Don’t fuck with me during breakfast.

I frequent this bagel shop in North County, San Diego, several times per week. I don’t know what it is about the clientele here, but it’s like everyone suddenly gets the urge to talk to me while I’m either waiting for my bagel, or eating it. You know how some people are like, “Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,”? Well, that’s me, except replace coffee with a bagel, because coffee tastes like burnt assholes. Also, don’t talk to me after I’ve had my bagel, because I order a chocolate chip one, so I probably have chocolate in my teeth that I won’t be able to get out until I’m in the privacy of my car. Just don’t talk to me at the bagel shop, ok? Today, I’ll share a list of actual offenders with you.

The Jersey Boys Dude: I often purchase hoodies as souvenirs from musicals, so one day, I wore my Jersey Boys hoodie to breakfast. Some old guy shuffled up to me and said, “Oh, Jersey Boys! Have you seen that show?” I perked up, thinking I was meeting a fellow Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons fan. I told him I’d seen it numerous times. Then he said, “I haven’t seen it yet. Who’s that about…isn’t it Frankie Valli or somebody?” Dude, you’re in the age range where you should be worshipping Mr. Valli. Hell, I worship Mr. Valli. Get the fuck out of my face with your sacrilege.

The Smiley Hippie Comedian: Some gray-haired, gigantic, goofy motherfucker with a hippie vibe kept looking at me one morning. He was sitting a few tables away, at one of the bar seats by the window, and I had snagged a small table and was about to sit down. He got up, walked over to me, and asked, “Huhuh, do you have a turtle on your back?” One of my staple accessories is my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack. It holds more than a purse, it’s cuter than a purse, and it keeps me from leaning to one side like Quasimodo. I realize that I’ll get a lot of comments about it, but the ones I like are comments like, “That backpack is awesome!” or, “Cool backpack.” Grinning hippie homeboy did not deliver. Still, being the nice person that I am, I gave him a polite chuckle. His response? “Well, I thought it was funny.” Guess what, asshole? It wasn’t! Sorry if you didn’t like my polite response. Next time, I hope someone gives you a stone-faced glare. If you want to tell jokes that leave no one laughing, go do stand-up comedy. At least you’ll have a captive audience. Now fuck off and let me eat my chocolate deliciousness.

The Weird Salsa-Dancing Scrub: Look, I’m no snob, but I don’t want no scrub. Or Norman Bates. I was sitting at a two-seater table a few years ago when a horse-faced ranga (pronounced RANG-uh, and it’s a slang term for a redhead, because they have hair like orangutans) with a British or South African accent approached my table. He said, “Oh, you ordered the same kind of bagel as me! Would you like to come sit with me over there?” He pointed to a bigger, communal table where some old ladies were sitting, but where there were still empty seats. I looked at my nice, private table with an empty chair still remaining, but I shrugged and got up. I put up with a lot more bullshit back then, I guess. We started talking, and the guy told me his name was Gary. He worked some random job that I quickly forgot. When he got up for napkins, one of the old ladies smiled at me conspiratorially. “He’s very handsome!” she said, nodding. I chalked her assessment up to macular degeneration. No rangas or horse faces for me, ever. After some small talk, Gary asked, “Would you like to come back to my mom’s house for coffee?” Whoa, whoa, whoa. Three immediate red flags. 1. Coffee tastes like burnt assholes, and you are dumb because you just walked past three coffee machines to get napkins. 2. You are a stranger, and I don’t take off with people I just met and go to their houses. 3. YOUR MOM’S HOUSE? Aw, hell, no! When I pointed out all of these things to him, he told me, “It’s fine; my mom doesn’t mind me bringing people over, and I can introduce you! Come on! I’ll teach you how to salsa. It’s a free salsa lesson!” When I insisted that I wasn’t going to be meeting any moms (and somehow refrained from telling any “Your mom!” jokes), he tried another angle. “Ok, then let’s go out to the parking lot. We can dance out there.” Sure, nothing wrong with that. I’ll just mosey on out to the parking lot where people nearly collide on a daily basis, and where all the window seat motherfuckers can watch us and come up to talk to me tomorrow about my parking lot dance.

Gary the Horse-Faced Ranga has been the worst so far (and for the record, I did manage to turn down his persistent salsa lesson offers), but each day, I wonder who will contribute to my next bagel shop horror story.

I’d like to take a moment to address and question what is very possibly a real thing: The “pregnancy glow.” Supposedly, some pregnant women experience wonderfully lush hair, glowing skin, and an overall radiance that’s visible to the outside world and makes strangers on the street smile (unless you’re my brother, in which case a visibly pregnant woman will leave you holding back dry heaves).

Do I have this pregnancy glow? I’m not sure, to be honest. I’ve noticed a clearing of my skin (but any zits I had were usually camouflaged by my awesome freckles, anyway), but my hair looks the same. You know what I do have? Some great fuckin’ tits, a healthy appetite for meat, and a near-homicidal impatience for anything my dogs do these days. Oh, and a big ol’ belly. Yup, it’s noticeable.

The reason I question this change in my appearance as it relates to the outside world is because I’ve gotten hit on more than ever lately! I guess I should be grateful that I’m young and still have my looks, because one day they’ll fade, but usually, what I want to say is, “Hi, I’m FAT, dude. My gut is bigger than yours! Do you have standards?” Also, these guys have penises. However, my boyfriend also has a penis, and there is now visible evidence that he beat every single one of these losers to the punch and claimed all my sexy girly bits. I don’t think I understand the science of salivating over a woman whose entire core is occupied by the result of another man’s magical spermies.

Holy shit. Maybe this isn’t about the pregnancy glow at all. I just realized something: MY BOYFRIEND HAS MAGICAL SPERM. Think about it! He blasts me with a load, and suddenly, I have clear skin, an excuse to eat great food, and a rack that would rival any Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s finest work. I get to experience a new, adorable person in a few months. Ladies, this is a real fuckin’ breakthrough! Sperm is our best beauty tool! Go out and get knocked up. What are you waiting for?

“The Duck.”

I’ve already shared this with my Pinterest followers, but I figured Tumblr could use this handy little tip, too.

Have you ever been in your car and had the unbearable urge to pick your nose? Maybe you were in a parking lot, feeling like you’d finally reached a safe gold-digging haven, when you realized that the cars next to you were occupied. What do you do? It’s simple! Just do “the duck!” Duck down below the window line as if you’re reaching for an object on the car floor. When you’re safely out of sight, stick a finger in your nasal cavity and go for a dig!

What if you’re driving and can’t pull over for a while? I think the best thing to do in that case is to keep your eyes open for a fellow nose-picking driver. As soon as you spot one, pick your nose. If he or she looks over at you, no judgment can be passed, as you’re engaged in the same activity. I imagine the glance you two would share would be very similar to two men who are picking up hookers on the same street, though I wouldn’t know for sure. Happy picking!

Thank you! I hope all is well with you! ♥

Since it looks like the news is going to be fully out in the open soon, anyway, it looks like I can tell my Tumblr readers that my boyfriend and I are expecting a little one in the near future!

My dad came by my house to pay the landscapers this morning, and he noticed my little baby bump. Originally, I was just going to put off telling my parents about the pregnancy until it became visible and they asked me about it, but when that happened today, I completely froze up and blamed it on weight gain and a residual gut from having my daughter years ago. I asked my best friend what I should do and how to tell them now that I’d blown an opportunity, and as you can see, he tried to point out some positives in our text exchange.

So far, these are the more outlandish ways that my boyfriend or I have come up with to announce our new adventure in parenthood:
- I’m growing my own gardener.
- He toyed with the idea of telling his parents that a doctor had found a growth in me…and that the growth had a heartbeat.
- He actually announced the pregnancy to some of his extended family at his birthday party by walking into the room and exclaiming, “Condoms are for suckers!” When everyone was like, “What?” he explained, “I knocked her up.”

I’m really not sure how I’ll actually tell my parents, but wish me luck!

Ah, embarrassing sex moments. Well, it looks like whoever tried the “Cum Inside” vajazzling didn’t even get to the sex part. Oops.

Believe it or not, I get laid fairly frequently. My boyfriend is pretty stellar, and I like to think that I’m pretty decent, too. However, I seem to be the one who brings the embarrassing moments to the bedroom.

Once upon a time, I brought my non-vajazzled lady bits to the bedroom and reclined in the missionary position. Things were going quite well. My boyfriend was happily thrusting away when suddenly, I had a surprise butthole attack. By “surprise butthole attack,” I mean that I let out an audible, unmistakeable fart. Being a true lady, and very surprised by this unexpected turn of events, I politely exclaimed, “Oh, excuse me!” At that point, the actual fartiness of it all was undeniable. My boyfriend rolled off me, and we both started cracking up. Apparently, the fart was so powerful that he felt the air ripple his balls. We created a hand motion representing his balls’ movements while thrusting and then subsequently being blown like a kite in a tornado.

Should you ever have an embarrassing sex incident, just own that shit by making an interpretive hand motion. Not only is it a happy reminder of your mortifying, naked blunder, but you can do it across the room at parties or even boring appointments, and your significant other will instantly think of sexy times!

You know what’s the best motherfuckin’ thing ever, besides my Tumblr? My motherfuckin’ Pinterest. No, don’t worry. I’m not turning into a crafty mombie or decoupaging petrified leopard shit onto rolled fondant wedding cakes. I’m luring in those happy, crafty people and horrifying them with pins about how a breakfast burrito once made me shart so badly that I ruined my Playboy PJs, or a book filled with recipes that use semen (seriously). If you like what you see here but want it in smaller, more product-based doses, check out my Pinterest, bitches.

I didn’t even realize Boo had seen an infomercial, much less mastered the before- and after-product comparisons!

Holy shit, Peter Cetera is the man. I will tell anyone who will listen that Peter Cetera is the man. First, watch the video. The sheer awesomeness should be self-explanatory, but if it’s not, I’m going to break down for you, using this video as evidence, reasons why Peter Cetera should be revered.

Peter Cetera will do it ALL for the glory of love. Since he doesn’t specify, it appears that anything and everything is permissible or perhaps encouraged, in the name of love. Anal? Shopping with his mother-in-law? A drunken escapade in a RuPaul costume with stray cats in the middle of a seedy motel lobby? YES! It’s a world full of “Yes!” when Peter Cetera fights for the glory of love.

Not only will Peter Cetera do it all for the glory of love, but he’ll fight for your honor, too. I’m not sure where exactly in the video that this happens. Perhaps his dainty hand-waving action as The Karate Kid bitch slaps the fuck out of an Asian dude is like an interpretive dance version of fighting. He certainly doesn’t seem to know karate, or appear in any of the movie’s fight scenes, but hey, the guy said he’d fucking fight for your honor. Who are we to question a god among men?

Peter Cetera has a castle. I thought only Irish people and bitches in Vogue magazine with fifty-seven names and an outdated title had castles, but I was so wrong. Peter Cetera will take your sweet ass to his castle far away, where he probably hides a stellar arsenal of weapons, cash, and sex toys.

If Peter Cetera sings while you’re fighting, you become a kick-ass ninja. Note the fight scenes in the video. Of course, Mr. Miyagi helps, too, but it wouldn’t be a movie about fights, glory, and drinking tea with enslaved geisha chicks or whatever if Peter Cetera wasn’t on the soundtrack.

Last, but certainly not least, Peter Cetera is the man because he gets mad pussy and opportunities to receive fellatio, despite looking like he’d later kill his sexytime companions. Watch him sing. Tell me that his face doesn’t constantly look like he’s receiving head from a groupie who has been made invisible via the magic of film editing. You can’t tell me that this video isn’t about a man singing and perving out to clips from The Karate Kid. He is truly an inspiration, educating us all and making us feel all right about our own sexual proclivities. If he can get a boner and get sucked off while watching Ralph Macchio do high kicks, none of us are really that strange, after all.

Yo! I jus wanna let errbody know dat I don’t give no fucks! Actually, I kind of do, and that’s the problem. I know that most of us are probably accustomed to not giving fucks via chemical means of overriding our feelings, but let’s face it. If we drank, shot up heroin, or had a pinch of the good ol’ angel dust every time something was bothering us, we’d be, well, I don’t know, Lindsay Lohan or Charlie Sheen or some shit. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be a goddamn ginger with a busted-up pussy that makes people shudder when they receive their Playboy subscription, nor do I want to be a living embodiment of Quagmire from Family Guy with shitty weed. Fuuuck that. So, what’s a girl to do when she starts to, you know…feel feelings?

She’s supposed to get gangsta; that’s what. Any cocky or somewhat arrogant song with a hip hop or rap beat will work. If you’re feeling sad, vulnerable, or like your soul just got run over by a motherfucking freight train, let me quote you some gangsta lyrics. You’ll feel better in no time!

Let’s start with Remy Ma’s “Conceited.” This one always used to help me if a guy had hurt my feelings. Guys, you can get a little sass on and get in on this, too. We ain’t judgin’. “Who’s that peekin’ in my window? Nobody, ‘cause I live in a penthouse.” Even if you live in a goddamn shoe box, you can feel pretty good about yourself after saying that out loud, right? Now, here comes the good stuff. Think Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable,” but with more attitude. “See, I look too good to be fuckin’ you, and I look too good to be lovin’ you. You know, I look way too good to be stuck with you. I’m conceited; I got a reason.” While I’m not currently in a position to make use of these particular lyrics, they did dry my tears real fuckin’ quick when an ugly guy hurt my feelings.

DJ Khaled toughens my shit right up after a hard day. From “Out Here Grindin’,” you’ll have some pretty great lyrical armor in no time. “I don’t care what nobody say; I’mma be me, stay hood, stay raised in the streets (‘cause I’m out here grindin’). Niggas talk about greatness whenever they speak about me (‘cause I’m out here grindin’”). This song will make you feel hard as a teenager’s boner during his first porn viewing. Gangsta that shit up. Bump it, grab some neon water guns, and ride through the streets. Show fools what’s up; you feel me?

We’ll finish with a little Drake. I mean, shit. Who didn’t live vicariously through him when he hit Chris Brown? All that aside, Drake’s the man. “Almost drowned in her pussy, so I swam to her butt.” That’s from “The Motto.” While he might have intended for the motto to be “YOLO,” or some bullshit about, “You only live once,” I will forever be convinced that his motto is about the butt being an escape route should people suddenly find themselves drowning in pussy. It sounds like he’s just fucking one girl. Does she create lots of natural lubrication? How is he drowning? Is he performing cunnilingus? Does his swimming to the butt imply that he is willing to do rim jobs? Or is this one of those, “Oops! Wrong hole!” tricks? I’m thinking that maybe I don’t know what this means, or how it would make a person feel gangsta. Oh, well. There are tons of other songs you can use to harden your cold little heart right up! If all else fails, just do your heavy drinking from a pimp cup, or shoot up your heroin with a House of Dereon syringe.