Welcome back, Gentle Reader. I'm sure the first thing you will notice is that I have made changes to the format. Apparently, reading my blog for too long had a long list of side effects. Headaches, dizziness, seizures, fucking your cousin, hallucinations, and chronic masturbation were the most reported symptoms. If you previously experienced any of these problems, I apologize, and please tell your pregnant cousin that I'm sorry. When I was seeing spots after reading it, I assumed it was just my level of intoxication that was causing it. Hopefully, this will make for easier reading.
As most of you know, I'm in a new relationship. This is simultaneously one of the most exciting and scariest experiences known to mankind. On one hand, you are so full of hope that this might actually be the one, while on the other hand, your brain and heart keep screaming at you to get the fuck out as fast as you can. As you get older and everyone has so much baggage, things just seem to get harder. Falling in love almost seems impossible, because all you ever do is get in your own way. I've spent most of my life thinking that I'm a pretty sane person. As I have started to get serious feelings about her, it turns out that I might be just as crazy as the rest of you. You start to feel a little insecure, and all it takes is one unanswered phone call and your brain just starts imagining the worst shit possible. Too much bad shit has happened to you and you don't know how to handle things rationally anymore.
Let us paint a picture. He/She is supposed to call you after work, but your phone never rings. You think about calling them for twenty minutes and finally break down. They don't answer. So you wait for a call back, or at least a text saying that they are busy getting their junk waxed. Too much time goes by without hearing from them though, and you just start creating shit out of thin air, because the fear of getting hurt makes you want to sabotage the whole damn thing. Most likely, they probably ARE getting their junk waxed, but that's all it takes sometimes, just to plant that one little seed of doubt. Now your paranoid, insecure brain is busy going through "worst-case scenarios."
You try to bury all that crazy shit, but one day soon it's going to come back up. It will start with something simple and random. Like one day when they ask you to get something out of their purse, and you just know that if you just tilt it the wrong way, random dicks will just start to pour out of it. And that will be all the fuel your paranoia will need for you to flip the purse over, dump the dicks out all over the floor, and scream, "Where the hell did all these dicks come from, huh?!? Answer me, damnit!!! Yeah! That's what I thought when I first saw you! You looked just like a girl that would have a purse full of dicks!" Ladies, if you would, just try to swap genders for the purpose of this entry, because I lack the knowledge to tell this story from your point of view. Also, a purse full of pussy isn't funny, it's a fucking pipe-dream.
Please don't judge me, Gentle Reader. I have been through some bad days. I once dated a pregnant ex-stripper that would go to meet a "friend" for lunch and show up three hours later with $600 cash that he gave her just because he "wanted to help us out." Yeah, I'm sure he just wanted to help me buy 20 boxes of diapers that we don't even need yet. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact he probably just stuck it in your ass and then gave you a shot in the throat, while you told me you that you guys shared an appetizer sampler at Applebee's. I knew what was going on. I heard that six-hundred dollars is the going rate for ass-to-mouth action these days. Not that I would know, but I do hear rumors.
On a final note, ladies please don't get mad at your man if he gets a little frustrated when it's "that time of the month." It's not that he doesn't still love you, but he just knows that it's going to be a long week. Not only will you most likely be in a shitty mood, but you can't even have make-up-sex after a fight. So I suggest, instead of constantly saying "I'm on my period," you should change it up, and call it "Blowjob Week." I think this will save a lot of marriages and relationships. You're welcome. Until next time, Gentle Reader.