Finally, an answer! Why bitches are bat shit crazy…

So, a fan asked me to blog about this… I’m definitely flattered that they believe I have the answer to the million dollar question, and if you know me, I’m pretty sure you know that I like to think I have the right answer to oh, just about everything, so I had assumed this would be an easy write. Well, fuck me! For once, I was wrong. Nothing has been easy about this. I’ve been stumped for two days trying to cultivate an answer, whether it be comical, simple, confusing or just plain bullshit and I still really don’t have a straightforward response. I figured I’d just come here and type and eventually something would come to me, so here I am. In my past 3 entries, I was very sure about what I wanted to blog about, and there was no pressure at all. Frankly, I’m not sure I like this “blog request” of sorts. I’m not a motherfucking DJ. This isn’t your sisters wedding. I make the rules! That being said, this will be the first AND last time I leave my subject matter up to anyone else. Really, the only reason I agreed, is because when I wouldn’t give him an immediate answer to his burning “Why bitches be crazy?” question, he started attacking my intelligence with lots of adjectives and synonyms that made me think he was ready to take over my blog fame and I got a little uneasy. Fucking trolls.

So basically I’ve concluded that bitches are crazy for a number of reasons. Today, we will discuss the top three.

1. Because of Men

2. Because of Google

3. Because of Estrogen

Men:

This is the NUMBER ONE reason why we’re crazy, whether any of you swinging dicks like it or not. Don’t get me wrong now, I’m not saying that there aren’t crazy lesbians, trust me there are and I know first hand. But most of the crazy lesbians are the ones who’ve changed their name from Christine to Chris, have a lifetime supply of sports bras and make you question whether Justin Beiber is sitting next to you on the city bus or if there is actually a pantyliner folded up in that wallet rather than a condom. You get what I’m saying, huh? The crazy ones are the ones who act like, that’s right… MEN! The leftover crazy lesbians are the super hot ones you’re jerking off to in a sock and guess who they like? Those aforementioned lesbians who look and act like MEN! It’s a vicious cycle, leading us back to one thing, penis (or phallic shaped objects that they sell at Cindie’s). Yes men, you DO really rule the world but you’re also the reason us broads are cray cray. Examples? Here’s one: Men are only as faithful as their options. You guys can swear to me you’ve never been unfaithful and there actually is a chance you’re being honest. There is also a greater chance that you’re A.) Ugly, B.) Shy C.) Both. Cheating partners make women insane. You’re on the city bus and this time it’s not The Beibs sitting next to you, but it’s a stunningly beautiful woman with legs for days and bedroom eyes you’re sure are begging you to come fuck her… She leans over, and whispers in your ear: “I’m not wearing any panties and I want to get off with you at your stop (pun intended).” What will you do? You won’t hesitate and you’ll reach into your pocket, pull out your trusty iPhone and text your girlfriend, wife, fiance, or whoever is at home making your sandwiches and tell them: “I’ve gotta work late, I’ll be home as soon as possible babe.” When you woke up that morning, you had no intention of cheating on her. You’ve never really had the desire to, right? Well, lets face it. You’ve never had the fucking desire to, because you’ve never had a busty whore bag tell you while on the bus that she’s dying to let you go to pound town on her. Cheaters make us crazy. Keep it in your pants, it’s quite simple. More examples? Toilet seats. It takes less than half a second to slam the fucking lid down! Throw us a bone here! Do YOU have any idea how it feels to be half asleep in the middle of the night and plop down into a freezing cold bowl of putrid piss water? No, you don’t and it’s awful. If you’re a hypochondriac like me, before you can clumsily pull your dripping ass out the porcelain God, you’re sure you’ve developed meningitis or sickle cell anemia or some rare form of cancer simply from touching your nether parts to what is actually not so contaminated water… and exactly that brings me to the #2 reason why we’re crazy –

Google:

From a distance, Google seems like a God send, right? An easily accessible outlet with the answer to everything? Score! Ummm, Hell no. That’s wayyyyyyy fucking wrong. Google, my friends, is the devil. It’s a long proven fact that women, are over thinkers. In fact, personally speaking, I can over think something to the point where I have had a 45 minute role playing session in my head thoroughly convincing myself that because you didn’t come home from work and immediately take a shit, that you cheated on me. How do I even get from point A to point Z there? It’s simple. Every day at 5:00 pm sharp you walk in the door, kick your smelly, musty shoes off, creatively seeing where you can catapult them to today, all while unnecessarily slamming the door behind you. You walk into our bedroom, unbutton your work shirt, crumple and throw it on the floor, peel your sweaty socks off and leave them as a gift for me on our nightstand right next to the lube (and you, Rico Suave, wonder why I even NEED to use lube), go to the bathroom, lovingly leave the door open while you drop the Cosby Kids off at the Superbowl, and then saunter back into the living room demanding a “sammich”. You pull the remote out of my hand, right in the middle of a super raunchy sex scene from last nights DVR’ed episode of Shameless and click the input button about 76 times, aggravating yourself that you keep surpassing the main Call Of Duty screen. Finally, you slow down a bit, get the TV right where you need it and start bludgeoning people via XBox Live, completely ignoring me, until the smell of bacon starts lingering from the kitchen and you know your “sammich” is halfway to your colon. Well, today… 5:00 pm rolls around and you do all the other nonsense you usually do, except there is no bathroom time. I’m baffled. I get to make a sandwich for you without a rancid odor wafting it’s way into the kitchen? Why didn’t you poo? Were you in someone’s elses bathroom before you came home? Did you have something different for lunch today? Why would you eat something different? You’re a creature of habit! Did you go to a different restaurant today instead of your daily drool fest at Twin Peaks with the sales guys? Was this a Panera Bread kind of day? Why would you go to fucking Panera Bread? Bitches love Panera Bread. Oh. My. God. You cheated on me at lunch! And, here is where Google comes into play… I turn down the bacon, pick up my phone and Google: “Why would my boyfriend change his daily routine out of nowhere?” Google has now informed me that not ONLY did you definitely take a slut to Panera Bread, you’re probably also huffing air freshener, addicted to animal porn, screwing your boss (whose name is Richard), and shooting up Oxycodone. Looking for a second opinion, I turn to Yahoo Answers and type: “Do bitches love Panera Bread?” In fact, according to Yahoo Answers, they do. You’re a fucking cheater.

Estrogen:

This is the scientific reason about why we’re BSC. I mean clearly, I’m no scientist, but it’s not hard to understand that anything that bleeds for more than 5 days and doesn’t die can’t really be trusted as anything other than insane. Wouldn’t YOU be crazy? Wouldn’t you, as a man, reading this, be off your fucking rocker if you had to deal with the hormones we have rushing through our veins? How would YOU feel if once a month your nipples felt as if they were going to explode and some hypothetical hamster was using your uterus as a spinning wheel, twisting and contorting your ovaries at 600 mph, just to remind you that you were approaching a week long state of misery in which you ruined every pair of your favorite panties, had to use Crisco to squeeze into your skinny jeans and the only thing entering your vagina was going to be nowhere nearly as pleasing as what your boyfriend had tucked in his Fruit of the Looms? What if you had to blow your partner for 6 days straight with no reciprocation? What if you had 145 hours of non-stop daydreams of ice cream gang bangs at Ben & Jerry’s and you spent your last $15 dollars on Tampax and Whataburger? Not fun at all. And let’s talk about NOT having a period! Chances are, if you’re NOT having a period, you’re probably knocked up. 9 fucking miserable months of carrying around your 10 lb. fuck trophy behind a topographic map of stretch marks, just to expel it at an unnatural rate of speed out of our previously elasticized girl parts just because “you don’t like condoms”… You’d be crazy too. I guarantee if you knew what was coming to you (screaming babies, shitty diapers and likely later on, $1000 worth of monthly child support), you’d have a secret bunker built below your house full of Trojan condoms (and when describing it to your friends, Magnums). You guys can’t even handle the common cold without crying like a fucking 2 year old who had her Dora the Explorer blanket yanked away from her, yet you expect us to go through all of THAT without being nutso? Right.

So, got it now? Men. Google. Estrogen. There’s your answer.
Falynn, Out.

PM Dawn, Zebra Cakes and Hairless Lady Parts.

Before I get into the meat and potatoes of this blog entry (yes, that’s totally a food reference, and to my loyal followers who don’t personally know me, yes I still love meat in my mouth), let me give you a quick rundown of where I’ve been… Most of you would probably assume the following, in no particular order: Fat Camp, Jail, tied up in a strangers basement with nipple clamps and a ball gag, or decomposing somewhere in a Mexican ditch skinned to make a blanket… a very large blanket. Not true. Over the past 10 years or so, I’ve had an uncanny ability to magnetize stalkers. Some of you know details of this from my blogs in the past, and some of you know details of this, well, because you’re probably stalking me. I was going through some legal issues (actually, I wasn’t but someone I was close to was) and at some point about a year ago, my character could have been in question. I made the VERY difficult decision to shut my blog down. As you all know, this blog is 100% Non-Fiction, and true to my every day dealings and doings in life. I haven’t ever sugar-coated anything. I write about the ugly truth, I cuss like a sailor and I talk about sex like I’m actually getting it. These things could have easily been misconstrued to make others think I’m a loose cannon, a whore, over exxagerated, or ridiculously dramatic, you know… All those things I’m not. <insert sarcastic emoji here> Anyway, so I wiped my past clean, deleted all of my entries (by the way, I’ll sell my first-born to anyone who can tell me how to retrieve completely deleted entries from WordPress) and hung it up. Well, I’m fucking back bitches. Hi Felicia!

Okay, where the do I begin? In January, I moved into my own apartment. Seems like absolutely nothing to be excited about, except that I am almost 34 years old and have never lived totally alone. I’ve had a plethora of roomies, a few asshat exes sucking up my .15kw AC and occasionally, I like to return to my mothers and drive her god damn bananas until she screams at me enough times: “You’re 30 something years old. Get the fuck out of my house before I disown you.” When I moved into said apartment, I not soon after met my gem of a neighbor. By neighbor, I mean, she lives so close that I know how long it takes her to orgasm, what hours of the day she prefers to vacuum and how many times this week her son has shit on the floor and smeared in on the wall. Those things may seem like personal matters but what I don’t hear with my own two ears, she shares with me every time I exit my house. I know about her ex-husbands love for strippers and heroin, the fact that 2 biker clubs have a hit out on him and that she, more than once, has had to give hand jobs to grease-monkies to fix her minivan. That’s right, total gem. She seemed as normal as Porter, Texas can offer you at first. She apologized for her children coming into my apartment without invite while she was home napping, she changed her own alternator with power tools at 4 am and she accidentally shot me in the face with Ortho Home Defense while attempting to murder a family of hornets that had moved into our outside walls. All forgivable. Then, the unrequited love affair began. A few months ago, I had a serious shoulder and elbow injury. (The details of this will not be discussed, just know that Rumpleminze is the most sugary, delicious, yet evil beverage still legally consumable). I was returning from a doctors checkup a few days after the injury had occurred and she gently apprehended me at my door before I could make it in. She was muttering something about a care package and waving a wrinkled Wal-Mart sack in my face. I hesitantly take it, and she thrusts a pair of knee-high suede boots I know I’ve seen Jesse Spano wear before, at me. Puzzled, I take the gifts and go inside. I open the bag and the following contents tumble out:

Dollar General Brand Hair Remover (Nair), 3/4 full

An opened box of Family Dollar Brand Teeth Whitening Strips

(2) Lidocaine Patches

A Parliament Cigarette

I’m so lost… Baffled really. I can’t make sense of this! I pick up the brand new boots in confusion, admiring the 6 inch heels while simultaneously wondering why a person would dare give me 6 inch heels when I just took a fall resulting in bodily injury (and I was in flip-flops). Also, I was wondering how she approximated that I was a size 10. I have Fred Flinstone feet. I’m a size 8.5. Approximately 20 minutes later, she knocks on my door. After glaring through the peephole the following fleeting thoughts run through my head: Should I hurry and put the boots on? The teeth whitening strips? Hang the cigarette out of my mouth? I can’t even formulate a thank you for this shit when I don’t have a fucking clue why she gave them to me. I reluctantly open the door, forcing a smile.

“Did you love the gifts?”

I struggle a “Mmmhmm” and cock my head. I’m hoping an explanation will follow.

“I figured they’d make you feel better. You know, in case you can’t shave your legs or brush your teeth. I imagine that would be a pain in the ass with a bum arm. The cigarette is because I noticed an empty pack on your patio table and thought you might be out. The boots are because, hell, what beautiful girl doesn’t love new shoes?” Okay, so in theory, it all makes a little more sense. It’s a sweet gesture. Bizarre, but sweet. If only our story ended there.

Fast forward a few weeks: Besides the one night I was outside drinking a glass of wine on my porch and she commented not one, two, but THREE times on how my red lipstick looked so good that I was making her reconsider her sexual preferences, things have been (fairly) normal and neighborly. I hear a quiet knock on my door, while I’m in the bedroom. I was naked (for no good reason actually) and I decided not to answer my door. I wasn’t expecting company and had noticed the Mormons making their rounds earlier in the day. Hours later when I decide to put clothes on, I open my door to see if any religious fliers had been left or possibly a stack of hundreds. Low and behold, I have a gift! A quite familiar wrinkled Wal-Mart sack is hanging from my door knob. I’m wondering if she had decided to send over the other 1/4 of the bottle of Nair and was secretly hoping for a receipt for the boots, so I could return them for some Converse. Inside? A slice of heaven… 3 Sam’s Club size bags of Reese’s Pumpkins. Never mind that this was April and these candies haven’t been available in 5 months, but how did this crazy bitch know what my favorite candy was to begin with? I quickly do what any normal person would, and ask Facebook if they thought I was being poisoned, all while unwrapping the first Pumpkin and shoving it in my mouth as fast as you could say Anthrax. 15 votes come in on my poll, 13 of them saying to trash the chocolate. At this point, I’m halfway through bag #1, and wondering if the stomach ache is from the 1700 calories I’ve consumed or from the Belladona. As you see, I’ve made it through unscathed. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure the gift was from her. It was a step up from the last present and made a lot more sense. 3 days later, when I pulled up to my apartment she ran up to ask if I liked her present. From the 8 lbs I had put on and the ever present acne spread across my cheeks, she knew I did. At this point, I begin to do my very best to avoid her. It was fairly easy to do so, because I know what she drives, therefore if she was home, I didn’t leave my house. All was well until I drunkenly tripped over the chicken wire cage she has perimetered her front porch in so that she can trap her escaping toddlers when she’s too busy to notice they’ve decided to leave home. She hears the commotion, darts outside with a box of Zebra Cakes and chunks them at me. “Bought these for you!” For a split second, I consider declining the treats, but I was drunk and they looked delicious. I can’t gather the words to awkwardly thank her so she stares at me for a second, winks and walks back in her house. Crisis averted. At this point, I go in, pour a glass of milk, take off my bra and try to figure out how to get out of my lease while putting myself in a Zebra Cake coma. I have such a hard time understanding why she wants to fatten me up any further until I recognize the sound of Scarlet LaVey moaning through my bedroom wall. This crazy bitch is watching BBW porn. I’m in big trouble.

1 month later: I receive a text from her… This text proceeds to ask me, AND I AM NOT LYING, if she can shave my motherfucking lady parts. She legitimately asked me, if I minded coming over so she could lather me up and gingerly shave my cooch. Are you fucking kidding me? Who does that? And doesn’t she remember that she gave me Nair? I don’t need her grooming assistance. I just ignore it. I have no words. A few days later, I’m sitting outside on my porch (because she’s not home, thank you 8 lb. 6 oz. baby Jesus) and she zoom-zooms up. She’s insanely waving her arms around in the car and I’m convinced she’s got a bumble bee after her until I realize she’s trying to get my attention. She jumps out of her Mom mobile, and walks up to me at a brisk pace. This is a woman on a fucking mission. At first, I was petrified because she had a package of Mach 3 razors in her hand and an A&W bottle in the other. This doesn’t look good. “Got you something!”, she says. I freeze, and begin to feel my labia pulsate, yet not in a good way. Even my vagina was scared. She hands me the luke warm soda, with an explanation. “I saw you drinking a Root Beer the other day so I knew you liked them. I was at Valero getting a Dr. Pepper and thought you may be thirsty as well. Sorry it’s warm, I got pulled over by a sheriff and had to weasel my way out of some tickets (more hand jobs, I assume). I thank her for the gesture, and promptly walk inside. These bizarre offerings of her adoration are becoming the norm. I don’t even speculate on the matter and pour the soda over some ice. If she’s trying to kill me, death has got to be better than being zip-tied in a bathroom with Barbasol, a tri-blade razor and her flip phone camera.

1 week later:  I’m having some health issues and I’m in a lot of pain. She catches me outside again and says I look terrible and that she wants to make me all better… I tell her I’m fine and she insists that she shares some advice with me. I tell her I’m not up to talking and shut my door in her face. I receive yet another text declaring that she has the cure-all for my pain. She forwards a link about coffee enemas and proceeds to offer to do it for me. Sure bitch, come right over and stick a douche bottle full of Starbucks in my ass and it’ll fix me right up. Get the fuck out of here with that (literal) shit! I politely decline her invitation and 2 hours later answer a knock at my door. It is a scary looking shirtless fellow that I’ve never seen, who places a pill in my hand and whispers, “She told me you were in pain. My mom has cancer and is dying, this helps her.” He disappears. Thanks to WebMD, I know it is a 60mg pill of pure Oxycodone. I happen to be allergic to that very medication and momentarily consider snorting it to put me out of my apartment hell misery.

Last week:  Back on the front porch… (I know, I’m asking for it) Drinking my 3rd glass of wine for the evening and crying about men or that one Sarah McLachlan commercial with the dogs, whichever. She opens her door, asks me whose ass she needs to kick and I roll my eyes so far into my skull that I’m afraid they won’t come back. She gets the hint, and shuts the door. 20 minutes later? I get a text from her. It is simply a link to YouTube, and a song. I click on it, mostly out of morbid curiosity and what happens next instantly takes me back to the Summer of ’93. The sweet sound of PM Dawn fills the room.

Is it my turn to wish you were lying here?
I tend to dream you when I’m not sleeping
Is it my turn to fictionalize my world?
Or even imagine your emotions, tell myself anything

PM Dawn – I’d Die Without You.

Ummmm, what? What the fucking fuck? Bitch, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die because of you. Like, you’re going to kill me, or I’m going to kill myself because I’m not sure how much more craziness I can take.

Today: And here we are. I’m walking to the parking lot and she stops me. I try to side step her, acting as if I’m on a mission to go somewhere more important than the mailbox and she pulls 2 packages of Jasmine and Mint Spa Salts out of her purse. She says, “You seem stressed lately. I bought these for you. Let me know if you want to share them.” I live in a 900 sq ft. apartment. Have you seen me? I can’t fit my right ass cheek in my tub. I have to shave my legs in a position that’d make Ronda Rousey submit. Besides the fact that I will NEVER be ANYWHERE alone with you, I most definitely will not be sharing the same bath water, but thanks. Stay tuned, I’m sure the saga will continue.

Falynn, out.