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Archive for the ‘Fresh’s take on things’ Category

I hate panties. I really do. I used to be a very fancy panty girl, but now I just want something my pussycat can breathe in and that will stay out of the crack of my ass. I don’t think I’m asking for much.

I don’t wear g-strings/thongs/whatever. I just don’t. I know I’ve said that I consider my nether regions a temple, so why would I want a piece of fabric strapping my cunt and ass down? Unless the panties are coming off of me within the hour, I never wear g-strings. Ever. I don’t care about panty lines. I care about what my crotch says and she is definitely against them.

As I get older, I’m leaning more and more toward wearing cotton briefs or boy shorts. I have a long torso, so anything low-rise is fucking annoying cause it comes to the half-way point of my ass and stops. I don’t want to strangle the very life out of my crotch and chafe my ass, so I try not to buy anything low-rise. I also hate bikini panties because they have a tendency to creep up my ass and if I wanted something up my ass I’d wear a g-string or I’d grab some lube, pucker up, and call some boytoy to oblige me.

The thing with wearing cotton briefs is that they look like you could make a tent out of them. They’re huge. They are not sexy. But, dear god they are comfortable. They don’t ever creep up my ass or feel binding. They wash up really easily, no handwashing and air drying. I found these boy shorts made by Fruit of the Loom that are so fucking perfect I could cry. They feel like you’re not wearing underwear at all.

If we lived in a cleaner world, I wouldn’t wear any panties at all. I never wear them when I’m home, but I feel I must protect my honey nest from the dirty disgusting polluted outside world. It’s difficult to find gear that is also loving and gentle to the woman’s mound.

Yeah, I’ve been reading too many romance novels lately. Woman’s mound is a common word in these books. I’ve included others in the paragraphs above because it tickled me to do so. So, after reading a nice piece of rubbish last night. I decided to lay out some common denominators that I’ve seen in reading these books. Here goes:

  1. The man is always a Duke, Earl, Laird, Prince, Playboy, or some other high-powered job or title where he is extremely wealthy.
  2. The man is always a bit of a playa.
  3. The woman is almost always a virgin. If she’s not a virgin, then she was either raped or previously married. Her previous sexual experiences are never anywhere near as amazing as when she’s getting ravished by the man.
  4. The woman is usually in danger of being kidnapped, married off to an old pervert, or running off trying to prove that women can make it in the world.
  5. There is always a bodice ripped and the woman is always ‘taken’.
  6. There is rarely oral sex and when there is a rare instance of it, it’s almost always the woman receiving the pleasure. I haven’t read a book where the woman sucks a cock in a very long time.
  7. They rarely call a penis a penis. It’s always manhood, pleasure rod, love stone, hot silken shaft, arousal, hardness, etc.
  8. They rarely call a vulva a vulva. It’s always pleasure pearl, nubbin of pleasure, silken cleft, woman’s mound, or (my favorite) molten core, etc.
  9. The man always has to avenge his woman’s honor. Someone is usually killed or taken to jail.
  10. The woman almost always has her molten core shattered with tiny earthquakes of pleasure, or explodes with her fulfillment, at the same time her man spills his seed, or finds his release. Like that ever happens in real life.

There you are. Romance novels in a nutshell.

I have a new food obsession. I can’t get enough of it. It’s a weird one. Ready? Beets. Yup. You read that right. I’ve been craving beets like a weirdo for a week now. I’ve eaten them every day this week. They are delicious.

I have no plans for this weekend. I may be going out tonight, but it depends on my mood. I may spend a quiet weekend at home reading romance novels in my big cotton briefs eating beets out of a can. So sexy. I know.

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Wow. Someone actually commented asking me where I was and I was only gone for a few days. I’m so touched. I mean, I know that some of you think I half-ass it here but it’s nice to know that some people like to come here.

I’ve been really tired this week. The lack of sleep last weekend coupled with my getting up at 4:30 AM everyday this week has kicked my ass. We started summer hours at work and I get every other Friday off if I come in earlier than usual. I have tomorrow off and I plan on doing nothing. Well, I’ll go for a run and then I’ll do nothing. Oh, and I’ll make bagels and bread and then I’ll do nothing.

I’m not sure if I know how to do nothing. Hmmm, I’ll try.

I went grocery shopping this evening. I had to stock up on the gluten free pasta and flour and shit. I really don’t think gluten free is going to be difficult. I’m making bagels and bread tomorrow, so I’ll let you know how they turn out. I’ll be using rice and flaxseed flour. I can’t use soy flour because I’m allergic to soy. I’ve actually become high maintenance. Weird.

Going gluten free is fucking expensive.

So, after getting all my groceries and a cat toy I got in line to check out. I start putting items up on the counter when I get this big whiff of funk. I look up to see an older lady in front of me. It’s coming from her. She’s fully dressed in a freezing grocery store and I can smell her ass funk.

I don’t understand ass funk. If one bathes regularly, one should easily avoid the funk and yet this is a common thing. I go into the bathroom at work and at least once a day my nostrils are offended by someone’s funky junk.

In light of the frequency in which I’m smelling another’s swamp ass, I’ve decided to explain how one can avoid the funk.

  1. Get naked and get into the shower.
  2. Lather up your hands (or if you have issues touching yourself, get a wash cloth and lather it up, and then go get therapy).
  3. Prop your leg up onto the edge of the tub and use your fingers to spread your vaginal lips. Don’t use rub the washcloth over your temple and think you’re clean. You have to get in there.
  4. Now, start rubbing around in there. Soap everything up. Oh, you like that….keep going baby…..it feels good doesn’t it…..now I want you to…..PAY ATTENTION!….I could smell you through your jeans, it was really bad.
  5. Once finished washing your temple, tilt your pelvis toward the stream of water coming from your shower and rinse. If you have a detachable showerhead, you lucky bastards, use that.
  6. Rinse your hands and/or washcloth and re-lather.
  7. Spread your ass cheeks with one hand and then soap up your ass. Really get in there and scrub it good. Shit comes out of there, you know?
  8. Once you feel you’ve cleaned enough, back your ass up to the water and spread those cheeks again and rinse. Don’t you feel refreshed?
  9. Get out of the shower and dry off. Really, make sure you’re good and dry. Don’t put on panties right away. This will only make your shit stew and the funk will get back in your junk. Air your shit out.
  10. Go on and enjoy life with a clean temple and ass.

I hope that what I just wrote wasn’t anything new to you all. And if it was, trust me that you will smell like roses and honey.

Now, I’m going to bed. Kisses and hugs and purple nurples to you all.

Oh, and chai tea is all goodness. Mmmmmmm……

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I slept last night and for the first time in weeks the alarm clock woke me. I felt like I could have slept about 12 more hours, but I’m happy with what I got. It’s a start.

I had dinner with my mom last night and I’m really getting tired of her. Please don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. It’s just that we carpool in the morning, walk from the train into work, she works for the same company as me so I see her at work, we walk to the train after work, and carpool home. It’s enough. There’s only so much you can talk to your mom about. I’ve run out of things to say. She was nagging me this morning because I was moody (WTF?). I have never been full of sunshine and happiness in the morning. Ever. If I have to have an alarm clock wake me up, then I’m pissy for about an hour or two. If I wake up naturally (or awoken to do something like have sex or go on vacation or something fun like that) then I’m perfectly delightful. She should know this. What I really need on these mornings is peace and quiet and time to bond with my cup of coffee.

So, we’re at dinner (Applebee’s, her choice, yuck!) and I noticed that there was an enormous number of enormous people dining. I know that there is an obesity epidemic going on in this country, but apparently my head has been up my ass because I’m just starting to notice that there are a whole lotta giant people out there. I’m not talking a little chubby, I mean huge/killing themselves/buffet eating people.

I’ve always been concious of my weight. I’ve been sickly skinny to kinda fat and I’m finally getting to where I’m comfortable with my body, even though I’m by no means thin. But I’m not fat either. But even when I was kinda fat, I was never grossly obese. I could still walk and go up steps and do day to day life without stopping for a rest. It’s amazing to see so many people letting themselves go. I think if you’re having trouble walking on your two feet (something that has separated us humans from the chimps and allowed us to develop the hands we have and thus the brains we have that have allowed us to build the cars we now drive to the drive-thru joints we made with the hands we developed from being upright and walking) then you need to rethink how you’re living your life. We were made to walk. Get up and walk to the store. Take the steps. Park in the back of the parking lot and walk. Unless you are disabled or elderly, I don’t feel sorry for you when you’re having trouble walking. And to me, being obese is not a disablity–it’s a choice. I worry about these obese people. Don’t they know they are killing themselves? And please don’t take these opinions as me making fun of obese people. I wouldn’t do that. I used to smoke and I know how difficult quitting something that is a stress outlet and an addiction (in a way) can be. And I know that some people have genuine physical problems that can make them more prone to being overweight, so go to the doctor and do something about it. You’ll feel better.

All that being said, I like myself with a few extra pounds. I’m too tall and broad and my breasts are too big for me to be too skinny. I’ve been there and I look unhealthy. I also like looking like a woman and not a teenaged girl. And as long as my bloodwork is perfect, which it is, than fuck it. You will never hear me saying I’m on a diet. I need butter. I need ice cream. I need chocolate. I need pasta and bread. I could die tomorrow and if I denied myself these wonderful things I would be one of those restless spirits haunting the earth, unsatisified. Instead of looking for my lost love or something romantic like that, I’d be searching for hunk of Italian bread. I think the key to enjoying life and food is moderation. This isn’t a new concept. You all know what I’m talking about. You don’t have to eat the whole plate of food or get a large ice cream cone or eat the whole loaf of bread. It’s not about how much you eat, it’s about how you eat it. I’m a slow eater. I savor each bite. I know I get on people’s nerves when I eat, but I don’t care. I hate eating in a hurry or on the go. I set the table for myself every night (when I cook) and eat slowly, in silence. It’s nice. But the good thing about eating slow is that it gives my stomach enough time to tell my brain when I’m getting full, so I don’t tend to overeat. Except at Thanksgiving or my favorite Italian restuarant (I swear they put crack in the food, can’t stop eating when I’m there). I’m also a big believer in eating non-processed foods. I like fresh. I like organic. I like veggies and fruit and nuts and grains and things that have never been in a factory. If I cook you dinner, you can be sure it will be from stratch using fresh ingredients.

So, I eat what I want most of the time. And I don’t mind the fullness of my body. I think there are many women who are afraid of that fullness. I’m not anymore. The only thing that really annoys me about my body is my belly, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s heredity. My dad’s mother’s whole side of the family had bellies. And these were small, skinny people. My grandmother was 4’10”. I remember being super super skinny and still having a belly. I’ve done (and do) hundreds of situps, cut carbs, did cardio, lifted weights, pilates, yoga…everything and I still have a belly. I’m starting to embrace the belly and come to terms with the fact that I will never be one of those women with a perfectly flat stomach. It’s not the end of the world. We all have that one thing we’d like to change about ourselves. That’s mine.

I’m going to leave you with a funny story because I can’t have a completely serious post. Not when I’m celebrating the fact that I slept through the night.

Background of story: I worked in the children’s department of Sears for five years (age 17-22) and this story takes place in the girl’s department, I was 18. I remember this everytime I walk into Sears and last night was no different.

I was putting clothes away from the fitting room and straightening the department. It was a good night. I was wearing a new outfit and a pair of new fabulous shoes that I bought the day before in the shoe department. Believe it or not, sometimes you can find a really pretty pair of shoes in Sears. So, I’m fixing everything and I stepped back to walk around a rack and it felt like I stepped on a article of clothing or something like that. I looked down and saw that it wasn’t clothing, but a huge pile of shit. Yes, shit. Human adult pile of shit. I screamed and gagged and vomited right there next to the shit. I then took my shoe off and screamed to one of the ladies working that night that someone took a huge shit on the floor. I walked barefoot into the bathroom and rinsed my mouth and splashed my face and got myself together. I was crying pretty hard. It’s not easy to recover from stepping in poop…indoors. By the time I get back to the department, there were a bunch of managers there and the janitor is cleaning up. I apologize about my puking and the janitor said, “Girl, I would have puked too.” I ask the manager if I could leave and he said no. There isn’t anyone to cover me. I tell him I can’t put that shoe on. He tells me to go clean it off. So, I lose it. I start screaming about how they’re going to give me a new pair of shoes and didn’t any of those motherfucking cameras they have all over catch anyone squatting down to take a fucking shit and if they had, how come nobody came over here to take that fucking pig down. I was screaming all of this in the children’s department. There were people all over the place. The manager was mortified. In the end, I got a new pair of shoes, a gift certificate for $100 to keep my mouth closed, and a funny story. What made the night even more classic was that immediately after I finished screaming my mother and stepdad were stepping off of the escalator and upon hearing the story said, “Well Debbie, shit happens.” I didn’t find this funny.

Have a great day!

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