I have to admit - sometimes it's
Daddy (not a)Jerkface is probably just happy I'm not a stripper**. Or in jail. Or living in some radical commune somewhere where we all worship the Great Lord Sucksacockalot and run around with tampons stuck up our butts or something.
Still, it's kind of weird. If I was writing about puppies and flowers and kittens and stuff, it would be fine.
But I'm not. I'm writing about being obsessed with a YA saga about sparkly vampires, one of whom I really want to do the horizontal tango with, which I've expressed, graphically and repeatedly, on this site.
Plus, I swear like a sailor. No, fuck that, worse than a sailor. And since we're being honest, let's just admit that the sex talk isn't just limited to Robward. We talk about fucking-humping-bumping-thumping-just-plain-doin'-it all the time. Oh, and we can't forget our vaginas - we looooove to discuss those, in detail.
Then things got even more... interesting. I had the (not a)Jerkfaces over last Saturday and Brother Jerkface mentioned that he told his co-workers about the blog. Mommy (not a)Jerkface and I were both suitably aghast.
You told your co-workers about Twitarded? For real? Your male, scientist-y co-workers? I know you're going to eventually read this and boy are you gonna PISSED but... What the fuck were you thinking? Remember that time you ate my bagel? When I was like 14 and you were 17 and I almost murdered you because I was STARVING and you were totally heartless and ate the last bagel in the house, the salt one that I had toasted and smeared with yummy butter and naively abandoned on the counter to wash my hands? The fuck? So, yeah, I'm talking smack about you on my blog. It's called payback, dear brother. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold.
It was MY bagel, you ass-clown. YOU ATE MY BAGEL!!! [This story is infamous in my family. It gets brought up at least twice a year...]
That's okay, though. Really. Because I need to point out something to you that you probably didn't consider.
Granted, this didn't occur to me until today but there are potential ramifications of Brother Jerkface spreading the, um, Twitarded love (that sentence alone was borderline it's-time-for-therapy) to his co-workers.
Let me just preface this by saying for some bizarre reason, I'm totally cool with everyone knowing I want to hob RPattz's knob, because this would never happen in real life, no matter how many hypothetical Kama Sutra positions I put us in [answer: a lot]. It's equally fine with me that they know about my massive porn consumption, not to mention my obsession with taking a poo in RPattz's trailer. I have no excuse for this - I simply lack shame.
But I am somewhat disturbed about one thing. Not sure why... but I am.
Two words - personal lubricant. Remember this post? It's bad enough that I've had to have dildo conversations with Mommy (not a)Jerkface but now your co-workers know your kid sister uses lube.
Hi people I may or may not know if real life! How are you?! Did you have a good holiday? Just ignore the picture above and we'll be alllll good...
Horrified? Uh huh, yeah, I thought so.
Now, I ended up never buying said lubricant, but still. Not only is my family now aware of a lube called Make Me Cum but so do your co-workers and for some reason this makes me feel a little squiffy inside.
...Okay, I'm over it.
Back to writing some porn.
**Not that there is anything wrong with that profession! I'd do it if I could dance in six inch stilettos and didn't look like I swallowed a beach ball. Whole.