Pillow Buddies

I found my mojo the other day for a whopping five minutes.  At first I thought that I was peeing my pants.  Upon inspection, I started to revel in the joy that only someone stranded in the Mojave would express should they fall upon a pool of water.  I was overjoyed and ready to bump some uglies.  So I go up to SSL and tell him to do me.  And what does he say?  It doesn't really matter.  His face said a thousand words.

So what did I do?

On my way to the gym to let out all of that extra sexual energy, I sat my naked fat ass right on his pillow.  You don't want to have sex?  Fine.  Have fun inhaling my ASS!  Sweet dreams.  SSL would make the worst hooker.  I've told him this over and over.  What's a relationship without sex?  I'll tell you.  It's pretty much living with your friend.  ...Your prudish, stingy with their junk, crotch-tease, incapable of being ruffied, friend.

Only in Delaware...

                                          "What the Fuck?" 

That's what I said when my two friends and I recently went to a diner.  Was it the lackluster food?  No.  Was it the repulsive bathroom?  No.  Was it the side of the highway location?  Nope.  All of those things are the reasons why I actually enjoy diners.  So why did I do a double take and spew out the obscenities?

Because this dipshit of a waiter (our "host") sat us at our table, walked away and came back carrying this...

As he sat this monstrosity in front of our table, he said "these are our specials" and walked away...

And that brought me down the path of mindbogglement.  When I came to the end, I reiterated what was in my head and out came

"What the Fuck?"

Amazing shit for ALL

I hate life...

Who Needs Lube?

I don't want to brag or anything, but...  Fuck it.  I have a pretty amazing crotch.  Or at least, I used to.  One thing that nobody told me about pregnancy was that I would become ...dehydrated?  Let me be real.  I'm currently fucking housing the goddamn sahara desert in my pants.  My crotch has dried up like an 86 year old's. 

What the bloodclot?  I'm currently going through this mystic quest and the only thing that can calm me down right now is some "good loving".  Seriously.  But who the hell wants to screw sandpaper?  (If I had a dick right now, I'd be internally crying.)  I feel bad for SSL.  Not only do I have to stop giving him shit for his strange affinity for BBW porn, but I have to kind of encourage it, just so his jank stays normal.  I don't know how he does it.  Say that I were a guy.  Not only would I be a heart-throb, but I'd have a sex drive like a trucker.  Moving on... Say that 'Alexis with a dick' knocked some broad up with her legendary dangalang.  Then let's say that the broad dries up like I'm currently doing.  'Dangalang Alexis' would jump ship.  I wouldn't have the fortitude to get through her dryspell.

What's ironic is that I used to mock the signs in California that posted warning of water shortages.  Just to spite mother nature, I would let the faucet run the entire night while I was sleeping instead of listening to my Walmart sounscapes CD. 

I would shower until my face pruned up and would flush the toilet every time I walked by the bathroom.  At the time, I couldn't possibly fathom the concept of "no moisture".  Now?  I want to post those same signs on the crotch of my pants.  What used to be a fucking Niagra Falls (I told you it was good) is now the result of having an irrrrresistable woman part.  SSL couldn't get enough, he knocked me up, my hormones got the best of me and now the only thing that could calm me from a maniac's tantrum is the only thing that I am forbidden to do.

One thing that I refuse refuse REFUSE to employ is lube.  No way in hell will I trick SSL's dick into thinking that the crotch is back to normal.  That's a heinous crime so many women commit without thought to the side effects it has on males. 

It's like buying pastries from a bakery and passing them off as your own durring a soiree.  What kind of nut would stoop to such a level of dishonesty?  SSL gets the real crotch or no crotch at all.  It's not even like SSL turns me off.  I'm always attracted to him, but for some sick kind of revenge Mother Nature wants to play on me, I can't seem to get wet anymore.  End of story.  Who am I kidding?  I'm going to die a reborn virgin.  Shoot me.  Take me out of my misery and fucking shoot me.  It's already been almost a week without sex.  AN ENTIRE WEEK!  How am I supposed to survive under these conditions?????

Rotten Eggs

Just a thought...

My brother who is usually diabolical and cold apparently has a freakishly small baby heart dedicated to children's happiness.  What a sicko, if you ask me...  Oh, you didn't?  Uh....

Me being an immature eight year old stuck in a mature body was torn in two when Easter came around two years ago.  I'm not a holiday person by ANY means, but I adore candy and I equally go manic over hide and seek games.  And that is why while most families spent Easter in church praising Jesus, I was busy seeking out local Easter egg hunts to fulfill my sugar fix.  Two years ago I was busy doing some shit in Harlem and saw posters at a park saying that there was going to be an Easter egg hunt.  My body started to hyperventilate with excitement until I scanned down the poster and saw that the egg hunt was for twelve year olds and younger.  At that point, my mind started replaying snippets from a great movie called Falling Down, staring Mr. Michael Douglas.  If you haven't a clue as to what I'm referring to, then do yourself a favor and don't even rent the movie.  Buy it and thank me later...

So I go up to my apartment with my shoulders dragging on the ground.  I was the only person in the entire world brooding over impending holiday festivities.  My life sucked.  When my brother came home (we were roommates at the time), I told him about the bad news.  Then, to make myself feel better, I started to make a carrot cake. 

And that is when it hit me, right as I was cracking the eggs for the cake.  If I couldn't partake in the egg hunt, then NOBODY would.  Over my dead body would I watch as some giddy six year olds prance around and lazily pick up lousily hidden plastic eggs filled with candy.  This was the plan that I disclosed to my brother.  This was the first time since I spent the entire winter growing out my armpit hair that he looked at me with such disgust.  My master plan...

*If I wasn't allowed to have fun with everyone, then I didn't want them to have fun either.  I was going to go to the supermarket to purchase six-twelve dozen eggs and spend the night painting them.  I would make them resemble official eggs that I made when I was "twelve and under".  Then, I would bring them to the park early in the morning before the festivities started and hide them just like all of the other eggs.  Red, Blue, Orange, Green, Yellow...  The park would look like a cute non-homosexual rainbow.  Once the last egg was hidden, I would go to the top of the park and wait...

Crowds would show up and the kids would file through the park like savages.  Some would find and capture the eggs that the city had set for them.  Others would find the eggs that I left them.  And that is when all Hell would break loose.  Why?  Because I would absentmindedly

 ..."forget" to boil the eggs before I painted them or hid them.

*Am I the only person on the planet who thinks that this plan is hysterical?

MISSING: My Pussycat. If Found, Contact Alexis ASAP

I shape up my pubes.  Everyone should in my opinion.  With them shaved off completely, I feel like a naked jaybird, but if they are properly trimmed, I feel like a new person.  Since adolescence, I have learned that there's a fine line between feeling like a million bucks and wanting to jump into a nuclear waste-filled vat.  Luckily, I have perfected my crotch hairstyles.  Only when I'm feeling computer blue, do I let my pubes grow like a 1970's porn star's.  In effort to keep my crotch a modern gem, "computer blue" only gets me once every couple of months.  Some people say that you can tell how their mental state is by how their bedrooms look.  (Disheveled bedrooms equals a disheveled mind.)  Well, for me, you can tell how I'm feeling by how my crotch hair looks.  Does it look like my crotch just got a haircut in a salon on Madison Ave or does it look like it was just rescued from 3 months lost in the rain forest?

My latest dilemma goes a little something like this:  I can no longer shave my pubes, let alone even SEE my crotch.  Thanks to my stomach which is almost six months now, I can't see anything below my belly button when I'm in the shower. 

                                       Besides the bra, I'm naked.  How sad...

I now know what a fat guy feels like when he's trying to find his dick.  The other night I almost broke down in the midst of my shower.  After rationalizing to myself that my much needed tears would be masked by the shower head's water, as I was about to let loose a ten mile long journey of self-loathing, the water turned cold and my pity party was cut short.

It's just a matter of time before I look like a creature from the jungle.  And Sloppy Joes?  Forget about it.  No way can I expect to get any head loving with a bush of hair that you can get lost in (and I don't mean that in a 'let's be romantic' way).  Uggggh!  If my perils were marked on the calendar and recognized by the American government, we'd be on vacation at least 300 days of the year.  Starting with national Shave Your Crotch Day, we would go through the year and celebrate such holidays like Alexis Got Unjustly Arrested Day, My Credit Card Got Declined With My Male Prostitute Day, Send Out Your Hate Mail Day and my personal favorite, Guys With Fat Asses Day.  Hallmark would be the new sensational stock to invest in, flower shops would be swamped with clients and post offices would reopen for business. 

Until that miraculous day arrives, I am making a vow to stay in bed.  I have spent the majority of the afternoon (while SSL has been busy at work) creating a mini 'Save Alexis' Heart' fortress.  It's pretty much an island in the middle of the bedroom constructed from the bed.  I used the kitchen knife to carve out a centerpiece in the bed's mattress, which took an eternity.  In it's absence, I have inserted a brand new bedpan.  I also have moved the refrigerator (excuse the newly gouged out marks on the wooden floor) next to the bed.

Everything needs to be at arms length.  My playing cards are under my pillow in place of my future .45 and I have a few overdue books from the library that need to be polished off before I have SSL return them.  I also have a mountain of gummy bears and a stack of menus from local restaurants.  *(Can you hold on for a minute?  I have to place an order...)

Ok.  I'm back.  Yeah, so this is what my life has become.  I guess that you can call this early post... what is that shit that chicks get?  Post partum, right?  Yes.  So, I have early post partum depression and until I can stand up, look down and see my crotch again without the use of a mirror, I'm staying in bed.  I am officially on strike.  If you would like to show your support, please send a care package.  I have no known allergies, but I do have a serious aversion to grape flavored kool-aid, white powdered doughnuts and fortune cookies.  If you want a thank you note, include Hostess cupcakes, Werther's Originals butterscotch candies, Word Finds, sticker books that airports used to sell, and if you have the means, maybe send me a box of Cinnabuns with a side of frosting.  With your help and your help alone, I may just be able to get through this ...horrid time of...  Well, it's just a real fucking horrible time when your crotch goes missing.  Be thankful if you can't relate.  And if you can, may God have mercy on your soul, should you chose to not send me a care package.  I'm off now.  Let's chit chat later...