- well, they actually WORK. So hey, my bloodwork looks great and now I have regular periods without pharmaceutical assistance for the first time since EVER, and maybe this is the height of hubris but I kind of feel like if I wanted to get knocked up it might conceivably (har!) happen. 

Except now I got some shit I need to take care of. Like finish my prereqs and get into nursing school and GO to nursing school and once in a while wipe my ass without an audience. And babies have a way of interfering with all of those activities. Because of my history of hellish reactions to exogenous hormones (from the Pill to the subcutaneous shots, I FEEL IT ALL) I didn't want any of the hormonal methods of birth control. Which left barriers and IUDs.

Oh, did I mention my history of ectopic pregnancy? Used to be that disqualified you for an IUD. So we bought condoms and then I came up with a million reasons that we didn't need to use one JUST THIS ONCE IT WILL TOTALLY BE FINE so I asked for a cervical cap and they don't make those anymore and so I got a diaphragm and had to chase all the fuck around town looking for one BIG ENOUGH FOR MY GIANT CUNT and then I think it might've actually been a little too big. At any rate it was always uncomfortable. For everyone involved. Especially all the pharmacists I harrassed.

Also? Some men are very sensitive to spermicides.  

I had resigned myself to monthly nail-biting sessions when a good buddy pointed out that the IUD recommendations had been updated recently, meaning that even with my history of ectopic pregnancy I could convince a nice lady to shoehorn a little copper T into my ladyparts. The putting-in was just fine, and the bleeding wasn't a big deal. I expected a couple heavy months. I did NOT expect the string to have to be readjusted by an unpleasantly surprised husband as often as it needed -- although now that I mention it, it's been a while since it was a problem -- and even months later I still reliably have midcycle bleeding. Not spotting, either. BLEEDING. For a couple days. Which is not cool but preferable to the alternative of BABIES. I forget about it when it isn't happening so I never do anything about it and just deal. Periods are pretty normal by now, though.

So. Yeah. Hormone-free Paragard works for me. It does highlight the relative paucity of options, though -- there's not really much variety. There are hormones, there are barriers/spermicides, and then there's copper. (Mirena counts as hormones in my book.) If you are in a position to require contraception (for example, nekkid on your back with your heels to the sky), have you found something that works well for both parties? 

Gretchen:

My period returned at a whopping 6 weeks postpartum with both babies.  I have never in my life used any form of birth control other than the occasional condom (oh, shut up) and knowing when I ovulate (I am so regular, it's stupid).  So I've decided to go on Mirena (my periods have always been excruciatingly painful and heavy) and would love to hear of any experience with it.

A Married Person Tells You How to Get Divorced

Allow me to preface this by stating that I have never been divorced. But since my own life is lacking in dramatics and that particular flavor of conflict, I have been able to devote a not insignificant amount of time and energy to observing the divorces of others. Some might condemn my interest as prurient, rubbernecking even, but hey, you people are the ones who call me on the phone and the facebook and tell me shit. As an Impartial Observer of All Y'all's Divorces, I would like to offer the following handy tips:

1. Don't even try to be friendly with Ex. Yeah, yeah, it's the nineties and shit and it doesn't have to beeee like that with the animosity but guess what? IT'S GONNA BE. It's gonna be that way for a while, in fact. And the more you try to be reasonable and rational and fifty-fifty and even-handed, the longer you will draw out the unpleasant angry ugly phase. The more opportunities you give your ex to be a douchebag, the more he or she will BE A DOUCHEBAG. And by "opportunity" I mean "slightest chance to disappoint you or your children or not show up as agreed or refuse to do anything not mandated by law or even some things that are."  
   
    
2. Ditto Ex's family, unless there is a significant family divide of the type that results in convoluted letters to advice columnists and everybody is cutting Ex out of their wills and inserting you. These people are, more likely than not, the people who helped make Ex the way he or she is, so not only do they know all the same shitty tricks, they've been practicing a LOT longer.  
   
    
3. Never argue. Never. Ex and probably some of his or her family will be watching your every behavior for the opportunity to start a fight -- did you maybe nod towards a person of the opposite sex? Then you are a whore who takes in gentleman callers in front of your children, who will soon be removed from your care! Did you go out for fries with a friend while your children were left in the care of their loving in-laws? Then...see above. Also you abandoned your children. House getting a little messy? See all of the above and then add in Child Protective Services for living in filth.
   
   They will pounce on any chance to prey upon your insecurities. They want to draw you into an argument because it gives them the opportunity to show off their making-you-miserable chops and because as soon as you're in it, they've won. There is NO winning for you. You cannot win an argument with Ex, no matter how righteous you are -- and the second you start trying, you're at a disadvantage. The only way to get out successfully is to refuse to engage. Delete the text. Delete the email. Hang up the phone. Turn on your heel and walk away.
   
    
4. Cut them off sooner rather than later if their behavior proves troublesome. I don't mean interfere with custody or anything like that; I mean, if ex-Grampa is giving you shit, then he sees his granddaughters on Ex's time and not on yours. If Ex can't be respectful to you, then ex interacts through your lawyer. Does it sound extreme to do that if Ex is just being a whiny little shit like he/she always was the whole time you were together? Maybe. But I'm right. Trust.
   
   
   
5. Prepare to be disappointed at every turn. Alternately, have zero expectations. Need a weekend to care for a dying grandparent? Don't expect any favors from ex -- and by "favors" I mean switching weekends or ceding as little as an hour of child care in order to help you. Did Ex agree to come over to take a kid to the park? Be ready for Ex to show up long enough to throw a coloring book at the child and then have to disappear on "urgent business" (read: booty call). Or just not to show up at all, leaving you to explain to the child.
   
   
   
6. Steel yourself to be hurt on behalf of your children, again and again. Because Ex doesn't feel like paying the child support on time (because you're just going to spend it on whiskey and red shoes!) and they get to eat ketchup sandwiches for dinner again. Because they are so obviously not a priority in Ex's day as evidenced by the string of broken "dates" or shuffled custody plans -- and yet those kids still need and love that parent and believe, every time, that Ex is coming over just like he or she said.
   
   Because Ex is willing to let them down again and again, just to get under your skin. The fact that they have feelings just doesn't even register in Ex's rush to piss you off or hurt you or inconvenience you. And somehow that is even more heartbreaking. 
   
    
7. It's possible that if you follow all those tips, some years down the road, you will have the comfortable, friendly, reasonable, rational divorced relationship you thought you could have. It's been done. But in the majority of cases I have personally dealt with, that peace only comes after years of really heavy boundary-drawing. So why wait? Start demarcating those lines right away. At best you'll end up with something that works down the road; at worst you will have made your reputation as someone who is not to be trifled with -- even if that doesn't change the day-to-day terms of your existence. 
   
   

Did I describe your divorce or breakup? Not on purpose. The examples I used, I only used if I had heard them from more than two people. More than two. I hear the same story again, and again, and again. Who are these shitty people and why are they marrying my friends in the first place? And is there some book they've all read?

Maybe you had a good divorce. Maybe you're one of the lucky few who can jump right to the peaceful phase. That's wonderful and I am genuinely happy for you. But don't assume you will be among them, no matter how willing to compromise you might be. It's so much easier to move the boundary back than it is to push forward belatedly. I'm not suggesting being combative or argumentative -- just be prepared for the other party to be. Just be firm. Be clear about your limits. Prepare for the worst. And for the love of god, remember that the argument is always a quagmire. 

OH GOD IT'S TMI FRIDAY and I'm still recovering from Thanksgiving. Check back later today or tomorrow. WHEW.

Tuesday Night Tales: What Vermeer Never Painted

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who looooved her some hallucinogens. She loved them SO MUCH that she would do almost anything to experience their swirly pulsating charms -- even it if meant forgoing a reasonable sleep schedule. And that girl had a sister and a friend and that sister had an apartment and that friend had some connections that necessitated an eleven p.m. drive into the suburbs of Richmond to procure a few precious squares of blotter and you know what, why wait until tomorrow? When we could drop that shit toNIGHT, bitches? 

Yeah, it was midnight before they got back to that apartment. But they were young and must not have had jobs to go to the next day so put some sugar on that tongue, girl. At one point it seemed like a great idea to jump up and down! A lot! It was like flying! And the next day the young woman's knees felt like they were full of ground glass but it was totally worth it.

So in this apartment, the refrigerator was located at the end of a blind corridor exactly six inches wider that the refrigerator, and there was a seven-foot-high window that let in the light of the brightening dawn, and that light slanted golden into that corridor, dust motes dancing, sparkling, and the golden light on the ivory walls and the dark heavy moulding was like a Vermeer painting, rich with impeccably rendered detail and the heartbreaking light, oh god, the LIGHT.

And the young woman and her sister and her friend stood transfixed at the vision of an Old Master's painting right there in the apartment, the mind-bending improbability and yet undeniable rightness of the dingy refrigerator in that golden, golden light, the illusion of timelessness in a dead-end hallway, a painting come to life, the rising sun beaming through begrimed glass onto...onto...

"Wait a minute," said the sister, squinting into the corridor.  One solitary aqua can stood atop the ancient refrigerator, shattering the sepia dream into a million oh-holy-fuck-I'm-so-tired-of-tripping-where-is-the-goddamned-weed shards. Summoning the last of her discernment and disbelief she spat the words, "Vermeer never painted FRESCA." 

 

 

Tell Me Something Good

I'm trying to memorize a whole chapter of my Anatomy and Physiology textbook about digestion, but I'm getting all tripped up on the section about salivary glycoproteins. You know, mucins? That are, and I quote, "primarily responsible for the lubricating action of saliva?"

Yeah, so guess what I'm thinking about.

There are lots of heavy topics I want to get into -- the cost, for a woman, of speaking frankly and explicitly (and, okay, with obvious relish) about sex; sex ed in the home (you're going to need to sign this permission slip before your teenagers are allowed to have dinner at our house); some other things I have banging around in my head. But damn, I am exhausted and I have a lot of studying and busywork to complete before Tuesday evening. And I would love to know what y'all would like to talk about. 

So tell me something good. Or something interesting. Or something confounding. Give us a little to go on and we'll sass you back, but I think the Sassmouth girls are pretty tapped out right now. 

If You Had to Fuck a Kratt Brother....

Gretchen:

 If you're like me (and judging from the comments, some of you most certainly are), then you sit with your child for a wholesome, educational television program and think to yourself, 'If I had to fuck one of these characters, who would it be?'

What?  Oh, stop lyin'.  Yes you do.  So you can't choose 'nobody', that isn't an option.  SOMEONE is gettin' fucked on this cartoon, and you have your choice.  Also, for you greedy folks, you can only choose ONE.  You can't have both or all or whatever.  First of all, that makes the discussion boring.  Second, I don't really wanna picture you getting gangbanged by a bunch of muppets.  Oh, God, I'm lying.

Wild Kratts: Chris or Martin?  Martin is the taller one with the dorky voice--not necessarily a downside to me, for sure, but if we're going by sheer physique, it's Martin.  Something about Chris, tells me he'd work a little harder, and I'm on the fence about whether it'd be the annoying oh-christ-would-you-just-finish kind of trying or a wheeeeeeeeeee kind.

Blue's Clues:  Steve or Joe?  I vote Joe. 

Joanna: Can't I have Steve and Joe either sequentially or together? Does it help you to know that Steve is actually a punky little skate rat and really funny? Joe has that boyish charm thing going on, and he's definitely a bigger dude, but those little punks can be freaky in a good way. Steve to start, Joe to finish.

Of the Kratts, I'll take Martin too. For all the reasons you said.  

If you really want to make it interesting, though, let's take it in another direction. Pick a train from Thomas, or a dinosaur from Dinosaur Train. The paleontologist doesn't really do it for me. The dad from Sid the Science Kid seems like he'd be...a really good sport about things. Or maybe one of those really matter-of-fact swinger types. Like what 1960s Americans imagined all Swedish people to be.

I bet you the parents from Sid the Science Kid are swingers, actually. They're relaxed, attractive people. Maybe they vacation at adults-only resorts while Sid stays with his grandma?

Gretchen:  Dude, I have ALWAYS thought that about the parents from Sid!  The mom especially.  And as for the parents from Caillou (and yes, the show sucks, but shut up for a minute):  I believe the mom was a drunk slut for her college years.  There's this one episode where a friend calls from her past as she's like, 'I haven't seen you since...' and I always think '...that time we had a threesome in the frathouse bathroom'.  She prolly has a tramp stamp.

Okay, if I had to choose a train from Thomas, it would be either Gordon (despite the fact that he is the 'express'--ima choose to believe he is the express train to Pleasureton Sheds) or James, and the reason is this:  he's a little asshole (at least when Alec Baldwin narrates) and I kinda wanna fuck that smirk of his face.  Sick, I know.

Joanna: You know what, I know EXACTLY what you mean about James. Oh, and I think it goes without saying that when it's Alec Baldwin, the disembodied narrator is the first choice.

I was thinking that about the Caillou mom too! The dad seems like he can't keep up, and maybe she eats a little more of the coffee cake than she means to in an attempt to stuff down the quiet desperation about their lackluster sex life, and maybe he's a little uncomfortable with her old college friends so she has to talk to them during the day while he's at work, and class reunions are fraught with unspoken drama. Because she's still a little hottie, with that flippy haircut. 

Or maybe I've read him wrong and he's got a pair of silky lavender women's underpants beneath his pleated-waist jeans. I'd be surprised though. 

"Pleasureton Sheds" is my new name for my ladyparts.

Gretchen:  Oooh, ooh, wait:  I TOTALLY wanna do the dad from Dinosaur train.  The Pteranodon dad?  He is HAWT.

Why TMI?

Perhaps I flatter myself, but I consider myself a reasonable person. A stable contributing member of society who might bake you bread or bring you soup, who is raising her daughters not to swear in front of Grandma or teachers, who keeps her house tidy and puts flowers from the backyard on the table and calls her grandparents. You could say the same (except for the bread and soup, but they will totally share their Laughing Cow with you) for my sisters. 

What in the damn hell would possess such people to divulge intimate details about their personal lives, to engage in discussions about mental health and lubricant and sex toys and, shoot, what else have we talked about, periods? Did we get to periods yet? Don't worry, we will. Anyway, what could we possibly be thinking? In front of God and everybody? With our real names attached?

I mean, code names. We're using code names. 

I can't speak for Gretchen and Bridget, but for me there are three reasons. One, my favorite thing in the world is to talk about the things we aren't supposed to talk about. Not just because it's fun and naughty -- although it is! No, I like to elbow the patriarchy in the kidneys when it isn't looking. Because isn't that what this is about? Someone Says you can't talk about those things, and the "you" in question is usually women. It's not polite or proper or decorous. The ability to be those things when necessary is a valuable skill, but when everyone has to be those things all the time, it's stifling. This? Is consciousness raising. And a damn hell good time too.

Two, it's fun. Not just because it's elbowing the patriarchy in the kidneys -- although it is! But it is kind of titillating, yes, to talk about The Sexythings. Even -- hey, especially -- when we talk in a matter-of-fact way about them. Because then you think about those things and that's kind of fun. (Well, depending on the thing. We all have our limits.) It's fun to find weird secret things that we have in common, whether it's an encyclopedic experiential knowledge of psych meds or the need to change one's sheets on a frequent basis (or invest in a Sexlanket. I made that word up and I like it). Discovering you aren't a lone freak is what the internet is all about, man, and bonus? You can do it anonymously here. Unless you are me. But I'm willing to take that bullet for you. Admitting some of these things in person can get you a perplexed stare, a laugh, or a full-on shunning, but here the risk is considerably lower. Even if you use your real name and someone you know reads it, you don't have to discuss it. You can just pretend it never happened. 

Finally, I just. Don't. Care anymore. I am thirty-fuck-it years old and I have spent enough of my life giving a hard shit what anybody else thinks. Don't get me wrong -- I daily experience moments of terror that I have committed a fatal social mistake, that this blog may cost me a job some day, that I will lose friends or horrify my mother (Mom, if you're reading this...WHY ARE YOU READING THIS?). It is a leap of faith every time I post that baring myself this way will reward me as much as it costs me. And every comment I get, on blog or off blog, that says, hey, me too, I thought it was just me -- that's a silver dollar in the piggybank.

 

If It Turned Out You Were Not Ready for That Jelly

A really, really good piece on Jezebel: men talking about going down on women.

Because this clambake needed some more sausage.

 

TMI Friday: Ready for This Jelly

Today we're going to talk about lube. Yeah, that's right -- I'm not going to ease you in with a clever pun or slip in a comically oblique setup. We're just going to ram it right in there, because we have lube! 

There are lots of places you can go if you want to read about the different types of lube -- you can find water-based, silicone-based, oil-based, natural, flavored, utilitarian, post-apocalyptic, inadvisable -- but we'll leave that to the experts who care and have web designers and don't have to do their writing hunched in the dark of their children's bedroom while they wait for the hyperstimulated little effers to finally pass out. 

Each has its own particular uses and advantages -- don't use the oil-based stuff with latex condoms and oh, pretty much anything else -- and since I have NO IDEA what disgusting, elaborate things y'all are up to in the privacy of your own bedrooms/offices/bus seats, I can't recommend any one particular thing for your particular thing. Or things. But I will tell you some things about lube that I learned the hard way. 

Get it? Get it about the hard way? You know, hard? (Here the author leans meaningfully toward you:) HARD?

First. For general-purpose p-in-v activity, where "p" stands for "phallic object of unspecified type", water-based lube works best for me. It works equally well for fine handiwork, and does fine for deliveries in the rear. It's the Honda Civic of lubes. Maybe the Accord. Even the Odyssey. 

Second. Not just any water-based lube will do. Most of the brands readily available in the drugstore are glycerin-based, which might be fine for you but glycerin = sugar and for me that = yeast. No funny joke here. Because it sucks, even when you know about the boric acid trick (another post about that someday). Thankfully a very wise midwife, at my first postpartum visit some six years ago, suggested a product now called Slippery Stuff but formerly known as something more medical-sounding. In fact, it's what they squirt on their hands and speculum in that practice. Good stuff, and it comes in a large pump bottle. Not paraben-free but I decided I would accept that exposure. Quality of life issue.

There is a liquid version and a gel version, and I think the gel stays put a little better but gets sticky and dry a bit faster when exposed to air. Each has its own applications. But the stuff has no glycerin and doesn't cause my sensitive ladyparts any troubles.

Third. In fact, I'm pretty sure it prevents trouble. Due to a quirk of anatomy or maybe just some sort of karmic balance for my otherwise satisfying life, I get urinary tract infections at the drop of a cranberry. I've been this way since i was a little girl, and no one has ever identified an underlying cause, and even though I'm fucking excellent with my hygeine and various post-sex rituals I still sometimes get them, especially after a lot of friction. 

But friction...isn't that kind of the point? Well yes and no. Unlubricated friction pretty much guarantees me misery with 72 hours, but if I am generous with the lube, everybody's happy. Very happy. 

Fourth. But blah blah foreplay blah blah natural lubrication blah blah gradually warmed up blah!

Hey, I am never going to tell you not to spend HOURS on foreplay. But 1) sometimes, depending on a woman's natural tendencies, current hormone profile, point in her menstrual cycle, or failure to drink anything but Coke Zero and coffee for the past two weeks, even an entire episode of Community's worth of foreplay might not get you to where you need to be for a serious prolonged pounding, and 2) does nobody else ever get impatient? Or occasionally prefer the experience of relative unpreparedness? No? Whatever. And finally 3) lube is A LOT OF FUN for foreplay. I hate the term "foreplay" anyway. It implies that all the other fun stuff is just a means to an end, and that end is penetration, otherwise it doesn't count! And that is fifty different flavors of dumb. 

Also, on a more personal note, and I bet you didn't even imagine such a thing was possible, that it could get more personal than the above: I used to feel awful about myself if I didn't produce my own six quarts of ladyjuice. Just completely inadequate and defective. And instead of calling time out on activities I soldiered on and didn't always have the time I could have had, ending up uncomfortable or hard up or with a horrible UTI. Getting comfortable with using some lube made a huge difference, and learning there was something besides K-Y and Astroglide made things even more awesome. 

Bridget: OK...if we're talking strictly lube, I am a fan of Sliquid, but typically only use it if I'm incorporating toys (especially, and don't click on this at work or in front of impressionable youth, this guy).  Seriously...the image does NOT do the actual thing (hee) justice! Guess my eyes were bigger than my vajay.

But I digress...what I'm about to say is going to be a significant departure from Joanna's take on the matter.  Whereas Jo's perspective involves genitourinary health promotion, therapeutic self-disclosure, and insightful product analysis, MY approach...well, I'm just nasty. And my opinion only serves to raise awareness of my grodiness. See, I like good ol' fashioned spit. Specifically, the particular consistency of spit that results from...uh...being gagged with something. Not sayin' what, cause I'm a lady, you understand. But yeah, a little of that seems to go a long way and doesn't linger on my parts like lube and is also body temperature (I can't stand cold stuff down there and the concept of warming lube creeps me out). I know, I know! I deserve every last UTI I get (although I KNOW the one I have now is a function of coke zero swillin' and 12+ hour shifts, so I will keep spittin' in my slice thank you very much). Oh, and I know this does little to detract from my less than hygienic practices, and you probably don't believe me anyway, but I DO perform meticulous clean up. No really, I DO!

Gretchen:  Bridget, if how you treat your 'back massager' is any indication of cleanliness, then NO YOU DO NOT, stop playin'.

Dude, what would you call that particular consistency of spit?  That comes from the way-back (the technical term for the last set of rear-facing seats in a station wagon) of the throat?  Because I do know what you mean about that:  it is extra slimy and...durable?  Hard to explain.  Actually, you know what?  It's a little phlegmy.  Oh no, the next time that happens I'm gonna remember that it's phlegm and not be able to use it.  Which is probably for the best. 

I might have the opposite problem you used to have, Jo:  absolutely no warm up is ever required; this slip n' slide is already ready already.  Not problematic at all, but it means I've had to venture into the land of lube only for prolonged activity and...er...back door entry.   Or if I'm reeeeeeeaaaaaally stoned and, therefore, dehydrated. And for that reason, I don't perhaps have the breadth and depth of knowledge you slutty sluts seem to.  Sluts.

 

Wow, I think it is safe to say that we have, for once, TRULY provided TMI here. 

Joanna: And I'm popping back in to say that I think spit is the WORST. It has a paradoxical effect after a certain point and I feel like it dries or irritates certain tissues, at least unless it is being provided directly from the source in a constant and steady manner.

In other words, unless it is being applied directly and thoroughly, or unless it *is* that phlegmy stuff, it's too thin and kind of catches on things. It kills more people than it saves.

You know what else I forgot? When we were trying for FIVE GODDAMN YEARS to get pregnant, we were at one point using pasteurized egg whites for lube in the hopes that they wouldn't kill the sperm. It was yicky. There are some lubes marketed as sperm-friendly but I am not convinced by even the manufacturer's own data. God. And sometimes we just used straight-up egg whites from organic local eggs in the hopes that I wouldn't get crotch salmonella. So far so good, but whoooo am I glad I don't have to think about that ever again.

And I'm sorry, how am *I* the slut if you are the one with the giant light-up arrow pointing to your greased-up Tunnel of Love and people are just innocently walking down the sidewalk and they go "whoops!" like on a banana peel and they're TOTALLY INSIDE YOUR VAGINA? HOW AM I THE SLUT THEN? 

All The Middle-Aged Ladies

Attention, ladies.

Are you in your mid-thirties?

Maybe you share my problem My problem is...well, it's...god, it needs a name.

Having reached my mid-thirties and finding myself in a period of remarkable hormonal equilibrium, I am dismayed and insufficiently embarrassed to report myself a victim of TERRIBLE UNRELENTING HORNINESS.

I'm sorry. There's just no time to mince words or come up with cute euphemisms because I have to go bother my husband or my, um, kayak.

Several good friends whose names i will not link here because they have jobs assure me that it happened to them too, the descent of a fifteen-year-old-boy-hormone-horny fog that makes certain songs very difficult to listen to in the car because cute boys sing them? In accents? And I don't even know what they look like but they sound kind of Scottish and I HAVE TO GO.

Let me tell you about my period. No, this is not a digression. It goes like this now: feel sad => a little blood => feel reasonable => a lot of blood => slightly less blood => TERRIBLE UNRELENTING HORNINESS TERRIBLE UNRELENTING HORNINESS => feel sad &c.

So in other words, unless a torrent of life force is gushing forth from my bits, I am totally holding my Trapper Keeper in front of my boner so nobody sees it when I go up to write the Pythagorean Theorem on the board. I actually considered getting pregnant to make it stop but you know what? That just makes it worse until the baby is so gigantic that it makes my sciatic nerve sizzle and pop and my legs stop working. So no go on that. Plus then there's the matter of the baby, and that makes it really hard to get the Frateillis to bang you because that was TOTALLY going to happen.

You know what, shut up. If you share this problem, make me feel better about it. If not, please send youtube links of bands from the British Isles.