Tag Archives: porn

Mo Dick, Mo Problems

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So I’m Skype texting with my girlfriend, Grayce, whom we girls call, “Gray,” because her life is all sorts of 50 Shades, and I’m telling her how the latest guy to catch my attention, Joe, is, predictably, an asshat.

Me: Girl, WTF? Why are men such douche canoes?

Gray: Because they have fool tools.

I added a flower, so it’s not crass. Yes, you can buy this at The Pink Moustachery. I’m all about customer service, web dwellers.

Me: The bigger the fool tool, the bigger the douche canoe.

Gray: Sounds like my ex. Total fool, but what a great fucking tool.

Me: Seriously. Your ex should come with a warning label: Mo dick, mo problems.

Gray: LOL!! OMG, girl, that is the TRUTH!

Me: At least a big dick is a good distraction, if you don’t let it distract you from how big a dick its owner is.

Gray: OMG! We need to put that shit on an e-Card.

Me: Too much work. I’ll just blog it. And I’ll call your ex “Moe” on the blog just because that shit’s funny.

Gray: I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna wake up my kids.

Me: Men are good for killing bugs, lifting heavy shit, and sex. In that priority order.

Gray: Truth.

Me: It’s all shit I can do myself, but I’d rather have it done for me.

Gray: E-card. E-card. E-card.

Me: If prostitution were legal, I would buy a man whore to kill my bugs naked.

Gray: That is a GREAT idea.

Me: The guy would be naked, not the bugs. I mean, the bugs are naked too, but that’s not the point.

Gray: Are you drunk?

Me: And then, after he killed the bug on my wall, I’d be all, “Bitch, go get a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Mama can’t cum with bug guts on the wall!”

Gray: Must. Document. On. E-cards.

Me: If I ran shit, I would make it mandatory for sex ed teachers to explain to guys WHY a woman should cum first. Divorce rates would plummet. You’re welcome, Entire Fucking Planet.

Gray: So true!!

Me: You want her to do that thing? With the thing? Like you saw on YouPorn? Make sure she cums first.

Gray: LOL!!

Me: And yes, YouPorn is a thing. Thank you, Northman.

Gray: OMG. I can see you lecturing teenagers. You’ll write books.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be “researching” for my book and going, “Not now, baby, Mama’s browsing YouPorn.”

There is so much wrong with this.

Me: Seriously, if they spent half as much time explaining to teenage boys why it’s better for a woman to cum first as they do telling teenage girls not to have sex at all, all would be right with the world. Because you know, when mama’s not happy, nooooobody’s happy.

Gray: So fucking true. Luckily, I’ve never had a selfish lover. They all love making me cum.

Me: Fuck you.

Pause with no response from Gray.

Me: You’re googling YouPorn aren’t you? Admit it!

Gray: Me? No.

Me: No, you’re just on Zazzle or something ordering tee-shirts with “Mo dick mo problems.”

Gray: I was not! I wasn’t!

Me: ….

Gray: I was gonna do it tomorrow.

Me: There it is.

Gray: Well, it’s true! Mo dick, mo problems! Moe was so big, I couldn’t fit that shit in my mouth.

Me: That’s too much dick. That’s like having GGG tits. More than a mouthful is wasteful.

Gray: He is huge. The sex was awesome. Too bad by the time things ended I didn’t want anything to do with his thang.

Me: Dude. If you divorce a man that big, vaginal rejuvenation surgery should be part of the divorce settlement. Be like, “You broke my heart. Fine. But my pussy you have to fix.”

Gray: That could pass here in California. You may be onto something.

Me: Damn straight. Shit. They ruin our tits with pregnancy and nursing. You don’t wanna pay alimony forever? Tack the girls back up where they belong and turn this hallway of a pussy back into a straw. Level the damn playing field a LITTLE.

Gray: That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Ever.

Me: My brain is all sorts of fucked up, girl. And I know what you find funny, so it’s easy. Mostly it’s the same shit I find funny, because you’re awesome. Obviously. I don’t hang with non-awesome women. They’re intimidated my awesomeness, and they get all clingy and offended by my cursing. I’m like, “You have given birth, woman. And you think some f-bombs are going to scar you?”

Gray: Omg! You are seriously awesome and so fucking funny.

For Gray. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, you e-card demanding bitch who’s never had a man not help her finish first.

Me: Please. Come see my vagina if you want to see scars. C-sections do not make for good vajazzling canvases. As if it’s not enough to wax it, now it has to fucking sparkle?!? I’m not a vampire.

Gray: Dying. I’m dying.

Me: If a man needs your pussy to sparkle to be into it, he’s gay. Duh.

Gray: Where do you get this shit?

Me: This is my stream of consciousness. Something is fundamentally wrong with me.

Gray: Yeah, but we’ll make BANK on the tee-shirts.

Me: What’s this “we” business?

 

There’s an App For That.

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So, I’m sitting on the back porch, sans big, heavy blanket, worshipping Mr. Coffee, when Penny calls. As usual, she doesn’t even say “hello,” but just launches into some random story:

Penny: Dude. Last night, Billy and I had the Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: Hi. Good morning. How are you? Oh, fine, thanks, how are you?

Penny: Dude. You’re not listening. Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: I’m listening. There are just some social niceties that one cannot ignore or the entire fabric of our society will collapse into anarchy, and we’ll be ruled by Emo teenagers wearing Nina Simone tee shirts.

Penny: Who’s Nina Simone?

Me: Someone Emo teenagers don’t listen to either. But they SHOULD.

Penny: What?

Me: Exactly.

Penny: Dude! You’re not flippin’ listening to me! Best sex!! Ever!

Me: I hear a blog post coming on.

Penny: Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Oh. Ohmygosh.

Me: Yeah, see, if you said that to me during sex, I’d be kind of underwhelmed.

Penny: Shut up.

Me: I hope this story gets better.

Penny: We tried about 15 new positions in one night. When you’ve been married for flippin’ ever, that’s a LOT.

Me: Ok, I was lying before. Now I’m listening.

Penny: It was unbelievable.

Me: What did you do? Get a Cosmo and take notes or something?

Penny: No! Dude!

Me: Have you been watching Cinemax again? I told you some of that shit is dangerous.

Penny: No! DUDE!

Me: Oh, no. Tell me you weren’t watching True Blood before bed. You’re not a vampire, honey. You can’t bend like that.

Penny: Shut up! I downloaded some free sex apps on my iPhone! Did you know there was such a thing? I mean, seriously, sex positions. There’s an app for that!

Me (almost shooting coffee through my nose): “There’s an app for that.” Awesome. Yes. I did know that, but hearing you say it has me picturing you studying and taking notes before bed.

Penny (proudly): Oh, no, dude. I took the phone with me to bed, and we held it up and followed the instructions.

Me: Ok, that’s a fucked up visual.

Penny: It was freaking awesome! We had to read the instructions for each one and then follow the diagrams; some of that stuff is complicated!

Me (biting lip to not laugh): Uh huh. And how did that work out for you?

Penny: Aside from when I dropped the phone on Billy’s head, it was pretty great!

Me (too late, laughing my ass off): On his head? Which one!?

Penny: Oh my gosh. You did not just say that!

Me: Oh, yes. I did. It’s fine. If you gave him a concussion, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Note to sex app people: If you’re going to have an illustrated sex app, 1) Don’t use the same artist who does bathroom signs, and 2) Don’t let PAMPERS advertise on your app.

Penny: The sex apps were free. They had these little ads on them, but I just ex’d out of them.

Me: After you read them.

Penny: Well, yeah.

Me: You’re a riot.

Penny: Oh, and then? And then? This morning? At breakfast, my seven-year-old is playing with his iPod and goes, “Oh! You got me some new apps, Mommy?”

Me: Ohmygod.

Penny: Right? I grabbed his iPod so damn fast I about ripped his hand off. Apparently, there’s a setting for “automatically download all new apps to all devices using this iTunes account.”

Me: I’m going to call Northman and tell him all about this, and then I’m going to blog it. You know that, right?

Penny: Whatever flips your noodle, poodle.

Me: What?

Penny: Ohmygosh. I can’t wait for you to see Northman so you can try this one thing. I’m not sure we did it right, but it was awesome.

Me: I’m pretty damn sure any position with Northman will be fucking awesome. And I won’t need a diagram or a damn flow chart either.

Penny: No, you won’t. The chemistry between you two is crazy.

Me (insert stupid grin): I know. I can’t quite explain it.

Penny: Yup. He’s cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. Who the hell knows why, but it just works.

Me (laughing my damn ass off): You did not just say that.

Penny: Oh, yes. I did.

French sayings are weird, but everything in French sounds either romantic or dirty, so it works out.

+++Ten Minutes Later+++

Me: And then, ok, I’m still getting over her hitting him with the phone and almost giving her kid some seriously fucked up sex education with his Corn Flakes, and Penny goes, “Northman is cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. It doesn’t make sense but it just works.”

Northman (laughing): I’m cabbage?

Me: No, you’re cabbage leaves on engorged breasts. Don’t men know about that?

Northman: All I know about cabbage is that I just made cole slaw today. It was pretty fucking good! I’ll send you the recipe if you want.

Me: No thanks, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Northman: Have fun blogging, mon petit choux.

A Love Letter From Cathy and Northman

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Dear Readers,

Annniiiimaaaaaaalllllll!!!!

So, today’s Monday. As per usual, I was sitting outside with my Animal mug and my heavy fucking blanket because even though it’s Spring, it’s still fucking cold on my back porch at 6 a.m., which is the only damn time it’s quiet around here with Thing 1 and Thing 2 on Spring Break, at least, the only daylight time. Anyhow… so, usually around that time, I’d thinking of a new blog post to share, trying to think of all the little random things that happened to me over the last few days that y’all might want to hear about, debating which little nuggets to toss your way. But today, well, today was different. Today was easy. There’s only one thing to talk about today, and that is your pal and mine, Northman.

So I knew I had to wait until tonight when the minions were once again in bed so I could collaborate with Northman and write y’all a little love note. So here we sit, (virtually) together. I’m typing this while screen-sharing with him AND while he talks to me via FaceTime on my iPad, so he’s on my computer and on my iPad, so I’m thoroughly fucking distracted. At least he put some damn clothes on. Anyway, I say, “(virtually) together,” and Northman says, “Virtual cock in hand,” and I say, “Shut up,” and he laughs, and now we have to start this paragraph all over again. And he says, “Because Northman’s a brat,” and I say, “Yes, yes you are,” and he says, “So? I’m effin’ Northman! I resemble that remark!” and he laughs again, because he’s a dork, and I shake my head, because I’m an adult.

Back to business. So you liked Northman’s post on Thursday, did you? Considering site traffic the next day exceeded the blog’s previous all-time high (by A THIRD, people) and brought in traffic from all over the damn planet, I’d say we all enjoyed it. I know I sure did. Especially when Northman recited all of the best parts to me via Skype the next night and added some rather fabulous dialog.

I have no idea why this is funny, but Northman says it's perfect, so here ya go.

So, a couple of things. First, we got some fan mail, and we’re here with our Doonesbury Lite version of the MailRoom to answer your burning need to know. The most commonly asked question over the last few days: Is Northman real? Northman would like to answer that by saying, “You’re Goddamn right I am. And if I’m lying, may I go straight to hell, in gasoline boxers no less.” So there. What man would curse himself with permanent fire crotch? Northman corrects me: “Permanent penile disfigurement.” Eww. Now I’m all grossed out. Moving on.

Yes, the point is, Northman is a real guy, and he’s mineminemineyoucan’thavehim. He’s a real guy, and (this was the number two question, but it doesn’t have to do with poop, just number two in order, but that was kind of self-explanatory, but you know, tangent…) he did write the bulk of the article you read sometime in the last few days. It started out as a sexty conversation we were having, and we both thought it would make a great story, which he’d been planning to write for you anyway. Northman says, “a titillating story,” whatever. Anyway, he keeps interrupting me. As usual. The point is, we collaborated a bit on the beginning, but the rest of that nasty dirty fabulousness is 100% Northman. And now you know why I’m so fucking sleep-deprived. And if he were your Northman, you would be too. Sucks to be you, web dwellers. At least I share with y’all.

So now, the second thing I alluded to is this: Where do we go from here? If you’re me, which you’re not, you go straight to bed, get naked, and have more Skype sex with Northman because that, web dwellers, does NOT get old. It’s great having my own personal porn channel. NNN: Naked Northman Network. I need sponsors. Right. Fucking. Now. Northman says, “Tagline: All porn, all the time.” I say, “Fuck that. All Northman, all the time.”

So here’s what we’re thinking. Northman really enjoyed writing his erotic fiction, and I enjoyed the fact that it’s only fiction for now, as we ARE making plans to see one another. I won’t tell you when, except that it will be this calendar year and it’s not for a while because, fuck, you know, minions, work, blahblahblah. Aaaaanywhoooo…I digress. Because I’m picturing him naked. Can you fucking blame me?

Northman is now a full author on the blog. He has his own “About” page, where you can speak to him directly, or you can email him at effinnorthman@hushmail.com. He’ll be blogging periodically, just as I do, and he’ll be doing more “bedtime stories” for you. And me. ALL PRAISE OUR DEAR SWEET MR. COFFEE!!! Ahem. Deep breath. Ok, where was I? Fuck. Ok, wait. Rereading paragraph… oh, right. Ok, so we’ll both be writing now, and up next … a collaborative piece of erotic wishful thinking we’re currently calling, “The Lake House.” So stay tuned, web dwellers, because this is only going to get hotter.

We love the crap out of you, web dwellers!

Cathy and Northman

Don’t Eat Yellow Snow

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Worst copyright-infringement misuse of Bambi. Ever.

So I tried sitting outside this morning with my favorite big, heavy blanket and my damn-near-overflowing Animal mug, but damnit, it was too fucking cold, web dwellers. And you know why? Because it fucking snowed. Again. My girlfriend, Penny, is thrilled: “We’re going sledding with the kiddos! We’re making snow angels! Every snowflake is one of God’s special miracles!” Yeah. Fine. It’s pretty. But the rest of that is bullshit.

First of all, snow is fucking cold. And cold is BAD. People die from being too cold. Did you know if you spend time outside when it’s too cold, your lungs can freeze? Yeah. You fucking like that? Me either. So I don’t go out in the damn snow if I can help it. But of course, I have minions, so I do have to go out in the snow sometimes, but only when there isn’t a lung-freeze warning in effect.

Our snow angels NEVER look like angels.

As for Penny sledding with her minions, this is a completely different activity when you’re a single parent. Someone always has to drag the sled back up the hill. And it’s never a freaking kid. And without a spouse to take turns with you, Mama is always dragging the sled and listening to minions whine about whose turn it is.

And then there’s the fact that it takes a damn hour and a half to get two minions all suited up just to go outside, and by the time you’re done zipping and buttoning, someone always has to pee. Which is only a problem if you have girls, because apparently, somewhere along the line, no matter how rarely they’re in the snow with their dads, boys learn that it’s fucking hilarious to write their names in the snow with their own special yellow markers.

Ours look more like something this guy makes upon passing out from eating too many burritos.

What’s left? Oh, snow angels. Yeah, that’s also a load of crap. My minions flopped down to make snow angels and here’s what I got: “Mom!!! I’m stuck!!!” and “Owwwww!! There was a rock under there!!” and “Hey! You’re wrecking the end of my name!!” Yeah. Ew.

So, yeah. Snow is not my favorite. Plus, I refuse to pay more for heat than I do for my mortgage each month. I used to hate it when my dad said, “Put on a sweater,” when I complained about the cold as a kid, but now I do the same damn thing to my minions. I tuck them in at night in their fleece footie jammies and cover them with extra blankets so they’re toasty warm without the heat having to be cranked up for 10 hours, and I make them wear sweaters and slippers and socks during the evenings. While this is good for my wallet, it’s not good for my nights with Northman. There’s something seriously unsexy about Skyping with someone who’s bundled up like an Eskimo, but he’s just going to have to deal with it because, as I said, it fucking snowed. Again.

Other than not getting to see Thing One and Thing Two (nor my Cat In The Hat for that matter) very much via webcam this week, Northman is good. No, that’s an understatement. Northman is great. He’s funny and sexy and able to evoke a physical response from the aforementioned cat just by texting me a single sentence. Damn I cannot wait to get my hands on that man. But not here. Because it’s fucking freezing, and I have no intention of wearing much clothing when Northman and I get together. Plus, my minions are here, and not even Northman gets to sleep over with my minions around.

Alright. That was short as my posts go, but y’all are on your own tonight. Northman and I were sexting a story together yesterday and got interrupted, and I promised him I’d sit down and write the whole story from start to spectacular finish. So, yes, I love you, web dwellers, but Northman was naked when he asked for this, and what Northman asks for naked, Northman gets. I’ve got some porn to write.

Behind The Scenes At COASM

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Hey, web dwellers. I really wanted to give you something special for our 2-month anniversary together, but if you can believe it, there’s no set list of anniversary gifts for site followers by month. Get married and they give you a list for the next 60 fucking years. But look for a blog list and you’re S.O.L. Go figure. Anyway, so I had to come up with something on my own. But I can’t give you all life-sized Eric Northman cutouts (because they’re MINE, ALL MINE!), and I really don’t want to spend more than, oh, anything, so I decided that last month’s “word jumble” image will become a tradition, and I’ll do it each month to see how it changes. Maybe that’s more of a gift to myself than to you, because only dorks like me would want to compare word jumble images from month to month, but you know, if you think about it, when I’m happy, I write more. And when I write more, y’all read more of this dirty, crazy lunacy that I call my life. So, yay. Happy anniversary to us. 

So I used the jumble generator, and here’s what it came up with:

What kind of crap is this? It's like they didn't even try! Not good enough for my web dwellers. Also, kind of weird emphasis on Northman, don't you think?

So I figured it was a fluke and I’d just try again. I mean, what are the odds it would do something similarly sufficient in making me seem creepily obsessed with Northman? The real-life one OR the TV one.

Yeah. So it gave me this. WTF?

Not as bad as the first, but still kind of fucked up if you think about it. Which I’m trying not to do. So I tried again. What can I say? I’m persistent.

Ok, how does this even count? "Northman" isn't even in the shape with everything else.

But I would not give up that easily. No. I would not be outdone and made to feel like some kind of whack-job stalker by an auto-word-generating website thingie. So I did it again.

This one is like an ink blot test that makes me think of sex, so I like it, but it's STILL got Northman ridiculously disproportionate to everything else.

And again….

They fit it all in the shape this time. I'll give 'em that.


And again…

Really?

Aaaand again…

Oh, sweet Jesus in Birks.

Yeah, and again.

How is this different from the last one?

I just would not fucking give up.

Maybe a little better, but also only because I was losing a grip at this point.

And finally, I got this:

My favorite and my gift to you. Or me. Whatever.

Here’s the thing, web dwellers, the jumbles are a hell of a lot like my blog. I generate something, and sometimes it’s awesome, and sometimes it’s a big, fat turd. But, apparently, there’s always some Northman in it, so ultimately, it’s awesome. Happy anniversary.

The Monthly Wrap Up: Because I’m too tired to come up with anything that original.

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So, ok, end of our first month here at Confessions of a Sexy Mom, and I gotta tell you, web dwellers, you people are fucking awesome. I just love the heck out of you, and I’m in touch with my emotions enough to say so without having to go bench press or deep fry anything. Damn, I just love being a woman.

So, I figured I’d do a little monthly retrospective. A “confession-all” if you will (see how much lamer the jokes and puns are when I’m tired?), and I’ll toss in some random stuff I laughed at this month but, for whatever reason, didn’t post here earlier.

Heeeere we go.

Northman loves my drunken texts. Which is good, because with the blue-hairs around last month, there were plenty.

First, I saw this ( ←) yesterday and laughed my ass off. This is 100% a GREAT idea, and if you can keep your sense-of-humor hat on instead of going all, “Ooooh, that’s too ‘Big Brother’ if my phone knows I’m wasted,” then it’s pretty fucking funny.

Second, take a gander over yonder at the site hit numbers →. Oh, yeah. That’s more than 2,000 hits in a month. THAT is a blog-gasm. I’m super excited. Now let’s just get some more fans on the Facebook page so people will know when there’s something new here.

Numero Tres: Did you know if you go to the WordPress home page and select “topics” and then type in “fucking” that you’ll find some really freaky crap? Well, shit, searching for “sexy” or “Northman” wasn’t yielding great results, so I went the other direction. I thought maybe I’d find some blogs like mine with some random sexiness in there. Uh, no. Warning! If you don’t want to know what “fisting” is, DO NOT TRY THIS SEARCH. Wow. A lot has changed since I was last out there, people. A fucking lot has changed.

And Four: I found this neat site that lets you make graphic representations of relevant words on your site. I don’t know what people really use this for, but I thought it was neat, and here’s what I made. Didn’t even need to paint any macaroni!

Cinco de Awesome-o: Damn, that would have pissed my high school Spanish teacher off big time. No sense of humor. Anyway, this ↓ is what I posted this month in no particular order (and in kind of a mess because I don’t have a hell of a lot of control over the formatting here), not counting just little crap like a poll and letting y’all know I’m on Facebook. Which I am. And you should be too.

Six…more months until True Blood Season Five, so here’s one of my favorite scenes from Season Four, which I just rewatched because there’s so much Northman sex. Oh, Pam. I thank Mr. Coffee for whomever cast you and made your role so much bigger in the show than the books.

Also… A shout out to Karen B., Liesel B., Rebecca Z., Nicole S., and Tara C. for all your super funny posts on the Facebook wall!! Y’all are hilarious, ladies!! Keep it up, gals!!

And Now, A Message From Mr. Northman

Taking One For The Team

Elves, Men, Monkeys, and MartinisThe 12 Hours of Christmas

JPAMDD

The Versatile Blogger Award.

You People Need Help.

This Is Why Republicans Fear Me

I Sound My Barbaric Yawp Over The Roofs Of The World.

It's Always The Guy With The Panel Van

Did I Miss Something Here?

Blog-gasms

Shaved Pussies Are For Pussies

There Isn't Enough Purrell On The Planet For This Shit.

You're Just Coitusing With Me, Aren't You?

You’re Just Coitusing With Me, Aren’t You?

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I’ve been trying to write some kind of inspiring New Year’s Resolution post for you people, and I gotta say, I suck at that. The truth is, I think New Year’s Resolutions are kind of pointless and stupid. They set us up for failure:

  • Go to the gym every week.
    • What if you get sick? What if the gym burns down?
  • Lose two pounds a week.
    • So you bust your ass at the gym [after it’s rebuilt from the fire] but you also have PMS, so you gain a pound and feel like a failure?
  • Quit drinking, smoking, double parking, letting your dog crap on the neighbor’s grass, dropping acid, or returning library books late.
    • Yeah, because any of these are feasible.

New Year’s Resolutions are just lame, and they feel kind of arbitrary. You eat two (boxes of) doughnut holes and smoke one cigarette, and suddenly your whole year is a waste? By January 2nd? Fuck that.

I’m more for setting New Year’s GOALS. This makes me a lot happier, and we all know I’m all about HAPPY. So here are some of my goals for 2012. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you’re planning to do this year, and yeah, smartasses, go ahead and tell me what you think I should do, too, unless it involves finding Jesus, because I seriously only found my own G-spot like two years ago and I can’t even find all the pieces to the toys my minions just got over the holidays, much less a whole person, so the odds of me getting in on that are pretty fucking slim.

Goal Numero Uno: Fuck Mr. Northman. Yes, in the good way. Oh, yeah. This is a goal I can get behind. Or in front of. Or on top of. Or, you know, inverted with. Or, or…wait…wait…um, what was I saying?

Have you still not rented Dogma? Get with it, web dwellers!

Second Goal: Blog a lot. This one is easy as doughnut holes. I dig blogging. Apparently some people dig reading it. A whole lotta diggin’ and I get to curse in cyber-public. Rock on. I’m on it like Birks on Buddy Christ.

#3: Be nicer to myself. Ok, this one’s a bit closer to a resolution because if I fuck up and I’m mean to myself then I feel like a failure, and then I beat myself up for it, and then I’m being mean to myself some more, and then I’m pissed. So I gotta spell this one out goal-style: Being nicer to myself does not mean never engaging in self-bitchery. It means, “work on that.” It means, “Try hard not to say shit to yourself that you’d punch other people in the nads for saying to you.”

Quatro: Watch every episode of True Blood when Season 5 comes out because there has got to be some Eric Northman sex in there somewhere and I vow to see it. On DVR. So I can rewind and stuff. Every list has to have a “gimme.”

And Then There Were Five: As much as possible, do your best to be, feel, speak, work, listen, love, live, sleep, parent, try, dream, do, have, lust, eat, and laugh better.

The deliciously fucked up mind behind True Blood

Well, shit. I just realized I could have skipped 1 through 4 because #5 pretty much sums it up, but then you’d have had less to read, and I’m all about customer service here, web dwellers.

Bonus point of the day: Did you know men frequently experience wrist and forearm sprains from over-jacking? And I don’t mean working on cars, people. I swear to Alan Ball, I hurt my thumb preventing kid #2 from hurting a lot more than a thumb, and I was telling Mr. Northman we needed to video chat instead of typing because my thumb hurt, when he said, “What? Did you hurt it masturbating?” My initial reaction was something like, “What is the fucking matter with you?” but I swear, the man let me in on some kind of man-code-protected secret and told me that he knows at least three guys who’ve had wrist or hand sprains in the past year from spending too much time…at mechanic school.

You need to be watching The Big Bang Theory. That's no bazinga.

So, informal survey here, web dwellers. Is he just coitusing with me here? Is this a bazinga moment, or are men that stupid? I’m serious, people. If that’s true, I am definitely good to go on my Second Goal, because that’s good for at least four posts right there.

Remember to “like” Confessions of A Sexy Mom on Facebook. It makes me feel good. Also, you might win a new particle accelerator if you “follow” my blog. Bazinga!