20nothing.com

I have theme days. It affects how I dress, what music I listen to, what conversations I have and how drunk I get. Sometimes I channel Monica Gellar circa mid-nineties Friends episodes and wear completely unflattering clothes for the fun of it. Sometimes I spend an entire twenty-four hour period listening to Irish folk music. Sometimes I sit and talk about only candy to everyone who crosses my path. I have never had a sober day. But that is neither here nor there.
I am fascinated with trying out all different types of subcultures on offer to me in popular culture. I have iTunes playlists where Dolly Parton will follow a Limp Bizkit hit(?). I can wear argyle but act emo. I often use big words to discuss stupid topics. To categorize myself as one thing is, in my view, incredibly limiting. So when I see people making permanent changes to themselves, I have to wonder how they know that particular theme is going to last a lifetime.
“A tattoo on your face lasts forever, you know?” I have said between wearing a tutu and reading the dictionary.
“Forever isn’t that long.”
“You know when you are sitting in a really bad movie full of ugly people and you want to poke a fork into your eyeball because it feels like it is lasting forever?”
“Yeah.”
“Imagine if it actually was.”

My first ever ex-boyfriend often criticized my outfit choices and the amount of money I spent on shoes.
“Unless I am using your money, I really don’t think this has anything to do with you,” I would say while prancing around the bedroom in heels and a top hat.
He didn’t listen to me and continued to lambaste my life choices. Which, I suppose, is fair. I didn’t listen to him either and frequently bought pairs of shoes instead of dinner. It called them my “Fuck You” theme days.
It never occurred to me to change what I did or what I found enjoyment in just because my [then] boyfriend had a problem with it. I never tried to change him until I changed how much time we spent together, and when I decided that I didn’t want a relationship with a constant theme of aspersions, I left it. I reasoned that if he didn’t like who I was, he didn’t have to be around me. I would never try to change a person to fit them into a category I wanted. Who would I think I was? Who knows, it changes on any particular day.

There is a girl in China who is undergoing plastic surgery to look like Jessica Alba. Apparently, her ex-boyfriend (EX), loves the star of such cinematic classics as Into The Blue and Never Been Kissed so much that he has put a condition on her to look like Jess and then will reignite their relationship. It was one of the craziest things I had ever heard. Until I read the next paragraph and found out that She was going to go through with it.
I have days when I want to look like Jessica Alba. And I am sure most of the people who wake up beside me wish that they could downright demand it. But no one ever has the audacity to request it. I would be even better at asking boys to leave than I already am if they did.

There are so many things in the world. People, activities, songs, outfits, choices. Everything is, essentially, endless. So to put a condition on one person, or one thing, seems limiting by definition. We all do it in various ways. We put conditions on ourselves all of the time. Some people call them “morals”. There is no problem, really, until you find yourself putting a stipulation upon another person. Who do you think you are?
Telling someone to stop wasting their money on shoes they don’t need may seem like the most harmless thing in the world. And it is, relatively. Some people may even just consider it conversation. But it isn’t the shoes that are the problem. It is the theme of entitlement that is.
“I’ll stop criticizing you,” my exboyfriend said when I told him that I was revoking his attribution in my life. “I didn’t really mean it.”
“No you won’t,” I said. “And, besides, I am not going to give you a condition to be with me. Criticize all you want. I just may not be around to hear it.”

Plastic surgery is a totally different concept to changing your fashion style every day.
Some people say it is just like brushing your teeth. But I don’t think that those people really understand the concept of brushing ones teeth. Either that or I have been grossly misinformed and teeth cleaning requires surgery and a two month recovery period. There is a place for it, of course, as it really does signify scientific and medical evolution. But if someone is changing their appearance for someone else, all it really represents is a decline in humanity and independent thought. And the extremes can be married together because whether it is permanent physical changes or just eternal character changes, requesting something of someone else is a topic that almost defines immoral. And anyone who does it deserves to never be kissed.

Finding someone to accept you for who you are on any given day is one of the most challenging things in life. We are all filled with so many quirks and flaws that are all so subjective, even we have moments ourselves when we love them and instances when we hate them. But the moment you can accept you for you, the demands of other people really do just become conversation. One that, unlike plastic surgery, will never last forever.

My eighty-two year old grandfather recently had his birth certificate denied for the first time in his entire life. Sometimes, I see clear evidence to the redundancy that is bureaucracy. He went to the Post Office to get a new passport, but the Einstein behind the counter would not accept the evidence to suggest that, at some point in history, my Pa had biologically arrived.
“You have to be kidding me?” my mother, apparently, exclaimed. “What is wrong with it?”
“It was registered two months before he was born.”
Sometimes it takes us a life time to work out the simplest mistakes.
Getting reissued with a new birth certificate when you are very well into middle age is easy enough, even if it is a little ludicrous and very annoying. But that is life isn’t it? Simple things often seem stupid and definitely frustrating but, in hindsight, we just have to laugh at them.
“Is Pa magic?” I asked. Sincerely. That would be a cool story.

My family is full of quirky people who teach me interesting lessons. Whether it is learning that my Pa was capable of notifying the government of his impending birth before he had entered the world, my brother’s insight into modern man’s brain or my mothers ability to drink an entire bottle of wine in one sitting and still care that the floor needs vacuuming, I have always known that I don’t have to look far from my family tree to get a good view of the ridiculous. While my friends Nanna’s were baking them cookies, mine was chain-smoking and reading me passages from conspiracy theory books while she babysat me as a child. I am not kidding and I see nothing wrong with it. The apple did not fall far from the tree.
As a family is made up of multiple generations, multiple ideals and, hopefully, multiple bloodlines, I have always enjoyed looking at the melting pot of humanity that is forced to spend Christmas Day and similar together and love to compare the hindsight of the elderly to the insight of the rest. My Nanna doesn’t know what an Internet is. But she could tell you every single thing that [apparently] happened to John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963. It is this kind of accumulation of knowledge that makes me excited to grow old. Because, it seems, wisdom is more evidence to a life well lived than a birth certificate ever will be.

People often discount the insight of the young.
“What could they possibly know?” the elderly ask, three hundred years into a seemingly never-ending lifespan.
“Well, they know how to use Google, so you would probably be surprised,” I have responded.
My brother, an accumulation of eighteen-years of life that could be the very definition of perfection, became my oracle on all things masculine when he was just fifteen years old. I have always suspected that he was smarter than me. I just thought I had until I was, at least, thirty to convince everyone otherwise. He was a teen and entering the dating world when I was starting to think that it was all one big conspiracy.
He had just met a girl and boasted for days about how much he liked her.
“So, have you called her yet?” I asked.
“No. I am have been busy.”
He was fifteen. What was he possibly busy doing? Other than masturbating?
“But you like her. Why don’t you call her?”
“Yeah. I will. When I have time.”
“So you’re lack of communication has nothing to do with your attraction to the girl?”
“Nope.”
I couldn’t help but think that, you know, somewhere throughout history, things like Hollywood had lied to me. It proved to me that young people should trust their own knowledge a little bit more.

The insight into how a young boys mind worked changed how I looked at the boys I was dating. Sorry, men. Oh, who am I kidding? Boys. They weren’t ignoring me. They didn’t find me ridiculous. They didn’t forget about me. They just had a life. Such a reality had never occurred to me before. Mainly, I think, because there is often little evidence that they boys I date actually have one. Or, you know, because I didn’t want to acknowledged that they existed in a world outside of me. Suddenly knowing that they did made me anxiety free. Cigarette companies must have noticed a drop in shares that you couldn’t even read about.

Eventually, as I got older, I started to notice that a few boys did think horrible things about me. There was clear evidence. Like, for example, some told me. Things started to become very confusing until I realized that different opinions are what make life interesting. Not having every human being think I was fabulous made me layered. And instigated self reflection to see how I perceived myself. I was forced to work out how to trust what I already knew just from living.

There is, I think, only one thing that truly separates the old from the young. Insecurity. I don’t think I know a wrinkled person who cares what other people think of them. I don’t think I know a young person who doesn’t. Old people look back on mistakes and laugh about them. Young people dwell on them. Part of me wonders if just living through years is the magic which kills self-doubt. And part of me knows that it is wisdom which boosts self confidence. It is the interim of dating, relationships and living that make us question who we really are and ignore the realities that can be denied by so many. But if a birth certificate can be wrong for your whole life, isn’t that evidence to the fact that everything you know could be wrong also?
It sounds ridiculous to think that we care more about how other people perceive our life than how our life actually is, but that seems to be the case. Google does not have a self-reflection application. But, if one bothers to open their mind and find out who they are for themselves, I don’t think you can deny it is the passport to wisdom and knowing that you are alive. It seems so stupid but, really, it is easy enough.

I don’t watch television. If I wanted to watch something pretty and stupid talk, I would get myself a boyfriend. I do not have a television in my house and will never buy one. Like a relationship,I think they are a total waste of time and space when you are young and [supposedly] free. I don’t just have a problem with televisions [or relationships]. I have an issue with all domestication in general. In fact, I don’t have knives and forks at my house. I have shoes stored in my oven. But I do have four bottles of Jack Daniels. I do have menus to all of my favorite Hollywood restaurants. And, now, I have bean bags.
I just don’t have any interest in buying conventional things for a house. A couch in front of a TV, to me, lacks total imagination and takes up a lot of space that could be used for much more fun things. Like sex. Of course, there is the problem of people needing a place to sit. This is why I only invite people back to my house if I am going to sleep with them.

Bean bags, see, solve just about every problem.

Since I was a teenager, I have suffered from sporadic insomnia. It stems from having an overly active mind and imagination but, ironically, can often be cured if I watch television when I go to bed. Such a solution always provided me with an ethical dilemma and, so, when I was old enough to know better than to watch anything virtual, I researched more productive ways I could get to sleep in an instant.
I quickly discovered sex. I had absolutely no ethical dilemma with that.

Some girls like to chat after sex. Pretty girls saying stupid things. I will do it if I have to, I admit, out of politeness and, sometimes, curiosity.
“What is his name?”
But, in reality, the fastest way to shut me up is to, well, honestly, fuck me. I am out like a light within three seconds of orgasming if I have my way. The pretty boy is more than welcome to talk to himself or go home and watch his TV. So long as I am dreaming instead of doing Suduko Puzzles or watching philosophy lectures until eight o’clock in the morning, I don’t really care.

Moving into my apartment coincided with one of the biggest insomnia attacks of my life. Coincidentally, I had also not had sex in some four hundred and forty million (or similar) days. It is not unusual, recently, for me to be awake for two days straight at any given time and existing as a total waste of space. It sounds great in theory. But, trust me, it is horrible.
You start to do weird things when you don’t sleep. Like, write long emails to people you don’t even like because you are trying to bore yourself to death. Like, see how many pushups you can do consecutively because you may as well get toned out of the ordeal. Like, buy bean bags from an online store at three o’clock in the morning because you remember once upon a time having a dream of having sex on top of them.

I bought bean bags at three o’clock in the morning. It was a perfect plan, really, one of the only positive things other than toned arms to come out of insomnia, because, one, I needed furniture of some description in my apartment. And two, I really wanted to see a bean bag arrive in a massive box at my front door.

OK. And, three, because I wanted to take the box, build a fort in my lounge room and sit in it. And maybe fuck in it.

There is only one bad thing about not having a boyfriend. The lack of constant sex. Sure, there are Booty Calls. But traffic is horrible in LA and, well, honestly, I don’t have that kind of patience. I was laying in bed, alone, starring at the two bean bags screaming at me to pay them sexual attention, like a pretty boy does after sex, when I stopped wondering how I would ever get to sleep again because my mind and imagination became completely overactive with what I should be in the bean bags. If I had the energy, I would have made some calls. But I was exhausted and I needed sleep.
“I will give you a cookie if you guess what I am doing right now,” I challenged LA Girl Friend.
“Sleeping, I hope?”
“No.”
“You built the fort already and you’re sitting in it?”
“No.”
“…”
“I am walking to Pleasure Chest. I was laying in bed. I couldn’t sleep for the four hundred and forty million or similar hour. The bean bags were mocking my life. And so I got dressed and decided to walk two miles to buy a vibrator.”
“How do you have the energy to do that?”
“Mind over matter. An orgasm. It is all I need. I will fall asleep in an instant. It works every time. And I don’t have to talk to it after.”

A large amount of consecutive hours later, my eyes were twinkling instead of tired and my arms felt significantly more toned. A positive thing, really, as the extra strength was useful to build the fucking fort I was trying to occupy myself with because I was still wide awake. Some twenty minutes later, I sat on my new chair protected by cardboard castle walls. A total waste of time and space that looked pretty and stupid. I took some magic beans, curled up and, finally, fell asleep to dream about doing other things on top of them.

I have a snake phobia. If only Freud was alive today to work that one out. People get very confused with the difference between a phobia and a fear and, thus, frequently tell me to Just Get Over It. To clear it up, a phobia is having a heart attack when a snake is on the same piece of mainland as you. It is an irrational and uncontrollable feeling encased in hypochondria. A fear is just what we all have when we see pictures of Lindsay Lohan. I have a snake phobia. Almost everything else I am not fond of is just a normal, boring old fear that is curable with the aid of alcohol. The social lubricant.

I am absolutely terrified about anal sex. Like communism, I don’t even think that it works well in theory. Just talking about anal sex makes me nervous, clenching every muscle in my body, so, in practice, I just can’t fathom how it would work.
“Can we have anal sex?” My Then Boyfriend asked me.
“No.”
“Can we have anal sex?”
“No.”
“Can we have anal sex?”
The constant begging left a bad taste in my mouth. But not one to pass up an opportunity, I decided to negotiate with the Devil.
“OK,” I relented.
“Yippee!”
“The next time I have to go to the bathroom, you can come with me. If you still want to have anal sex after that…Welcome.”
“That is disgusting.”
“Ohhhhh. THAT is disgusting?”

Shit will never be a part of my sex life. I am not one for making rules. But I think That is a good place to start. There are a lot of shit people who are part of my sex life and, thus, I feel that I have fulfilled the quota allotted to each of us at birth. Shit is a disgusting, dirty and, lets be honest, smelly reality that should never, ever be fantasized about.
Society has watered down the word Shit so that it doesn’t sound as bad as it actually is.
Poo. Poop. Nugget.
It all sounds, well, kind of cute. I don’t get grossed out when someone uses the word “bog” or announces that they need to do a Number Two. I have long since come to terms with the fact that ever human being does it. Actually, to be really honest, sometimes when I am intimidated by someone I simply remind myself that they occasionally get constipated and, suddenly, I have my power back. But, the fact is, shit, poo, poop, nuggets and number two’s are all completely disgusting things and no one should have to deal with another person’s unless they are under the age of one or really, really drunk.

There is a loop hole for a lot of [religious] girls who don’t want to have sex before they are married. They put It in the butt hole instead. Irony, like smell, must not be their strongest sense, because they don’t seem to realize that God doesn’t really care about the hole itself. That isn’t His problem. And it isn’t mine.
I am not morally against anal sex. I hope that all of those Catholic school girls are having a gay old time (no pun intended). And I can totally get behind people exploring each others bodies (totally intended). I am not even opposed to the actual physical nature of anal sex. A hole, really, is just a hole. Just like people are people but some people are just assholes. My problem is, only, with the Shit.
“I did it one time,” my Boy Friend told me. “And it was fucking stinky.”

I have a pooping in the bed phobia. Sorry, that sounded, well, kind of adorable. I have a shitting in the bed phobia. And I refuse to Just Get Over It. I have heard the Urban Legends and I apply Pascal’s Wager to them. Because, while I don’t care about being safe than sorry when it comes to religion, I do give a shit when it comes to mixing a digestive system with a sex drive. I choose to believe that The Girl Loosing Her Sphincter And Shitting Her Way To The Emergency Room is a true story. One that would, without fail, happen to me.
“Just think, if you, YOU, of all people, didn’t have a sphincter,” LA Girl Friend warned me, “You could no longer fart. You could also no longer control your shits. That is scary. And I bet petrifying to you.”
She was right. Like how my snake phobia doesn’t make sense because of my love of…[Yeah. This is where I choose to be discrete]…my abdication from anal sex is in direct opposition to my love of all things rectally amusing.
If someone farts, I laugh for days. If I fart, I laugh for years.
My heart would break if I had to find all of this sexy instead. It is disgusting and, occasionally, hilarious.

I fear that I sound like I have no sense of adventure. I have been told great stories about anal sex, wondrous tales of orgasmic bliss, solutions of lubricant and not eating [for weeks in advance]. And, I admit, that it all sounds fantastic. But then I wake up and smell the reality and remember that just because you can make something sound good, it doesn’t mean that it is. Like, Shit.
I will never be able to get That drunk. Or That lubricated.
Freud once said, “If you can’t do it, give up.”
Some times I think that we would have been a match made in heaven.

For a long time, I thought that Sober Sex was a myth or, at the very best, as frequent an occurrence as Haley’s Comet. If you’re lucky, you will get to experience it twice in your life time. I lost my virginity sober and, so, I just figured that my last sexual experience would be the next time. You know, to make for a nice and poetic bookend. Considering that I spend a large majority of my waking hours with a drink in hand, it is just always a statistical inevitability that I will get fucked while fucked. Whenever I have heard people talking about Sober Sex, I have had flashing images of fairytales, magical lands and Snow White giving head to Dopey with a glass of Brandy secretly set aside to the corner of the frame. I believe that dwarfs exist before I believe in Sober Sex.

I hate to clean. The universal hatred of cleaning may be the one truth shown in the myth that is Cinderella. My mother bought me books, toys and videos of the fairytale when I was little, indoctrinating me on a world where a girl dusted her way to a pair of glass shoes. I used to think it was because she wanted to romanticize my imagination from the cynical lump it was becoming from watching Absolutely Fabulous with my father. And I tried to get into Cindy’s world, I really did. But I called bullshit on it, like I did with Bigfoot, God and Sober Sex and, instead, indulged the lives of two middle-aged, alcoholic whores. It just seemed more believable. Maybe I knew what I wanted from a young age? But my mother wasn’t trying to make me idealistic, no, that was a myth I had fabricated in my own head. Hindsight has shown me that she was teaching me how to clean.
“Cinderella did it and look where it got her!”
“Yeah, her luck had absolutely nothing to do with magic.”
“Do you know what’s magic? This Swiffer.”

Now that I am an “adult”, I have had to clean up my own messes. I have found the life messes to be relatively easy to organize, dust and wipe away. But I’ll be fucked before I know how to use a vacuum. And so the messes in my house just kind of manifest until the mould creates functioning societies. However, because I want to get drunk and bring a boy back to my house, I decided that the mess had to be organized. I had no idea what I was doing. I emailed my mother to ask her some questions that Cinderella had not covered in her VHS tutorial.
“Do I sweep, mop or vacuum first?”
“Can you use Spray N Wipe on a mirror?”
“Would vodka remove mould?”
She wrote me back a series of “No’s” followed by a long list of instructions that read like the periodic table. I, in turn, decided that there was only one way to make the experience of cleaning a magical one. I made it into a drinking game. One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Clean The Floor.

Four hours later, I laid on my newly vacuumed rug and tried not to throw up on it. I was fucked. My floor glistened at me when I was eye-level to it. I felt proud of my adult self.

Cinderella met Prince Charming after she finished alphabetizing her bar and separating her G-Strings from Nanna Underpants, or whatever it is she actually did. I got Booty Called.
“Yes,” I wrote back to the series of invitations. I have never said ‘No’ to a single thing while intoxicated. Which may be why my Magic List reads like the periodic table.
I lost myself into the fabricated and fictional world of my book in the hours until He arrived, a fairytale narrative where I am in love with a nice, caring and functioning male member of society. By the time my Booty Call arrived, I was sober. Both my mirror and my liver were clean thanks to the magic of vodka.

As I had gotten myself into the mess while drunk, I understood that I had to then clean it up without the aid of alcohol. There wasn’t time to get drunk and, well, I had used the last of the spirits to get out a stain. My floors were clean enough to fuck on and the fumes should have been intoxicating, but, I had to have sex sober. I had no idea what I was doing.
“Do I undress, caress or blow first?” I wanted to ask someone.
“Is it normal to be able to see what I am doing?”
“Where is the vodka when you really need it?”
Four hours later, I had been laid on my newly vacuumed rug. It was like I had just seen Haley’s Comet. Twice.

I did not get into the Twilight books because they are boring, I don’t agree with them ideologically, need to see my vampires in the flesh and was waiting for the movie.
“Would you rather be a Vampire or a Zombie?” LA Girl Friend asked. She is going through a phase of getting to know me in a very unique way. Recently, I spent ten minutes at a bar trying to decide whether I would rather a tattoo on the right or left side of my face. I am not sure of what she is compiling.
“Vampire.”
“Not a Twilight vampire, like, a real vampire.”
“Still vampire,” I insisted. “I am a fussy eater but I am not a fussy drinker. Drinking blood would be like doing a Jager shot. I could handle it. But if I had to eat brains, I would be the first Zombie to die of starvation.”
I am not so much into biting people but, you know, if I was dead already, it is probably the one kinky thing I could get into.

My ex-boyfriend used to give me hickeys in my sleep because he knew that I hated them. I would wake up in the morning looking like I had slept with Edward Cullen. So the reality was depressing on multiple levels.
“I have to walk around looking like this all day now, you know?” I would tell him every day.
“Yes,” he would laugh. Hysterically.
“Dating you is like having to stand next to Pauly Shore. I am associated with something that just isn’t funny.”
I dealt with it because I got him back by giving him horrible hair cuts whenever he needed a trim.
“Just put this bowl on your head. Honestly, it works better.”
I am not sure who was the brains of That relationship, but I definitely had the last laugh.

Every day people tell me stories of Kinky Shit that has been tried on them in bed. Obviously, they figure that I will be either experienced in it or into it. Often I am neither, but I always have the last laugh.
“A finger went in where?!” may be my most frequently used phrase.
No one ever tries Kinky Shit on me. If I cared, I would be the first girl in the world to beg for butt sex. I have my theories as to why this is my reality. First of all, I think that people are fearful I will write about it. (Fair call). And, secondly, I think that I walk around with a metaphorical sign above my head that reads “Generic”. I love sex, I am an advocate for it, I think it should be engaged in at every possible moment, encourage people doing whatever they want but, personally, I just don’t need bells, whistles or Kinky Shit to keep me interested. I just need a pretty boy and…well…nothing else. So, evidently, I am seeming boring. This could be obvious to the general public because, basically, “Twilight” is the most experimental thing I have ever taken to bed with me. And I threw it against a wall after the first chapter and resumed to finding someone to throw me against a wall.

I recently hooked up with a boy who bit me. I didn’t notice at the time. Because, well, apparently I also need Jack Daniels to set the mood. When I did become aware that I had slept with a moonlighting vampire, I felt kinky and under-read at the same time.
“Look at this,” I told LA Girl Friend, showering her the bite marks on my shoulder. Neck. And arms. I looked like a walking and talking dental record.
“Oh! You hooked up with a vampire!”
When something unique happens to me, I usually claim it and advertise it from billboards. It can be generic to everyone else, but I will be all excited because I drank milk directly from the carton. Or similar. Call me generic, whatever, I get excited when something that has never been done before happens to me. A feeling the Twilight author, probably, has never experienced considering Harry Potter exists. I started to wear sleeveless shirts to show off my bite marks.
“What are you doing?”
“Something kinky happened to me! How cool is that?”
“That is not kinky. This one time…” A story was told to me involving things I can’t even pronounce, let alone imagine. Needless to say, it was something I would have to be dead to participate in.

Kinky Shit fascinates me. Even in my limited experience, I can totally get behind it. No pun intended. I love hearing stories of people who have been shocked and surprised because someone tried to do something they had never thought of before. It is all part of being liberated and, eventually, all part of life.
“What would it take for you to do something completely extreme?” my Boy Friend asked me, possibly taking notes.
“I don’t know if California has that much alcohol.”
“So biting is the most you will do?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Well, would you rather be shocked or bored?”
At this point, I think I would rather be Twilighted than enlightened.

You can tell a lot about a person from their history. You can tell even more about them from their Google history. Few people blatantly advertise their penchant for blow-up dolls or Asian porn when speaking at state dinners, or whatever else it is that people do with their time these days. But if you have access to their previous Internet searches, an image of a person becomes clearer than if you were to download it with high definition.
Many people find this here website by Googling certain questions and being sent to a place where they will never be answered.
If share holders knew that Yahoo sent someone who wanted to know how to make “DIY Contraception” to 20nothing.com, I’m sure they would pull out. But I get to read many brilliant search engine terms every afternoon when I start my work day. It is like reading the news. Except, instead, it is full of people who want to find blow-up dolls or Asian porn but, rather, find the ramblings of a twenty-five year old girl.

“Prettiest Blow Up Doll” made me laugh for, roughly, eight days but also made me understand why Google chooses me for certain topics, despite the fact that I have never once written about blow up dolls (Isn’t that about to change?). I’m more for the DIY Satisfaction in the absence of a real life human kind of a girl (but that could change?). The Prettiest Boy In The World, obviously, tipped the Interweb Gods off and made them send all of the perverted people who refuse to fuck ugly, or just downright plain, artificial humans to me. If they are here now, Hi. Welcome. Try the chicken.
This morning, I woke up to “Post Coital Stress Disorder” in my list of overnight views and immediately decided that four words had never summed up my life so well. Except for, maybe, You’re Twenty? Get In.
But what the Hell was it? I had never heard of such a condition. Stressed AFTER sex? Seriously? Human beings really must be greedier than We can even comprehend.

Wikipedia did not have a listening for Post Coital Stress Disorder, meaning, obviously, that it doesn’t exist. I wondered if there really are doctors Out There devoting their lives to researching the stress levels of the orgasmically relieved.
“I’m sorry, I know that a cure for cancer is a prominent topic, but you know, I just can’t live in a world where people aren’t happy after coming.”
Urban Dictionary, meanwhile, had everything I deemed I needed to know. According to this, obviously authentically correct little corner of Interweb Knowledge, Post Coital Stress Disorder doesn’t just exist. It has an example.

“Rocco developed Post Coital Hatred for Sheila during a one night stand on a park bench.”

I’m no doctor but, fuck, even I would feel a little bit stressed after having sex with someone named Sheila on a park bench. I may even be downright suicidal if my name was Rocco. The definition, thankfully, gave better insight.

“Post coital hatred is the feeling of hatred that a man feels for a woman immediately after a man ejaculates during sex.”

Girls cannot win. We are a whore if we have sex with a guy. We are a cold prude if we don’t. And if we actually make him come, he hates us. No wonder people look for the “Prettiest Blow Up Doll”. The absence of emotion must provide a completely stress free environment. If, of course, you can get over the fact that you are fornicating with something made out of plastic and in China.

Post Coital Stress Disorder, under its Urban Dictionary definition, is a horrible reality. In the event that Google has sent anyone Here to read about it, let me just say, “Get The Fuck Over Yourself.”
Human Beings are capable of making big deals out of the smallest of things and taking selfishness to a whole new level. It is not uncommon for a person to cry when they are told that the have missed a flight to, say, Paris, for example. We will so quickly loose sight of the bigger picture and focus on the one negative thing in front of us, not even considering all of the people who don’t have the opportunity to go to Paris just eight hours after the planned departure time. Why do we do this? To get sympathy? To get attention? To get laid? Who knows. But, the fact is, that human beings let their emotions run a large percentage of their life, forgetting about the organ that is running the heart.

The brain exists to be used, so that we can think about things. One hopes that the moment people start using theres, Google will no longer be needed. To think for yourself is an interesting thing. It alleviates a lot of guilt, a lot of shame and a lot of turmoil because Reason replaces the ignorance of undefined emotion. If a person Hates someone after having sex with them, I have to wonder if they have, ever, used their brain. If they have ever looked at the bigger picture. If they have ever stopped for a moment and thought about all of those people who don’t even have the opportunity to fuck on a park bench.

You can tell a lot about a person from the weird shit they will create just so they have something to complain about. Few people will blatantly say, “I hate you!” after they have sex with you. But if you have access to their Google history, and discover that is the reality, may I just suggest that you search for A Man Who Uses Both Of His Heads. Google may not find one and send you here, but, hey, it is a start.

What is with boys laughing because they ejaculated on to a girls face? Maybe I have seen too many Carnies have a pie thrown at their head, I don’t know, but there has to be a reason why the hilarity of the sexual act of aiming and firing is lost on me. I just don’t think that It is what Cupid had in mind when he picked up an arrow and said, “Look out!”
My Promiscuous Boy Friend, who I live vicariously through, emailed me a story about his latest conquest. I don’t know her name. I just know Them by days of the week or specific annual dates at this point.
“And then at the end, I came and it went STRAIGHT IN HER EYE,” he prefaced before an army of exclamation points.
“Why?” I Skyped him. “Why? Seriously, Why? Explain it to me. I want to know.”
“Because it is fucking funny.”
“Why? Why? Seriously, Why? Explain it to me. I want to know.”
“Because she didn’t see it coming!”

I once failed an exam because, instead of studying, I watched a YouTube video of a midget on roller stakes push a shopping cart full of kittens down a driveway. On repeat. For five hours. Laughing at completely ridiculous or, even, completely wrong things is not lost on me. When a real life human runs into a pole and falls down, and I am privy to its actuality, I laugh hysterically for six months. Actual comedians have the easiest job in the world if I am in the room. Just fart and I am done, gone, lost into a fit of giggles until someone dies. I can find, just about anything, funny. But, for some reason, a cum shot to the face is the sexual equivalent of Pauly Shore for me. Unassuming.

I have been called a prude twice in my life. One time it was after watching the porn documentary “Sex: The Annabel Chong Story” and I raised my eyebrow to her raising her legs for over two hundred men in a ten-hour time frame. I argued the insult thrown in my direction because, considering the subject matter of the film, I just didn’t see it coming. The other time, I had just watched a Miley Cyrus music video and objected to her objectification.
“What I would do to that girl…” my Boy Friend sighed.
“What? What? Seriously, what would you do to that seventeen year old girl?”
“I would give her a facial better than anything she would get in Beverly Hills.”
Fearing that my house was tapped by the federal police, I told Him to either leave or change the channel. I didn’t expect to have my own standards be brought into the debate. I argued the insult thrown in my direction and because I didn’t see it coming, I lost based on a technicality. Damn Taylor Lautner being underage.

As most of my friends are With Penis, I have been in the presence of just about every Morning After conversation one can imagine. And I indulge them all because there is nothing I laugh at more than, “I woke up and pointed to the general area of the bus stop.” But every single time a boy friend has ended the morning news with, “And then I came on her face,” I have had to ask, sorry, beg, “Why? Why did you have to do that?”
I am not a feminist in any way, shape or form (except for the fact that I am, well, a female in every way, shape and form) and so I have no problem with women being “objectified” in a general sense. I use quotation marks because I frequently argue the existence of objectification in any legal sexual act, as I just don’t think females are being negatively submissive if they allow for a boy to do something to them. If you’re a grown adult, you can made a choice. It is just a person with a fetish, in my opinion. I have no ethical problem with a concept, either. I don’t even think it as unnecessarily unhygienic. There are several other arguments against the act, but I don’t care to indulge them too much, because none of them answer my initial question. Power complexes, biology, superiority and instinct don’t explain,
“Why is ejaculating onto a girls face funny?”

Guys will never ask for directions when they are driving, so the fact that they care about the direction of their sperm is, possibly, the biggest joke of all. When I either verbally or physically forced a large percentage of the boys I know to justify the hilarity of the sex act to me, most of them could not give me an answer. Often they were too busy giggling like school girls because I had even raised the subject. “Because it is funny,” was, for a while, the best explanation I got. A close second was, “Because I can.” Which, I must admit, I laughed at.
Finally, another promiscuous boy friend, one who I used to keep in contact with just In Case Of Emergency until I realized he was nice, funny and smart, put me out of my misery.
“When you laugh at someone running into a pole, why do you think it is the best thing you have ever seen?”
“Because it is!”
“Why? Explain it to me.”
“Because…it is unexpected to them just as much as it is to me and their reaction is always priceless. Sometimes, they look like turtles who have fallen onto their back and can’t get up.”
I must admit, I started giggling.
“And that is why a cum shot to the eye is hilarious.”
“Oh.” Damn it. 
“The reaction is better than any facial expression any comedian could ever come up with. It isn’t funny because it is objectifying someone. That is wrong and disgusting. It is funny because it is unexpected and makes something so natural so completely unnatural. You laugh about people running into poles. The only difference between that and This is that one is a sexual act. Don’t have a double standard on politically incorrect hilarity.”
“Oh.”
I understood what he meant. I didn’t see that coming.

When you haven’t had sex during This decade, anything will get you off. Walking down a street is foreplay and drinking a hot chocolate, almost, feels post-coital. Everything in between is orgasmic only because you have forgotten what the fuck an orgasm feels like. Every waking hour feels like a year because, well, it may as well be. Unless you are going to fall over during that walk down the street and on to a penis (or similar), life just, really, isn’t worth living. Some people disagree with me. Lets just assume that they are the ones who are getting laid.

I was sitting down to kill myself when LA Girl Friend exploded into my apartment with news.
“Have you heard of Sexsomnia!?”
“The what now?”
“It is sleep walking. But, instead of walking, You. Have. Sex.”
“I need more information.”
“You. Fuck. In. Your. Sleep. What. The. Fuck?”
I don’t like to use Wikipedia except for when I need things really dumbed down. Like, “What is the meaning of life?” or “How do you fix a hangover after the eighth day in a row?” or “Does he really mean ‘No’?”. Sexsomnia fit, somewhat, into that category. I had more of an interest in what the general public perceived it to be, rather than just a clinical definition, and didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, so I Wikipediaed the shit out of sexsomnia. (Aside: My Google history is a fascinating read. Sexsomnia rests somewhere between “Can you make homemade nicotine?” and “Does Mary-Kate Olsen really exist?”).
“What are you doing?” LA Girl Friend Blackberry Texted me an hour later.
“Researching. Go away.”
Sexsomnia, sleeping fucking, basically, for those who use their waking hours for more useful things like pedicures and origami, is described as a condition which, according to Wikipedia, isn’t all that cool. Apparently, “Negative effects include feelings of shame and embarrassment and also can cause relationship issues and stress.”
“You think?” LA Girl Friend exclaimed when I read her my findings.
For once, I really did disagree with Wikipedia. Shame? They don’t even know shame. Shame is Not having sex.
“The documentary I was watching,” LA Girl Friend continued, “Said that people were arriving at their neighbors house and having sex with them.”
“Wait a minute.” I sipped my Jack Daniels very, very quickly. “You mean to tell me, that somewhere in the world neighbors are opening doors to people unconsciously fucking them? And they are complaining about it? Where do they live?”

A scientific paper was published on sexsomnia in 2003 and, quite frankly, I can’t believe that Richard Dawkins has not included it in his Immaculate Conception Is Impossible argument. The Virgin Mary, maybe, just had an extreme sleep walking condition that was only worsened by the fact that door locks had not be invented in the BC era. It certainly made me consider never locking my door. Ever. Again.
“But everyone in your building is gay,” my boy friend reminded me.
“What the fuck?” I responded. “Are people even particular when they are sleeping?”
I once had a sex dream about Joel Madden. So, I have to assume, that, like me, other people are also not at all particular when they are dreaming. Hell, I’ve had sex with a neighbor for lessor reasons. Some sleeping sexing person has to, Has To, find me attractive. Right?

What the fuck is happening to man kind if they can’t remember having sex? Sex, apparently the most natural thing in the world, is also, for the most part, the most memorable thing one can do. You never hear, for example, someone say, “Dude, I took the trash out last night!” Unless, well, they…fuck. There have been, I admit, mornings in my life when I have asked, “Did I?” But I also have to admit that a scientific paper has never had to be written to discover why I couldn’t remember. I was drunk. Whoops. I took the trash out. And forgot about it. Very, very quickly.

When you have not had sex in quite some time, either while you are awake or while you are asleep, you start to wonder why you ever denied it when it was offered to you.
“Really? I had a problem with those racist comments That Guy was saying?”
“Really? I thought that red hair was a bad thing? Who did I think I was?”
“Really? I had standards? Why?”
Sex becomes a dream when you aren’t having it consciously. Which, in the absence of Wikipedia, isn’t a problem. The fact that people can have it without knowing it is…is…is…greedy. Did they say That in the scientific paper of 2003?

I live for things that make me laugh myself to sleep. Which, may be, why, once upon a time, I had sex like I was living a dream. When I found out about sexsomnia, I must admit, I felt that my life was a little more complete, because if I ever needed to develop a mental disorder, I had found the one I would want to have. If nothing else, I had gotten something off of it.
Bed time was approaching and, tired of my routine of reading J.D Salinger prose that I would never remember come morning time, I decided to take sleeping pills and let medicine takes its course.
“Aren’t you worried about what will happen to you if you take sleeping pills?” my Girl Friend asked me.
“What the fuck is the worst that could happen? I wake up and find out that I got laid?”
“Well, yeah?”
“In my dreams.”
When you haven’t had sex during This decade, anything will get you off. Falling down onto a bed is foreplay and waking up, apparently, feels post-coital.

—-

Bibliography:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_sex

I don’t ask people how their day was because I just don’t care. I tend to ask people bigger questions, questions that will tell me more about who they are rather than what they are doing. So, their view of the universe is much more interesting to me than their view of the day. I can talk for hours with someone if I am having out of this world conversation where we are not the topic, just the orators. Conversations about ideas, theories or dreams are, in my opinion, much more entertaining and, really, practice for that hypothetical dinner party everyone has planned at the back of their mind, when the greatest minds in history meet in your kitchen. Is, “How was your day?”, really, the first thing anyone is going to ask Jesus when he sits down for macaroni and cheese?

I could not tell you the favorite color of any of my ex-boyfriends. I could not tell you how they drank their coffee. I know their last name purely by chance. But I could write books about their attitudes, their ideas, their theories and their dreams. Listening to their opinions about the world, their knowledge of history and their philosophies of life stimulated me more than anything else in the relationship. Well, that isn’t fair.
Almost more than anything else.
Other boys, those ones used only for physical stimulation, may as well not have had a last name. Maybe they didn’t. I have no idea. Because I didn’t ask. Because I didn’t care. Most of my Magic List would be forgiven for thinking that I am a mute. Or, you know, a massive bitch.
“Shhh. You’re wrecking it,” is, if I am objective, my pick-up line.

The Prettiest Boy In The World [official name] and I set a record when we had a Skype conversation for over seven hours. Over four hundred and twenty minutes where we discussed our attitudes, our ideas, our theories and our dreams, with Hanging Up being the only climax possible. When I moved to L.A, our relationship became a place where conversations came to thrive. Hours were spent writing emails, reading emails and talking into little webcams until one of us, eventually, pressed Hang Up to return to whatever it is we were doing that day. I have no idea. I never asked.
Five hour conversations between him in Paris, the City of Lights and me, in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, last for the duration of the time it takes the sun to move across the North Atlantic Ocean and, after six months, no topic has been exhausted, untouched or questioned. Other relationships, sex and sarcastic racism are just some of the things that we fill our day talking about. There is no other person I speak to as much and after collective hours, spread across the earth, I have learned a lot about his thoughts on the universe and, ironically, now somewhat care about how is day was.

I started to hypothesize what I would do if I was to be in His physical presence, where verbal communication was no longer the only foundation for which our relationship had to thrive on.
“Shhh. We’re wrecking it,” is, if I am objective, probably the first thing we would say to each other.
“I think we have made our yearly quota of words,” I told him. “In the event that you are ever in my beanbag, know that when I say, ‘Shut Up’, I will mean it in the most endearing of ways.”
Not having to speak would change the nature of our relationship. For one thing, walking out the door just takes so much more effort than Hanging Up. You have to get up out of the beanbag, find your keys, make sure you have your phone, cigarettes and money. Who can be bothered? Maybe that is why people stay together forever? That is the best reason for marriage I can think of.

It is interesting what happens when there is no physical distraction around, where thoughts have to be expressed verbally, when there is no way that actions will speak louder than words. It is, if I am objective, the foundation of so few relationships in the world, as what we do during the day often gets in the way of deeper conversation and distracts us from asking about the things that aren’t even there. I started to wonder if there is ever a time when you don’t need to speak to someone to find who they are, if watching someone live their day can give you a greater insight to a person.
There are over six billion people on earth. If one is lucky, they discover a connection to about five of them. If they are really lucky, they fall in true love with about three of them. And if they are magic, they fuck a large percentage of them. The ability to communicate defies language barriers, religious affiliations and real racism.

With so few people who care about your ideas, theories and dreams, it makes sense to dedicate hours to the ones who do. Sometimes I wonder if people would be happier if they stopped asking questions they don’t care about to people they don’t care about. I think that they may be. Of course, I could be wrong. It is just my opinion. My view. All I know is that speaking is the only pick-up line with any meaning, to find out something you do care about.