• Number of references to penis: 56
• Number of different words used: 2
• Number of times “erection” is used: 55
• Number of times “cock” is used as a noun instead of a verb: 1
• Over three books, where “cock” appears as opposed to “erection”: Third book, in the epilogue, 96% of the way through
• Number of different references to vagina: 2 (“vagina”, 2 per books 1 and 2; “down there“, too many times to count)
• Number of times I rolled my eyes: SEVENTY MILLION

So glad I’m done with all that tripe. Back to Penthouse Forums!

As revenge for spreading the Twilight books around my social circle like a plague, Heather sent me all three 50 Shades books yesterday. I was going to ignore them, but I was struck by a sudden bout of sadomasochism – one far more real than anything remotely depicted in those books – and I dove in. I had just slopped a fresh batch of henna on my head, and was trapped in the house for at least eight hours .. how bad could the books be, anyway?

Completing the first book broke my brain entirely, resulting in the down there post below.

Then for some fucking stupid reason, I cracked open the second book around 1am. I can’t put down an unfinished book, so 5am saw me finishing the second and annoyed as all hell that these things are so popular. GOOD GOD THEY’RE BAD. I gave myself an eyeball hernia from rolling my eyes so many times. How can you possibly write a sexy times book when a) you never, whether by dirty slang or scientific terms, mention the word “penis” AT ALL, b) your sex-crazed heroine is still shocked and giggly at being touched down there (and I swear to god, the author used the exact same down there when he finally stuck a finger up her butt), the only term of endearment used throughout the book is “baby”, and it gets really creepy, and d) everything else that’s wrong with these fucking things.

I hope to god that there are no inexperienced virgins reading these books and getting their sex education from within. For starters, not all women have an orgasm during their first time (let alone more than one). For seconds, giving good head takes PRACTICE – you don’t look at your very first dick ever and suddenly you’re an idiot savant with no gag reflex. And thirds, you don’t soap someone up and THEN go to town down there – soap tastes nasty.

Oh, one more: when you’re writing a series of three scandalously depraved sex books and the only time the word “cock” comes up is as a verb – characters are constantly cocking their heads to and fro like fucking puppies – then SOMETHING IS VERY VERY WRONG.

There’s one more book to go. Depending on how much I hate myself later, I may read it this evening to get it over with (I hate not knowing what happens, even if it happens terribly).

DOWN THERE

His words echoed in my ears, tickling the sensitive bones deep in *there*. I stood glued to the floor, incomprehensive with shock. “What did you say?”, I whispered.

“We’re out of olive oil”, he muttered, not looking at me.

My world spun as the words tumbled from his full, lush lips; lips I’ve dreamt of biting and kissing until his entire body was swimming in my digestive juices. I shook my head and hugged myself as if trying to keep the gravity of the situation out of my heart. Out of olive oil? I always knew that I was not good enough for olive oil; it didn’t make sense that it would want to belong to me. I’m nothing special – just a normal woman of above average intelligence and enormous breasts that heave and jiggle in the golden light of the tropical rainforest I call home; with a good job in a first world country, never lacking for anything – yet for some reason, I feel as though this bottle of oil is so otherworldly and special that it doesn’t rightfully belong to me. I grip the counter to steady myself, and lift my eyes to his.

“None at all?”, I ask in a voice that trembled much less than my legs. I was fairly proud of that.

“Nope. We’ve got vegetable oil, though. Just use that”, he suggested as though nothing had changed between us. I knew, though, that things would never be the same again. Even as I silently cursed olive oil in my head, I wanted to throw myself at the empty bottle and beg, plead, offer anything if it would only give up one drop to me. I blushed furiously at the memory of last week, knowing the oil had been deep inside me, significantly lowering my risk of coronary heart disease thanks to the higher proportion of monounsaturated fats. Memories are all I had left, though – I raised my head high and steeled myself to look into his luminous eyes, throwing my hair back and pretending his words didn’t cut me to my very core.

“I don’t believe you. Let me look in the cupboard.”

I stormed past his astonished face and flung open the pantry doors. Frantically, I pawed through the canned foods – who could possibly need that many beans?, I wondered – until finally, just as I had given up hope, I spied something buried under sixteen opened boxes of pasta: a bottle of olive oil.

—

Later, as I curled up on a couch reading a book written in the mid-1800s because I can’t run the risk of having to compare myself against other female protagonists with some semblance of spirit and spunk, I let the tears come. Damn olive oil, anyway. Damn the no more than 0.8% acidity and the superior taste that comes from only the finest olives in all of Mediterrania. Hot, salty tears splashed on my alabaster cheeks as my insides wracked with agony – not physical pain, but pain from FEELINGS. Would I ever learn? How could I trust his what he said when I tingled down there; down in my most secret moist places that I, as an adult woman, can’t possibly refer to in clinical non-coy terms? I clenched my legs, feeling a reluctant thrill through my frilly froo-froo fur cave. Why? Why, damnit? WHY?

BC Ghost Ship is a good deal less scary than movie Ghost Ship – for starters, fewer dead bodies (that we could see) and no one getting cut in half via tourniquet guillotine trip wire thingie. That being said, it’s still spooky as all hell:

strange boat adrift on the ocean, happened upon by four people out exploring. yeah, that doesn’t sound like the start of a horror movie AT ALL.

The boat was obviously a BC Ferry, but in a place it had no business being. The water was calm and I didn’t have to pee, so we decided to get a little closer.

where did that mysterious fog come from? it was so nice out just seconds ago! *

something is just not right here – and is that a theremin i hear?

is that bag dripping blood?

Never have I ever so very, very badly wanted to throw caution to the wind and EXPLORE THAT BOAT, but we were not equipped for urban exploration (or fighting off a team of crazed hillbillies wielding chainsaws and wearing suits of skin) and were paying for our boat rental by the hour, so we didn’t stop. I want to go back, though, so bad. The boat calls to me. It .. sings. I hear it singing. It’s lonely, and it wants me to return. And stay. Forever, and ever, and ever.

do you hear laughing children?

We had seen a couple boats in the area as we approached the boat, but while we were within gaping distance we were utterly alone. It was hands down the creepiest thing we’ve ever stumbled across (well, second creepiest for me – that dismembered deer leg I found once in downtown Victoria was still worse), and so confusing: why? It wasn’t always there; Ed and I have made that boat loop at least 4 times before, and this was the first we’ve ever come across a seemingly abandoned  BC Ferry. The name of the boat had been painted over, but you could still make out the letters beneath: it was the Queen of Saanich; a boat I have been on before. For some strange reason, that wasn’t a comforting thing to know – oh, here’s a boat I’ve got history with, all rusted out and broken down in a hidden cove for no reason at all. No big deal! Except yes big deal, because it was CREEPY AS SHIT.

unsettling.

And yet .. well, what are you doing tomorrow?

Bring gloves.

i was the only survivor.

*: the fog came from my boobs. I have a bad habit of storing things in my bra, and that’s where I was keeping my iPhone zoom lens – I grew warm in my excitement, and the condensation collected on my lens. I mean, it was a ghost fog. Yep, totally ghost fog and not sweaty boob fog.

I ate the raspberry panna cotta, and it was sublime. And, just as I expected: the twisty cup proved to be immediately useful when the tasty treat was gone!

Just look at all the useful things I did:

rice! creepily flesh-like laundry detergent pods! hello kitty! upside down jesus playing hockey!

But wait – there’s MORE!

pickles! decapitated heads! canadian tire money! “foot cream”!

So worth that guy cutting his hand open while making my lunch.

I know I said I was going for an Angry Lunch, but I didn’t actually require any bloodshed.

I’ve had a rough morning at work, so I opted to get my favourite sandwich* for lunch. My Angry didn’t really go away even with the thought of deliciousness because people are stupid (hey, rich tourist lady with the multiple Holt Renfrew bags in the crazy long lunch hour line up, letting your kid stand in the middle of the narrow walkway blocking traffic while you take up all the room with your huge stroller and then proceed to ask what’s on the menu and what’s in each item? FUCK YOU), but I placed my order and stood back to wait for my food to be ready. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Then there was more waiting, and I was starting to pout a little when they realized that I hadn’t received my food yet. The kitchen manager came over to apologize and to let me know what happened:

Apparently someone was making my lunch (with extra deliciousness) when he SLICED HIS HAND WIDE OPEN and bled all over the universe. In the rush to get himself some badly needed first aid, he forgot to tell someone what he was in the middle of doing – so my order was forgotten. Manager man was full of apologies, which I didn’t need – my lunch made someone bleed! After reassuring me the guy was okay, he insisted on giving me some dessert for my trouble. I told him to pick something for me, and he gave me this:

i am not one to turn down free things with raspberries on the top

It’s panna cotta with raspberry goo on top, in a REALLY COOL TWISTY CUP. I am almost more excited about the cup than I am the delicious goo inside, but overall I am pretty pleased with the outcome.

Um, and I feel bad for the guy who sliced himself open.

*: yeah, I have a favourite sandwich now. I try not to talk about it, given my rage towards all other sandwiches – but it’s cool; this sandwich is kind of like having a black friend so clearly I can’t be racist.

Well, I’m never going to sleep well again.

Ed and I did some cleaning on Saturday to prepare for our houseguest (my American, Chris). I wasn’t really able to do much what with my bubonic plague, but I managed to do a few chores before collapsing in an ungainly heap of angst and mucus. We straightened and vacuumed and recycled and hid all the dildos, and I did laundry. Laundry was really the big “must do” of the day, because Captain Trips causes you to secrete nasty fluids in your sleep and things were starting to get a little gummy*, so I stripped the bed and set out to wash those germs right out of my sheets. Unfortunately, Ed had to help me get the duvet cover off my blanket .. and then the world ended.

My blanket was in rough shape – I know this. It was a down comforter I had gotten as a Christmas gift from my future mother-in-law way back when Ed and I first started dating – I think it was 1998 or so. It was the most awesome, perfectest comforter in the entire world: light in the summer, warm in the winter, smelled like kittens and sunshine, and was cosy as all get out. I’d tried several times over the years to replace it with something newer because it was getting pretty ratty, but every single comforter bought as a possible successor was terrible and I would inevitably start using my favourite blanket again.

Unfortunately, “rough shape” was being a little kind – it was falling apart, and barely held together by the external duvet cover that kept most of the feathers inside. When I opened it up on Saturday to put it in the washer, a blizzard of down came billowing out; significant snowdrifts formed in the freshly vacuumed hallway and beyond. If Ed hates anything at all, it’s things that end up on the floor .. and the lifeblood of my nighttime comfort sent him flying into a rage** that would not be quenched with a mere broom; he needed vengeance. Knowing that I wasn’t all there in the head what with my raging Porphyric Hemophilia, Ed leapt to take advantage of my addled state:

“It’s time for that blanket to go.”

I looked around the feathery room, brushing several clumps of down out of my hair. “What are you talking about? My blanket is awesome.”

“No, it’s not. It’s falling apart and there’s barely any filling left and LOOK AT THIS MESS ALL OVER MY CLEAN FLOOR!”

I was too tired, sick and weak to argue. I knew he was right, even though I didn’t want to admit it (if I tell him he is right too often, he is impossible to deal with). I closed my eyes (because everything was spinning), and said “fine. Do it. Do it now, before I change my mind.”

By the time I opened my eyes again (I may have blacked out – I was really quite sick), my comforter was gone and every trace that it ever existed gone with it. It was the end: the end of comfort, of sleep, of making forts and burying myself in an avalanche of pillows. The end of good times in bed that don’t involve penetration; the end of secret naps after work wrapped in delicious never-ending comfort. It’s over. I will never get a good night’s sleep again. My Flood Parasite is kicking my ass, and SLEEPING SUCKS NOW. Thanks a lot, Ed. When did you decide you hated me?

EVERYTHING IS DIFFICULT and my head hurts. I would like to be better now, please!

*: that was a really gross sentence

**: to be fair, Ed flying into a rage is “mildly annoyed” for most people. the man does not flap.

I’m sick. What started out as a nasty sore throat on Tuesday morning has blossomed into a full blown case of sinusitis, and I’m at home feeling sorry for myself. I was able to work from home yesterday because I felt more or less okay (as long as I didn’t talk or swallow), but as the evening rolled around I got worse and worse. Still, I planned to go into the office today – just because I got no sleep, was hallucinating and couldn’t really stand up was no reason to shirk my duties! I somehow managed to shower and brush my teeth, then promptly fell back into bed. I emailed apologies to work and told them I was in no shape to sit up let alone find clothing and make my way into the office, and then tried to lay back and die as painlessly as possible. It hasn’t worked, so I’m sitting here and doing nothing. I kind of want to play video games, but moving my eyeballs hurts and I can’t seem to remember how to work the controller. POOR ME. Someone come take care of me!

Man, I hate being sick.

I had a brilliant idea this morning:

• Write terrible 50 Shades of Gray fanfiction (maybe about furries? It’s all about pushing the envelope with salacious sex, after all)
• Get a book deal (and dampen housewife panties everywhere)
• Retire rich and puffy (I already have an angled close-up picture ready for the book jacket)

Unfortunately, Kathryn pointed out that someone else already had this idea, and started writing a book using the same methods EL James did for hers (namely, write Twilight 50 Shades fan fiction, change the character names, profit). In a move worthy of applause just because of the sheer volume of balls needed to pull it off, EL James allegedly issued a cease and desist to order the writer to stop plagiarizing her original work.

*cough*

ANYWAY, since I sure would loathe to be set upon by nasty lawyers and big britches, I’ve decided to go with Plan B instead: get Return to Castle Bonerstein made into a movie.

People would kickstart gay video game slash, wouldn’t they?

All people should avoid making out with me today, as I worry that I am getting sick. I woke up with a sore throat this morning, and it seems to be getting worse. This might be karmatic retribution for killing off humanity in Plague Inc last night (with a deadly yet hilariously named parasite called Gnome Scrotum), but I regret nothing.

my version will feature the alien having mildly scandalous sex with liam neeson and the 1879 providence grays

Oh hey, it’s my birthday.

ring pops for everyone!

I am all kinds of old, and will be celebrating my Big Day with carbohydrates. Yay!

Having a birthday fall on a Monday equals low-key celebrations. We did go to Scandinave Spa yesterday with a group of people, but the date was more a coincidence than any particular planned birthday outing (we had coupons that expire soon). Plus, the steam room – 65% of the reason we go to Scandinave – was out of order, so we were a little disappoint. Ridiculously Fancy Brunch at araxi in Whistler helped soothe our steam-free blues though, and it was fun times to be out with friends. Tonight there will be dinner times with additional friends, which I am looking forward to (mostly because I skipped breakfast and I am STARVING). At some point in the future I will collect on my birthday present raincheque from Ed (my fault, not his – at the last minute I decided I didn’t really want or need a Playstation Vita, so I get a present when I figure out what I want), and my birthday will be done. That’s okay, though – I have so very much to look forward to, and my birthday always kind of weirds me out. I’m much better at planning birthday fun for others than I am at celebrating my own, so to that end I am all full up of planning for next month’s batch of friend birthdays. I am happiest making sure others feel the love!

I do hope at some point I will get cake, though.

Birthday!