Chronic Ruination

…take away the stuffing and neither one is as good.

Too late for a Thanksgiving blog post? Yeah, probably. It’s not like I really do Thanksgiving anyway. There’s just something about the  federally-recognized deodorizing of  genocide that makes eating a  Turkey marinated in a broth of its own filth and some delicious nitrites  seem a little…silly.

Sometimes I forget all about this blog until I have one of those delicious little experiences that I really can’t tell My boyfriend or best friends.

Like I said, I don’t do Thanksgiving.  I’m not exactly what you would call a cultural preservationist…quite the opposite.  My upbringing was a white-washed one. Still, I’m a huge believer in not doing anything pointless and excessive.

Excessive stands so magnificently well all on it’s own… in the right setting.

Right setting being the operative phrase…

Ever since I moved to TX, rosie has been begging to come visit Me he-r.  I’ve been keeping My distance though.   It’s always fun to make he-r feel worthless and unwanted before I cook up a months-long cocksucker’s dream/nightmare scene for it to try and get out of.  That’s not the case this time though.

That slut and  he-r lobbying pig pen is into some things I conscientiously object to as of late.  Not really going to go into the specifics but if it’s enough to  make Me depart from My Buddhist gone rogue notions of right and wrong, believe Me, it’s bad.   That and I’ve been busy.

Not just the “fuck off” type of busy either. Genuinely busy and occupied trying to figure out what to do with myself during these increasingly awkward post-undergrad years.

My degrees are in Political Science and Journalism. Since bachelor’s degrees are the new high school diploma, the choices are:

1. Be a newsroom production assistant/grunt alongside some 30-something boomerang kid whose parents made them choose between that job or homelessness.
2. Answer a craigslist ad for an account manager position at a self-described “boutique PR Agency”.  Only you realize during the interview that boutique apparently means attic apartment and that Public Relations has been reduced to posting craigslist ads and writing articles on shill sites in the minds of so very many of Atlanta’s small business owners. I never even brought out My writing or press kit samples during that interview out of fear that I’d probably get mugged for them.
3. Set up a few relevant  blogs hoping that they’ll be a great way to showcase  your skills with some of  the more established magazines or newspapers that have an online presence.  Only you realize that everyone in your graduating class, the one before that and the one before that…at universities all around the country had the EXACT same idea!  So you just send all those blogs to an early adsense grave/hell and hope for the best. Awesome.
4. Do the “logical” thing and get a professional degree.  Everyone looks better  on paper with a few letters in front of or behind their name, so I opted to go the law school route.  Law school everyone’s doing it!

Law school…everyone’s doing it.  That’s part of the problem. Everyone from twenty-somethings, out of work 50-somethings  and even a few 60/70-somethings who are cramming for the biggest final of all.

The first group of friends I made when I moved was with a 3L  and her fiance who graduated 3 years ago.  He’s jobless and under a pile of debt from the whole experience.  Not to mention his adderall addiction. Nice.

When My 3L friend introduced Me to him as a 1L, the first thing out of his mouth was: “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?”  For three months, it seemed like everywhere I went I’d meet someone who was also in law school or who had graduated a few years ago.  Have I met any successful practicing attorneys?  A few, but that all graduated before I was in the 6th grade!

I’m not into feeding the Sallie Mae machine so I cut the impending six-figure  losses and withdrew.  Ever feel impending doom taken off of your shoulders?  Yeah, that’s how I feel now.  My aunts, especially the one I lived with My last year of high school, are  livid.  Guess they’re going to  have to find some other way to taunt their friends with adult children who are indefinitely camped out in their game rooms and sleeping on air mattresses.  So now I’m just going to travel and fall into something. I’m no fatalist, but I’ve got faith. I’m thinking  the Mecca of that faith is in Oslo.  Going to check kayak.com right now and start planning My pilgrimage.

Signing back into Niteflirt in 2 hrs. In the meantime…

I’m increasingly becoming a Glenn Kessler fan… check out his latest.

Also, to the drive by- tribute mystery slut with the  micropenis  who is more  generous than I’d prefer with the pics: Send this week’s tributes here . I’m full from you, give someone else a chance.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2011

I’m all about just about anything that blurs that already shaky gender line for you weak little closet pantyfags.

I just had a barely audible talk with someone’s scared, shaky-voiced husband. There must be some unwritten rule that if you’re pre-neutered by some physical shortcoming or emotional defect, that you HAVE to stutter and stammer in the most hilariously pitiful way. My patience made it through a few minutes before I had to let it know that it was just one of those people that seem to beg for a good, long raping. We all know what kind of people those are.  Sluts.

As it was busily teasing itself with the vibrations from its wife’s clairisonic brush because the little lady is way too Protestant for sex toys for her husband to use on himself while she’s sleeping, I got an idea.

This past week, the news decided to bombard us with reports on groups of women in most English-speaking countries participating in Slutwalks. Apparently some police officer in Toronto made a comment about women in slutty clothing begging for sexual assault.  Now, women around the world are dressing like sluts to protest that type of thinking.

Being the thoughtful person that I am, I had to ask myself: Do men who dress like “slutty” women, act like bitches, or who diddle themselves with personal hygiene appliances at 4am in their time zone asking for rape?  I know where I stand on the issue, but everyone has the right to say “no”.

That’s why I want am going to start integrating these slutwalks with REAL he-sluts.

Starting tomorrow, If you know you’re not strong enough to fight off another person who wants to wear your throat or mancunt out without your permission, you need to be at the Slutwalk nearest you. The schedule is here.

Anyone 18 or older,living in the United States, that  attends either the slutwalk tomorrow or one in the future has the opportunity to earn some free, no credit card phone sex. Simply participate in the walk, then email Me a picture of yourself at your sluttiest.

I’ll reward you with 20 free sissy phonesex minutes. 10 bonus minutes to anyone who meets up with Cumwhore Kelly, my inspiration for this whole thing, at tomorrow’s Santa Cruz event. Make a sign or shout he-r name until the two of you are side by side. Hey, start your own movement together!

I’ve been signed in for calls the past few nights and, due to system glitches, a lot of you have missed Me. It seems to only happen when I’m taking calls from my cell. There’s a message in your inbox if your call didn’t connect. If it happens again, send a message immediately after you’ve attempted to call.

If that’s the only thing you can think of to ask in an email…you probably don’t REALLY want to know.

I look at it this way. Everything’s eventual. Everything! Take that however it hits you.

I can understand wanting to build a little anticipation before you work up whatever you have to work up to call; that’s fun. But if you are overly concerned about being taken advantage of, you’ve already fucked yourself in advance.  If you haven’t been victimized ever in your life, try it. It’s fun.  It builds character….I promise.

The short and maybe not so obvious answer to what’s now the $50 question  is this: No. I’m not a money Mistress. That’s like asking me if I’m a toe just because a have them.

Do I like financial domination?

Not always.

I love money and I love the stuff it buys…make no mistake about it.    Sluts that are only financially submissive don’t really ever get it. Most are caught up in the cycle of assuming that serving Me financially is going to be  like any social retard’s standard issue dynamics with the opposite sex:

• you go to a strip club, you tip a girl $20 or so,  get yourself a lapdance, and hope for $20 more she’s gone over her cell phone plan minutes enough this month to  have to blow you.
• you go to a bar, buy a girl a few drinks and hope that she leaves her her friends and the remainder of her self-esteem on the sidewalk she just puked on so she’ll go home with you.
• you marry the girl who shat on you socially all during high school. 15 yrs, 30 lbs and one smart mouthed tween later, she’s all yours!  Sure about that?  Better keep it that way!  Now you’re stuck at a company you hate, but that pays really  well in order to keep her.  Essentially, you’re paying her not to fuck everything that she even thinks may have a dick…because that’s what’s she’s used to.

Now it’s what you’re used to. Here’s where you’d expect one of those lame little smiley things.  I’m better than that.  This sums up how I feel whenever I come across a financial submissive shit eating grin.  Talk about having it Cincinnati bowtie backwards !

It really takes a slave mentality to let go and let yourself be enjoyed like this. If you’re the type that thinks that the Amazon gift certificate you randomly send to my inbox is what it takes, you couldn’t be more wrong!

I guess I’m just spoiled by that thing formerly known as rosie.

I like to play scavenger hunt types of games if W/we’re having a day time play date. Nothing that’s complicated or a huge deal to Me or anyone else with a personality and the self-esteem that goes with it. It’s always just enough to make a paranoid, anxiety-ridden, old cocksucking perv destroy its respectable-looking dress shirt with sweat. I  get one of those canvas shopping bags, fill it up with a few grocery items, leave the prize or clue at the bottom and drop it off somewhere nice and populated.

I don’t have the time to go through anything elaborate for My fag on demand. It’s not worth it.  I guess you could say the new car smell is gone and I need another…

These days, I’ll  leave only one bag for it.  The small bubble envelope at the bottom of the bag contains the list of things it needs to bring, how much to bring for any guest stars, the card key to the room, and a picture from the previous playdate. Oh, and I always address the envelope to his office building. I’m DEFINITELY no expert on being responsible, but I guess the staff at a lobbying firm would know what to do with things like that.  This sums up how I feel everytime I make a drop for it.  Shit Eating Grin

Simple start to a throat raping afternoon right?  Not if someone takes the bag.  I know it’s a recession and all but who really wants a bag with nothing in it but canned pork products, a bar of soap, summer squash,a few bottles of Honest Tea, and an envelope?!!  Well last week someone did.  As usual, the bitch got all bent out of shape when it couldn’t find the bag.  Instead of taking responsibility for not being there to pick it up no later than 10 minutes after I drop it off, it decided to go on a racist rant about how one of the no good homeless people standing around downtown took it. I’m not the most racially sensitive person either but was I going to let any of its personal failings go without milking every inch?  No.  That’s not Me. Shit Eating Grin

So of course I just calmly explained how the special interests that allow him to make a verrrrrrry good living and his own “special interests”  in all things black and brown didn’t exactly match his words.  Then I reminded him that I’d be more than happy to blur the lines between his interests for him if he was so out of control.  At that point I was half listening because anything he has to say…I’ve heard a million times before.   I just listen for tones at this poing.  That was until he said:

You’re right.  I should try to walk a mile in another man’s shoes.  I have no right….

It’s funny how inspiration just kind of falls out of the sky.  I asked him which shoes he had on at the moment.

New & Lingwoods..russian calves

Wtf?!!  I had to Google to officially come to the realization that this thing is a bigger brand whore than I am!  This is something that has at least 100 pair of specially made size 12 women’s pumps in a storage unit. Most of them haven’t been worn more than once if at all.  This was taking way more time than I’d planned  for it, so I told it to head towards the CNN center….lots of bums hang out there.  The beauty of it is that when it called me back it said:

I guess I’m really going to have to walk in another man’s shoes today right?

Awww…it still thinks of itself of a man.  I think the 8.5 inch and 10 inch reminders it took North to South respectively reminded it that only one man walked away in some unfamiliar shoes earlier that day.  This is what does it for Me!!!

Yeah, I love being spoiled but when I don’t even have to tell a slut what I want….when it already knows that its going to have to trade its $1500 shoes for a pair that will probably leave it with some 3rd world quality fungus…yeah, this is it!

Am I going to get all, “Money doesn’t matter, it’s all about the ‘relationship’.” No. I’m not really into relationships…of any kind. Experiences. Moments. Little flashes of heythatwasfunthatonetimeletsoneupit.  That’s all I want…as long as it keeps that new car smell Shit Eating Grin