Oh man. All I have to say is that the girlspoke readers rock my world! Thanks to you, I’ve been all over the world and apparently I’ve been quite famous too. Isn’t that what vacations are for? Oh, that and vacation sex with anonymous strangers.

I have received some awesome photoshop jobs from you fine folks out there and I’m going to start posting them here. It’s not too late to submit yours…I will add them to the post as they come in.

New Pictures!

Clicky, click, click… (more…)

Greetings my fair readers!

Well, the bad news is that my interwebble was down all day so I couldn’t get the recommended daily dose in earlier. Needless to say none of my girlspoke sisters came to my rescue. But alas, I’m home now and I didn’t want to leave you high and dry. So today I’m placing the challenge in your hands. You see, I’m overworked and underf*cked, I mean underpaid (well, I’m not actually…but the underf*cked part is true), so I was thinking you could take me on vacation. A virtual vacation. Here’s where the challenge comes in: Pull a picture of me down from my flickr account and photoshop me into an awesome vacation picture. The winning image will get framed and put on the back of the toilet to cherish forever. Send entries to meme at girlspoke dot com

Good luck and Bon Voyage!

Hiya Honey!

Whatcha doin?

You don’t know me yet, but you’re SO gonna love me. You’re gonna love everything about me. You’re gonna go nuts for my long curly hair, my big full kissy lips, the legs that go on forever…you get the picture. You will most certainly overlook certain things, as we all do in our pursuit for love. You’re going to completely overlook my tendency to make you feel like a piece of shit half the time because your head will be clouded by the outrageously hot sex were having the other half of the time.

And, my lovie-love-love, you will become increasingly irritated by that fact that I never check my voicemail or return calls. You will resort to spilling your heart out in emails despite the fact that I’ve told you that is strictly prohibited…Rule #2: never convey anything of importance via email…got it?

While we’re on the subject, let’s just make some things clear. First, just so you know, I make the rules…and, well, that’s Rule #1.

Keep your eye on the prize though, dearest lovebun, and remind yourself constantly how sweet my ass looks in those panties, and how cute I sound when you give me a little spankin. Because that will soften the blow when you realize that I hate spending the entire night (Rule #3). I will probably sneak out after you’re asleep. Maybe that’s okay with you, maybe you like your space too. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll buy my insomnia story and leave it at that.

And, mr. honey-hot-shaft, you can take comfort in the best blowjobs you’ve ever had in your life…when I feel like it…like once a month, but it sure is something to look forward to.

While waiting for me to come to my senses following a PMS breakdown, you may have a slight headache from the ashtray thrown at your head but be thankful that you still have all your appendages. Rule #4, don’t talk to me while I’m PMSing, but if you ignore me I’ll kill you and if you give me a funny look you’ll get serious damage. And, my sweet nutty-hoho, if you continue to breathe in that annoying way, I’m gonna…

You’ll never get over the fact that I can put my feet behind my head…and that, unfortunately, will stay in your mind forever my dear. Sorry.

So sweetiepoopoo, if you keep all these minor little details in mind I think we’ll get along fabulously. In fact, after we break up you can use the stories from dating me to get sympathy dates from other women…the benefits of dating me NEVER end.

Wow, there’s been a lot of sex talk around here and frankly it’s feeling like New York in August back in the girlspoke green room. I mean, really, we’re better than that. We need to refocus here, so I’m not going to talk about…shhh….the s-word. Instead I think it would be more appropriate to discuss the merits of everday mundane activites and stuff.

Speaking of hot New York summer days, what’s more enjoyable than an ice cold popsicle? Man, I remember those days running after the Mr. Softee truck and sitting in the park with my popsicle. It would be so hot that I couldn’t get the thing in my mouth fast enough, all its sweet syrupy love dripping down my hands. Mmmm.

That reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in the park and got a flat tire. Man, was I bummed. But luckily I had a pump. So plugged it in there and started pumping away. It wasn’t easy. Up and down, pushing as hard as I could. But finally I got it all filled up then hopped back on and rode home.

I think it also deserves mention that I like to keep a clean house. In fact I’m a real neat freak. I really get deep into every crevice and leave nothing untouched. Sometimes I even get down on my hands and knees just to be thorough. You can’t imagine what happens when you neglect some of those unreachable places. Boy, the build-up can be quite overwhelming.

It’s a tiring activity so I usually reward myself with a relaxing hot shower afterwards.

See, that wasn’t hard, was it? Not everything has to be about s-e-x, sheesh.

Or is it penii?

I remember my first one. It shocked me. The things it was capable of…simply amazing.

Then I tried some others. All different. Some curved, some crooked, some stout, some steep. Some have caused the sound of Vegas bells to go off in my head at first glance. Yet others, sigh, were like a punch to the stomach.

Most of all, the penis is usually never attached to the right man.

So you make concessions. You make excuses.

“Ride ‘em cowboy, the sex is amazing, and he’s…well, the sex is amazing.”
“His peter may not be so rad, but he’s the most awesomest person I’ve ever met.”

Then sometimes you just can’t muster it.

“You want me to put that where?”

My vibrator died. But I’ve been reluctant to purchase a new one for nostalgic reasons. This vibrator was my first. Given to me by a college roommate for Christmas, she is sleek and tiger striped and well loved (the vibrator, not the ex-college roommate, not that I didn’t like my college roommate, but yeah, ok, you get the idea…). I named her Tigger I refer to her as “her” because she is far too attractive and too adept to be called a man. I even gave her a theme song, or rather stole a theme song for her from A. A. Milne, which fits rather frighteningly well for a children’s song.

“The wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is Tiggers are wonderful things
Their tops are made out of rubber
Their bottoms are made out of springs
They’re bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy
Fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN!
But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is I’m the only one

The wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is Tiggers are wonderful chaps
They’re loaded with vim and with vigor
They love to leap in your laps
They’re bouncy, trouncy, flouncy pouncy
Fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN
But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is I’m the only one.

Tiggers are wonderful fellahs.
Tiggers are awfully sweet.
Everyone else is jealous,
And that’s why I repeat…

The wonderful thing about Tiggers
Are Tiggers are wonderful things
Their tops are made out of rubber
Their bottoms are made out of springs
They’re bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy
Fun, fun, fun, fun, FUN!
But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers
Is I’m the only one.
Yes, I’m the only one
(GRRrrrrrr…) ooOOoooOOooooOOOO!!!”

My tigger has gotten me through some tough times; she’s scared men off just as much as she’s helped me to lure them into my boudoir. But alas, I fear we must part.

So, fabulous Girlspoke devotees, I call to you for orgasmic advice. Can you help me find a vibrator as good as my dear Tigger?

To help you out, here is the personal ad:

SWF in search of a unique and tireless vibrator for “me” time. No cutesy, frilly or glow-in-the-dark vibes need apply. Waterproof accepted. 6 inch and over. MUST BE BRAND NEW. Theme song not required, but would be a plus.

In the elevator this morning the man standing next to me brushed my tits with his elbow, and I shrieked. In pain. Immediately following this outburst he dropped his cup of coffee which spilt down my pant leg. When I exited the elevator I slipped on the coffee spill and twisted my ankle up something bad.

Last night I watched Dear Frankie and sobbed like a baby. My phone did not ring once, except of course my mother, argh. I went to bed and dreamt I was invited on a romantic excursion but when I got to the airport my passport was expired. I overslept. I had no milk for my morning coffee.

I feel like crying, sending out hateful emails, quitting my job, cutting off my hair, and drinking an entire bottle of NyQuil while eating a Junior’s cheesecake.

Then it dawns on me…holy fucking crap, I’m PMSing.

Why is this such a freakin shock? Every month. Same shit. I get emotional and moody and I can’t figure out why, then like a bolt of lightening I realize that bitch snuck up on me again. The stages of PMS recognition are much like the Kubler-Ross stages of death:

1. Denial and Isolation: Used by almost all women in some form. Whereby a women cannot accept that her emotional responses are being brought on by a hormonal inbalance. Feelings of isolation comes from people avoiding the PMSing person.

2. Anger:
- General “Why do these things always happen to me?”
-Envy of others: Other people don’t seem to care, they are enjoying life while the PMSing person experiences pain.
-Projected on environment: Anger towards boyfriend, lack of boyfriend, any man within a one mile radius, and/or mother.
-Signs: Listening to Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville on repeat.

3. Bargaining: A brief stage, hard to study because it is often between patient and their inner voices.
-If the world didn’t respond to anger, maybe being “good” will work.
-Attempts to postpone: “If only I could take that birth control pill that makes me have NO periods . . .”

4. Depression: Mourning for loss of cognative brain function.

5. Acceptance: This is not a “happy” stage, it is usually void of feelings. It takes a while to reach this stage and a person who fights until the end will not reach it. It consists of basically giving up and realizing that PMS is inevitable. Stay clear of this woman, she could kick your ass without remorse.

Needless to say, my tits feel like overstuffed pin cushions and you had better just back the hell off.

I have this book on my bookshelf. I actually read it in college. Dull read, a whole book of cataloging folktales and footnotes of one tale type (AT480). But the subject matter was fascinating. Basically you have an old lady and two girls. One of the girls is kind, one is unkind. The kind girl is rewarded in the end with some kind of gift and the unkind with death or torture. Nearly every culture has a folktale that incorporates these elements, in fact this book catalogs over 900 versions. In one version the kind girl is meek and solicitous of others. She helps a fairy disguised as an old woman, ends up spitting diamonds when she speaks, and gets the prince. The unkind girl refuses to help the “old woman” and ends up vomiting toads; she starves to death.

Well you don’t have to fuck me twice to get the goddamn point.

I realize that this is a cautionary tale. I also realize that we all have to live exemplary lives… blah, blah, blah. But goddammit, why do kind and unkind have to be mutually exclusive? We all know that this is not how the world works. We don’t all find ourselves on such well-defined planes of the dichotomy. I know for a fact I’ve been the kind girl just as often as I have been the unkind girl. And I know by now not to expect rewards for my kindness…no spitting diamonds or princes. Sometimes I am even rewarded for my unkindness.

And when I ask you to explain
You say you gotta be
Cruel to be kind, in the right measure
Cruel to be kind, it’s a very good sign
Cruel to be kind, means that I love you
Baby, you gotta be cruel to be kind

(Now that I’ve gotten that song stuck in your head don’t you wish I was spitting up toads right now?)

Actually, truth be told, I keep the book on my shelf cause I think the title is HOT. So there.

Today’s installment of Ex-Girlfriend for a Day gives you a rare opportunity to know what it’s like to have me for an ex-girlfriend. Much like the previous Girlfriend for a Day, you will have multiple packages to choose from. Feel free to mix and match. Custom packages will be quoted on a per package basis. Space is limited, so sign up soon!

1. Every 6 weeks Package: I call you every six weeks after we break up to say hello and pretend that we can still be cordial with each other despite the fact I royally screwed you over. $49.99

2. Still Talk to Your Mother/Sister Package: I remain in contact with your mother or sister, because they still believe I was the best thing that ever happened to you and you never should’ve let me go, and they fill me in on the juicy (or not so juicy) details of your life. They in turn tell you all about the fabulous new, hot, rich, well-endowed boyfriend I have now who just gave me a HUGE diamond ring from Tiffany’s. $69.99

3. Drunken-Dialing Package: I call you while on a ‘girls night out’ after plowing 6+ tequila shots. I start by telling you how much I miss you and that I still love you then I go right in to the and you’re an asshole for leaving me with a you make me fucking sick just for emphasis. $79.99 plus the cost of drinks.

4. Out on a Date Package: We run into each other both out on dates. Difference is that I look fan-fucking-tabulous and my date is ultra-hot, whereas you look like you haven’t showered in a month and your date looks like something from the Addams Family. $59.99

5. The “You Will Never Date Anyone After Me” Package: Everytime you meet someone new I will call you up and profess my undying love for you, knowing full well that you still have feelings for me. You will break it off with the new one, come back to me, and then I will proceed to rip your heart into tiny little shredded pieces, once again. $99.99

6. Out-Of-Nowhere Package: I will leave a message on your voicemail and tell you that I have something important to talk to you about. You can hear a shrill scream in the background, and me saying “shush, be quiet” Counting backwards on your fingers you realize it has been about 9 months since you’ve heard from me. $149.99

7. The “Nowhere-To-Be-Found” Package: I never call you again. $5999.99

I guess you could say I was a fiesty one in high school. I sure had a mouth on me, and I let the most inane shit fly out of it constantly. I was always getting in trouble with the teachers. I remember in Applied Econ the entire semester project was to start a company, create a product, market and sell the product. The company was supposed to be set up like a typical corporate hierarchy: President, CEO, CFO, and the rest of us who did all the work, but the principles of the company were the only ones who got paid. I suggested to the teacher that we try two models and see which works best: his blood-sucking capitalist model or the cooperative equal profit sharing model. He said, “Get out of my class.” And my counselor told me that I’d better find another class to take because the teacher would not accept me back.

I was so punk rock.

Needless to say, I hated school. Even more than school, I hated my classmates. You see, I went to high school in L.A. and most of my friends were either aspiring for fame, children of famous people, or just had pooploads of money. They used to spread rumors about me, like that I was a lesbian or a cokehead. Which couldn’t have been farther from the truth since I was fooling around with all their boyfriends and I could barely toke off a doobie without falling flat on my face. One day I started hearing a story make its way through the rumor mill. Apparently everyone was talking about how I had picked up and thrown in a trashcan the famed son of Chicago Seven leader Abbie Hoffman. America (his real name) Hoffman, it seemed, was the one that started this rumor after he tried to kiss me and I socked him in the jaw. I swear to you, I never put him in the trash. I still cannot figure out why he thought it would be better to be known as the guy that was tossed in the trashcan rather than the guy punched by a chick. I guess I underestimated his feelings for me and my socialist leanings.

A few years later I ran into him at a party in Oakland and he still insisted that it happened. Memory’s a funny thing. I wonder what he’s doing now and if he still remembers it the same way.