SexyTime Gear

It may be just me but I actually think that I have "let go" a bit when it comes to getting all geared up when it comes to sexy time. To be honest, more often than not, the Time De La Sexiness happens in the middle of the night when it's pitch black and it happens so quietly it might be considered very orthodox Jewish ninja-style type of shagging. The only thing missing would be a sheet with a hole in it where "Where babies come from" or "Where babies come from but it might not happen because Mummy's on the coil" commence.

Long gone were the days where sex was pre-planned, hints and dirty, sleazy words were dropped throughout the day. It would probably sound more like "Ooh when I get you tonight... I'm going to give you massive cuddle and we can both pass out on the sofa while you're on your laptop and I'm trying yet again to get into Game Of Thrones". Look at the screen; these fucking actors with questionable sexual preferences and orientation are having more fun at pretend-fucking than we do. Most of the time, when you freeze the frame at the right time, the bloke's flaccid immediately after pounding the bird anyway.

Kill, kill, kill, rough sex, kill, betrayal, ooh that's that metal throne I read about and it does look pretty hardcore, more rough sex... Where are all the dragons? Betrayal, kill, kill, Eww incest? I'll never shag my brother. Would you shag your sister? Ugh... More blood, I think Skyrim got their idea from this show, you know... Or the other way... That is my thought process whilst watching Game of Thrones. I usually go back to YouTube to watch more "20 Mysterious Photos That Shouldn't Exist But Does" kind of crap anyway. Then we'll Velcro our shattered selves off the sofa and go to bed. We really go to bed and wake up to a toddler whinging because he got stuck in his cot trying to jump out of it.

I digress. As I often do. It's like watching stupid YouTube tutorials that ramble the fuck on for 15 minutes before getting to the tutorial bit like "How to wing your bloody eyeliner" with my blogs, I have to admit. And it ends about a minute later. Foreplay, foreplay, foreplay, premature ejaculation, distress, dejection, frustration, dissatisfaction.

"I'll just slip into something more comfortable," she said.

Yes... I will just get out of my comforting, ratty jammies and slip into a bone-crushing corset and a pair of thongs that might be a few sizes too small because when I got it I had a better vision of an exercising, "Baby is napping so I will just bust out a few hundred crunches" self. Sadly, I've been downloading a lot of E-Books and I've just been sat here for two hours every afternoon not reading my E-Books but playing fucking Pet Rescue Saga instead. But yes, let me just slip into something far less comfortable than what I was wearing so that we can get our sexy on. Something that will knock the wind out of me when I attempt to perform fellatio on you and give me a nasty, vicious wedgie as I try to slide down too. Never mind that I'm fucking up my make-up that I had put on because you cannot wear something sexy without completing the whole inhuman super model look. I can't initiate sex with this spot on my face. And once I get the concealer out, all my make-up wants to come out and play as well.

I can't fucking breathe and I think a part of this bralet is making mince out of my nipples. Somebody help. The tag is itching in a spot I will never be able to reach. Fucking cheap Primark lingerie. Where was I? Look sexy. Shit, I'm just going to take this all off and let it all hang out.

WHY.

I'll only speak for one man and it's because these days, I'm engaging in coitus with just one man. It's not that big a deal. It is eye candy, yes, but it is not that important. Still, I continually do it. Glutton for self punishment and all these fucking good looking women that catch the eyes of our men. No, don't look at them, look at me. Don't worry that my breathing is a bit shallow in this lingerie that is SO FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE. Look at me with that same look. They probably do but us women, nothing is ever fucking good enough what our men give us, isn't it? Look at me with that same lust. They probably aren't looking at that woman with lust. They are probably pissed off that these ads with supposed "Eager Single Lonely Mums" keep cropping up when they are streaming a football match off a dodgy site just as the team is about to score. Like we are going to believe, us forever-suspicious that the man is having rampant thoughts of shagging eager, lonely single mums.

Do what makes you comfortable. Ditch the stupid tights that never seem to stay on and make you question just how massive are your fucking thighs as they roll off while you're in the middle of foreplay. The stupid, clippy things that are supposed to hang on to your equally silly, scratchy garters but somehow ending up threatening to anally penetrate you, making you freak out for a split second. Unless you are doing that professionally and your income depends on you looking as bloody lingerie-model-like as possible. In that case, you go get your game on girl. Get em good. Do extremely well and get that Sex Worker Of The Year Award. I don't judge you and what you do.

The only thing I'd suggest you do wear and keep on would be socks.

Sexy Socks. 

Studies made by "Them that have got brains and ideas" have shown that women are more likely to orgasm when the feet are warm. I don't know about you but I keep my bloody socks on most the time anyway and I always finish happy.

Socks, women. Happy toes, happy time. Even if it's alone time happy time, if you know what I mean, get your socks on and rock the fuck on.

I'm just going to sit here and think of a workout plan so that I can buy smaller underwear that don't look like it might be a table cloth of sorts and fit into it comfortably that I'll never carry out.

The Glorifying Of Shitty Character Traits

What we have here in the year 2013, I have come to realize, is a global pandemic of arseholes in each and every nook and cranny of this world. I am sure it did not just happen overnight. It had been left to cultivate over the years, fester, infect others around it and slowly but surely BANG! Turned the population into a massive hoard of loud-mouthed, easily-offended pricks.

Take the ones that say things like 'I say it as it is. I don't mince my words. I am a bitch and that is my prerogative.' or whatever garbage along those lines. Yes, honesty is always the best policy. Not when your main purpose is to stir things up with your shit-stick though, Love. However cliché this phrase has since become, you should really keep that gob shut if you have nothing nice to say. Clearly, defecating on other people's metaphorical Mardi Gras is your sole purpose in this life. Whatever these online self-help gurus are telling you, stop paying attention. People are being told to not be a pushover, to not take shit and always stand up for themselves and what is happening is now they are morphing into these lot of people who sees EVERYTHING being said to them as a criticism that needs to be shot down by their persons with cuntish behaviour. Everything is a personal attack, every giggle is aimed at their incompetence, every sigh is an insult at their incapability to understand the simplest of things and every explanation is to undermine their intelligence. If it is then you need to back the fuck away from that vicious, toxic group of hyenas you have been hanging out with during your free time. Maybe it is, maybe you are imagining things. If so, you have too much free time and you should pick up crochet. Make a granny square blanket. It is not that bad. Not everyone is out to get you.

Some of these 'Hard Bitches' will say, in a drunken stupor most likely, that they just want to be loved and that they are 'Waiting for someone to break down that wall and see them for the loveable person they are inside'. What? What does that even mean!? Fuck off. Stop quoting nineties boyband songs. It makes me just want to switch on an electric hand mixer on medium speed in their mouths. Stop behaving like such a cunt then. If for a week you behave like this fountain of gooey Swiss chocolate you claim to be inside then maybe you have a shot at getting laid and hopefully be good enough to land someone that knows where your fucking g-spot is. Take my potential-Coke head of a neighbour for example. He yells at every fucking thing and everyone. He just needs someone to give him head. I am quite certain of that. I'm guessing tossing off to Babe Station every single night is aggravating him and he just wants a blow job without having to pay for it.  No one will willingly look for a long-term partner in a aggressive person with a million psychological issues. Not unless they are one of those gluttons for punishment and that is another different blog entry altogether.

People who treat their partners like doormats because they are the alpha one. Why is that all right? Why is that something that gains admiration? Why is it suddenly acceptable to dick your partners about simply because you are the keeper of the Almighty Vagina? Stop treating people like shit. Feminism started to put a stop to domestic violence, not for you to treat your men like fucking eunuchs. I have no idea what other women are telling their sons but once mine is able to comprehend something more than 'Leave the bloody cupboards alone, Child' I will be telling him to stay away from those that makes him question his worth as a person. This goes for both genders, obviously.

Moody idiots. No, they are not dark and mysterious. They are fucking draining. They drain the life out of me through my anus. Nothing mysterious about the fact that they cannot see joy in life and secretly they enjoy people bending to their will just to make them smile. Self-absorbed. Nothing mystical about them whatsoever. Even Anne Rice's vampires have more joy pouring out of their ethereal, albeit fictional bodies.

Fuck off and play on your own then. 

You see what I mean? Why are shitty character traits being glorified with endless memes and epilepsy-inducing .gifs of shit quality?

Why feel the need to piss on everyone's day every few minutes when you can store it all up and air your grievances once a year and make it rain metaphorical blood? It's all about stage presence.

YOU, the rest of the world's population made this happen. You made it an acceptable norm to live with volatile idiots with no basic courtesy.

Spay and neuter the Mardi Gras Defecator in your circle of friends.

My Open Letter to BritMums

Dear BritMums,
                        You have taken well over half a year to approve my application to join your elite site. I cannot care less about the fact that I may not be able to contribute to your possibly amazing array of British Mum's virtual diaries. All I wanted was to be able to log in on to your site and read some of these articles. You should not tease non-members with hyperlinks and then deny them the right to read it because their application have been pending since before the first coming of this Christ person. There is a chance that you may be under-staffed. There may also be a chance that you are a network controlled by the clique-y mothers not unlike those I can find at the playground, gabbing about the useless men in their life and marvelling at the literary wonder that is Fifty Shades of Shite.

Either way, I do not care any more. You have hurt my feelings and made me feel like my virtual blog is not up to par.

Whatevs.

                                                                                                                                           Sincerely,
                                                                                                                                                    Me

Don't judge my letter-writing skills. The last time I was made to write a formal letter, it was when I was sitting for my GCSEs.

Oxford did what?

To be honest, I am not one to constantly check up on what Oxford's Online Dictionaries gets up to. The closest I get to an online dictionary is googling things like 'Cesspit definition' to make sure that that is the word I want and whether or not the real definition and what I think it means matches up. Years of being surrounded by forum twats make you paranoid like that.

The header to that Oxford site said 'Oxford Dictionaries. The world's most trusted dictionaries'. Verified by whom? Was a survey being carried out on the world wide web regarding which dictionaries are being trusted most by the general public? How can I be certain that Urban Dictionary is not the more trust-worthy? I trust UrbanDick. UrbanDick is my bible, yo. I don't quite trust Oxford now. Not with this latest news about the new additions they have made, as was brought to my attention by a post on my Facebook news feed this afternoon.

Please, let it all be lies.

I read through the list of new words added into the dictionary and a small part of me died inside. The epeolatrist in me is slowly expiring. Epeolatry is a real word, you fucking spell-check.

epeolatry

PRONUNCIATION:

(ep-i-OL-uh-tree) 

MEANING:

noun: The worship of words. 

Yet that word is not in Oxford Dictionary.  Oh, the irony.

SRSLY. 

Even Sriracha is in Oxford's.

This bastardization of the English language is giving me the urge to vom.

Dear Oxford Dicks, who on earth are you sourcing these words from?

These twats, I bet. Totes amaze.

Not a Geek. Not a Nerd.

I do realize these days that doing something that does not involve a handheld device is a rare thing. So is reading something on the computer screen that is not LOLcats-related. If you are staring intently at a picture and it is not something off Instagram, people might start to wonder what is wrong with you.

Click here to find out more about Chimeras.

I usually get sucked into articles posted by I Fucking Love Science. It is not because I am a geek. It is not because I am a nerd, either. It is because I am just fucking fascinated by the articles posted by the admins of the group. I have no in-depth knowledge of Physics. I have difficulty doing the simplest of mathematical equations at the drop of a hat. I just like reading about... Stuff. This is also probably why my telly is always on mute and with subtitles on. I am better at reading than I am listening.

I am uncomfortable being called a geek or a nerd because I know that the real geeks and nerds work hard to get that tittle and I am not going to given the honour of being called one simply by reading a book at the dentist instead of you know... Candy crushing.

It is true that over the years the meaning of the words have changed considerably.

Geeks then.
I bet he is fluent in Binary. 

Geeks now.
An unhealthy addiction to anything Nintendo-Related.

Or Zelda.

Just add insanely huge, tacky plastic rim glasses, showcase your breasts and have little to no body fat. 

I do have a handful of real nerd friends. The kind that when they talk I am left feeling like a Neanderthal. I also have a massive cesspit of acquaintances that will randomly say shit like 'I am, like literally, such a geek' because they just had their had done up in Leia Buns. Anything Star Wars related these days is so geek-chic these days, don't you know?

Stop it. End this madness now.

Patronizing adverts.

Recently it hit me that there is a very high possibility that crime shows are being watched by women and only women. I guessed this by the ridiculous amount of patronizing adverts shoved in during breaks. This saddened me. I thought I was a special breed, just thriving on Crime shows. I scoff at soaps, obvious female-oriented "reality" garbage and period dramas. That is mainly because I think most of the women on these type of shows behave in an appalling manner and thrive on double standards. It is unfair to men that women are modelling themselves like these (fictional) idiots and expect men to behave like these (again, fictional) men on the telly and bend to their will and I am not going to sit there and watch mindless crap.

Twat.

Hollyoaks in a nutshell. 

The reason I have a little idea about these soaps is because on certain weekends Jaz's girls come over to stay and I am subjected to watching crap that gives me indigestion at dinnertime. I almost feel the need to cover The Human Child's eyes and say 'This is all lies, Child. Like the porn you will discover hopefully in 40 years. Not all women do not behave like this. Men, too, depending on what you are going to bend towards...'

I digress. Patronizing adverts. The people on SkyLiving must have sussed out that only women watch Criminal Minds and therefore have decided endless advertisements about abused donkeys. Endless procession of sweet little donkeys being mistreated and made to carry a hideous amount of rocks and rubble on their tiny bodies. WHY would you want me to donate to a charity organization when that poor animal is the result of other people behaving like dickheads. Is the money going to get these people in third world countries proper building tools like, I don't know, a crane? It breaks my bloody heart. Who is putting these stones on the donkey? Are you still expecting a grown woman to look at that and somehow confuse that with our childhood fantasies of owning a pony and think 'Oh that poor pony, Mummy! Give it some money!'. No, don't give them money. Mr. Cameraman, put down your fancy camera that must have cost a couple of grand and give whoever piled them rocks on the donkey a proper slap. Why are you riding a donkey? You are not going to get far. Look at your bloody size and compare it to the donkey. Just fucking look. You are not going to go far on it and you are not going very fast either. Oh, what? Tired legs? What about that bloody animal?

What about adverts with abused children. With the money you want us to donate, are you going to re-home these children you are about to help and at the same time put the parents in a gas chamber? My ovaries. Yes, these children on these adverts are actors and they are damn good ones. It makes me pine for my child who is having his afternoon nap. It makes me want to hold him and sniff his hair but most parents know that if you wake a child up before his nap is over you will end up with a grizzly monster you so desire to lock in a cupboard. I live in a flat underneath a woman who pays her children fuck-all attention. We can hear the children crying endlessly for attention and after about half hour of crying, the eldest will go ahead and run up and down their hallway before triple-jumping in the living room. Possibly vaults himself off the settee, guessing by the loud bang it makes. Why have unprotected sex? Why reproduce and neglect? The fucking twat probably has 'Full-time Yummy Mummy' under occupation on Facebook.

We have a couple of friends trying for a baby for the past ten years. Sometimes they miscarry, sometimes they manage to get pregnant only to lose it halfway down the line. It is a fucking vicious thing to have to go through. It hacks away at the soul. And then you have the fuckers upstairs. It makes me want to march up there on behalf of all hopeful couples trying to conceive and slap them blind. She loves hoovering though. Three times a day she hoovers. Must be trying to hoover up all the evidence of all that crack and cocaine.

To sum it all up: No, charity organizations, I will not be donating to your cause. I want an instantaneous kind of thing. I believe in resolving things with a slap because offenders like these will not give a damn about you using your words anyway. A right, proper slap that will make them see stars.

Oatmeal says it best.

Shit On The Telly.

Jeremy Kyle. "Real" Housewives of Whatever. Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents. 

To be honest, from 7 in the morning up to about dinnertime, the television is stuck on CBeebies anyway. I don't even know why we bother to stick the telly on that channel because it is obvious The Human Child is not a telly-watching type of person. Doesn't matter anyway because it is nothing but garbage during the daytime. 

Over a hundred channels and I find my selection narrowed down to horrifying shit. Watch Jeremy Kyle while your child has gone down for his nap because all you need is more incessant screaming, shouting and denials over who the hell did what. Or, you, the housewife elbows-deep in an enormous pile of dirty laundry, might want to watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta and possibly contemplate suicide when you start to question your worth as a human when rich twats like them are moaning over the other rich twat's duvet's thread count. The reason absurd reality shows like these exist is because somewhere in the dark pockets of this world, there are people who thrive on garbage like that. They have adopted these idiots and made them their own and actually giving a damn about how these characters on the television are progressing as a person. They have breathed life into these shows that should have never seen the light of day. The same lot of people who thrive on soaps and feel compelled to live their lives with so much drama because they crave what they see on the television and they want to channel what they watch on a daily basis into their own family life. Idiots who think that EastEnders is a story about them. Somewhere in a poky village in England is a place just like Coronation Street. 

Some time during the afternoon there will be more crap like Four Rooms or Dragon's Den. Rich, minted business elites wanting people to kowtow to them. Here, my Kings and One Grizzly Witch, I have come to you with my seemingly pathetic lifelong dream/grandmother's cigarette case/Nazi Memorabilia, and I beg you to ridicule me and everything I stand for. Just strike me down with your massive Wall Street/Facebook/Twitter stock share and tell me how worthless I am before offering me peanuts or fuck all with a side serving of patronizing business advice on toast. 

If those other offerings are not your cup of tea, may I interest you in a bit of Home Away or In The Sun (or something) where you see a pair of retired old couple, who are obviously rolling in it, being indecisive about where the fuck to relocate to. Home after home after FUCKING home, the wife or the husband will nitpick the shit out of everything and at the end of every episode neither of them have got a bloody a clue about what the hell they wanted in the first place. There is a group of smelly, hungry homeless people down the street where I live. There are hundreds of families being shoved in hostels. And you cannot make your blooming minds up because of the kitchen layout? For fuck's sake. I just want to watch some afternoon telly, have a cup of coffee, a fag and take in a deep breath because I just spent the past hour telling a one year old to not pull things down off the counter. I don't want to bear witness to the downfall of mankind. 

Yes. Subs make the telly world more bearable. 

By any chance the name of the other son is Fraser? Rubbish name anyway. Phrase Whore is better.