Go ahead and admit it. You’ve gone on an internet date or two. Whether you met the guy on Nerve or Myspace or Craigslist or what-ever. We’ve all got that little skeleton in our closet and it’s time for me to take mine out and give it a little air.

I moved to New York City three years ago. I graduated from college in December of ‘03 and January 1st I arrived at my first shitty Brooklyn apartment with two months of savings and dreams of being a city girl.

My best friend lived here, but besides him, I was just one of 8 million strangers. I was online all day sending out resumes and searching for jobs and inevitably my internet searches led to online personal sites. I decided to post one because 1) it was free and 2) I didn’t know anyone in the city so what could it hurt?

Well friends, it didn’t hurt much. And I met a whole assortment of people I would have never talked to before and will never talk to again. I also discovered that I am one of the only people in existence (besides my friend Casie) who looks EXACTLY like their picture. All of the guys I met save one, were completely hideous in person. For awhile I was going on an internet date every couple of days. I met a guy who was a dead ringer for Will from Will and Grace. I went out on a date with a guy who lived five blocks away yet still drove to pick me up and then drove four blocks to the restaurant. There was a guy who told me ten minutes into drinks that his mother breast fed he and his twin brother til they were four. Then there was a guy we’ll just call R, who couldn’t believe that I didn’t want to have sex with him in the bathroom of Sushi Samba on 7th Avenue South. (We’d only met a couple of hours before and I’m not THAT much of a slut) But my favorite internet date was from a guy who’s name I don’t remember but probably should. We’ll call him Matt for now. He looked like a Matt.

One Saturday night I was drunk in the East Village with a friend. At the time, I was living in Brooklyn and usually I tried to make it back across the river by 2 or 3am. On this particular evening my cell rang and it was “Matt.” We’d been emailing for a couple of weeks but hadn’t managed to meet up yet. He and his friends were hanging out on the Upper East Side and wanted me to come up. I was drunk enough to think this was a fabulous idea. So at 2:30am my friend Sara and I took advantage of the city that never sleeps and hopped into a cab going from Avenue A and 2nd Street to 83rd and York.

As soon as we walked into the bar I felt compelled to turn around and leave. The Long Island and Jersey girls were out in full force. A film of Aquanet settled over us as we went straight to the bar for two shots of tequila each. After standing around for ten minutes and trying to discern the features of the hundreds of ugly guys who had chosen this awful bar for fun, my internet beau finally finds us.

He was tall, not very distinctive looking, and I knew within ten minutes of exchanging awkward pleasantries that there would be absolutely no physical connection between the two of us. EVER.

Seeing how this story ends up, I have learned to ALWAYS trust those instincts.

Fast forward 20 minutes. Still standing in the bar with my internet date, my friend Sara, and my internet date’s nasty fat guy friend. The subject of pot is broached and Sara and I, always faithful followers for anything free, agree to go a someone’s apartment, somewhere and puff on a j.

The fat friend then decides that he doens’t want to smoke anymore so Sara and I take our leave. I hug my internet friend goodbye and plan on never seeing him again. Five minutes after that Sara and I are in a cab speeding down a very empty Second Avenue.

Then my cell phone rang.

It’s Mr. Internet. He has found a fat j and he wants to share. I tell him that we can’t go to my place because I had a roommate I didn’t know and I lived all the way in Brooklyn. We couldn’t do it at Sara’s because her sister was sleeping and Sara herself had to to be up early in the morning.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Meet me at the corner or 8th and 15th Street.”

I agreed. After all, it was only 3am and I was only agreeing to meet a stranger on an empty Manhattan street corner. I mean, I was ONLY completely drunk.

I’d be fine.

So I met this man on that street corner. He took my hand and informed me that we would be going to the Chelsea Hotel. For those unaquainted with fun places in NYC, the Chelsea Hotel is pretty famous for housing all kinds of druggie artists, hippies, and other people who’s parents didn’t love them enough. Mr. Internet paid $250 cash for a room and we headed upstairs.

At no point did it occur to me to be scared. This guy was at least 6′2 and could definitely have demolished me if the need had arisen. Yet and still I walked right into that room with him and I’m the one who took the first hit on that fat j. I also immediately turned the TV on. I didn’t have cable at home so I couldn’t wait to see what MTV had for me in the wee small hours.

We smoked for a while and then I felt it pertinent to say something. So I turn to him and say, “I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea, but I’m not going to hook up with you tonight.”

A look of surprise and wonder crossed his face, then one of bewilderment. “I mean, what? I mean, that’s okay. Whatever.”

“Okay. Cool.”

I went back to Cribs and he kept chatting about this and that, every sentence more forced and awkward than the next. The high started to set in then. It was almost 5am and I was completely out of it. He kept talking and the sound of his voice was really grating on my nerves. So I said, “Hey listen. I’m a little too high for you to be talking right now. I’m going to really need to you to be quiet.” I then laid down on the hotel bed and put a pillow over my face.

I heard him get into bed beside me. He laid down but kept his distance. That’s when things got crazy.

“You know,” he says, “Laying here beside you makes me want to touch myself.”

“What?” I ask, still under the pillow.

“You’re so hot. I just have to touch myself.”

“Well don’t touch me.”

“Okay.”

Silence for a few minutes. I kept the pillow over my face. Then,

“I’m touching myself now.”

“Great.”

“Do you want to touch it?”

“No.”

“Do you want to put your mouth on it?”

“No. I don’t want anything to do with it. And I really need you to stop talking.”

I can hear him now. Little pants and grunts and that gross jacking off sound. The whole time I’m thinking, “Brandy, you’ve got to leave. Brandy, get up and leave, this guy is nuts.”

But I couldn’t move. I was so fucked up that I was rooted to the spot.

“I’m going to come. But I feel so bad…..”

This is when I got fed up. I threw the pillow off and sat up. He was lying there, penis is hand, glasses askew.

“Look–I don’t care WHAT you do. But I am TIRED. And you KEEP talking even though I asked you to stop. So come all over the place for all I care. Just shut the FUCK up.”

I then put the pillow back over my head, laid down, and completely passed out.

Morning sunlight filtering through slits in the heavy curtains in the room’s window woke me. Mr. Internet was still laying beside me. I got up and went to the bathroom and called my friend Sara to let her know I was alive and I’d be at her apartment in 10 minutes. He was up when I came out.

“Morning,” he says, smiling.

I walked past him to my purse and grabbed it.

“Want to get some breakfast?” he asks.

“Actually I have to be somewhere.” I look at my watch. “Now.”

I walked out of the room and I haven’t seen him since.

There was a lesson learned from all of this.

Only go to the Chelsea Hotel for drugs when the guy taking you is Leonardo DiCaprio. And only go when and if he has promised to accept all responsiblity for the child you will probably bear because of all the highly unprotected sex you’re about to engage in.

I’m a forward-thinker. If I’m not happy with something, sure I bitch and moan a tad, but generally don’t dwell there. It’s all about exacting change, people. And recently, I came to terms with something very near and dear to my heart: the great state of New York. That’s right. You see, I love my great state, but, sadly, some very real and major flaws have planted themselves upon her visage like a splattering of damn leeches.

So, here, allow me to bitch and moan a bit, but–simultaneously!–offer my cures (or, some may call them opinions, or mere suggestions).

Shall we? In list form, of course, here are my top three:

New York would be the most perfect place on the planet if we could just make the following cuts…(in no particular order.)

1. Eliminate New York, the city, that is. Unfortunately, this urban sprawl shit is really kicking my real-estate-shopping ass. Especially after 9/11, the prices of houses in my area have nearly doubled. Talk about b-a-n-a-n-a-s. (Whoa. Never realized how difficult it is to spell a word when you need to place hyphens between each letter…try it!) I just think the trade-off of world culture and all that jazz would be worth it for my finances.

NYC has also perpetuated the silly (using restraint there) notion that anything above it shall be deemed “UPSTATE.” Which means that the ENTIRE STATE is UP from ITSELF. Yeah. Ponder that one and get back to me.

2. Abolish all winter morons. I love having seasons. It’s one of the top reasons I love where I live other than it’s proximity to the Hudson, major military bases, and that place I just suggested we axe. (From hereon in to be referred to as, my ass) Unfortunately, other people find this region attractive and they move here from southerly locales. When the snow comes, and they have to drive a car around in it, they do all of the following:

3. Murder, imprison, or otherwise destroy all persons with airs of entitlement. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but there is an epidemic here, and I’m beginning to conceed that it is “a New Yorker thing.” Or (hopefully) maybe it’s just bad parenting. If that’s the case, then I’d like to do away with all parents. Yes, all of them. I’m all for throwing the baby out with the bathwater if it’s going to mean I don’t have to deal with snobbing teens driving sporty cars, wearing to much makeup and hair product, flipping me off for not getting out of THEIR way. Because, I’m sure, they have somewhere very important to be. Some place where they must be doing excessively important things. For, like, important people. And, why, just today? I witnessed a couple of kids driving said car, appearing with said forms of excess upon their bodies, sitting at a red light. And you know what the girl in the passenger seat did? She littered. Guess what she tossed out the window? A key. That’s right. A KEY. Who litters a damn KEY?!

*Deep breath*

So, what do you think? I’m gonna go ahead and Carbon Copy Senator Clinton on this. She’s probably looking for a good cause to launch her ahead of Obama. I think this would be just the ticket.

The OSC calls me kid even though I am technically older than him and even though we dated, what, about a decade ago. It seems like I have known The OSC for just about ever. He is the only man who has ever asked me to marry him–though he was drunk at the time and we had already long stopped dating. He is the first person to pour me a beer after heartbreak, the first shoulder I cry on when it gets hard to drag my ass out of bed, and–plug your ears, mom–the first lay when there has been a particularly long drought. Though his once lithe skate boarder’s body has now grown soft, his hair has considerably thinned, and we don’t even have to go into what years of smoking, dry walling and lack of health care has done to his capacity to breathe, looking at him is much akin to looking into a mirror, a painfully accurate mirror. Our dreams a bit more battered, our cross-word puzzling skills a bit improved, we look at each other and we read our own histories. I may not be balding and, at least I can climb up a set of stairs without coughing up half a lung, but he does know exactly what to say to make me feel better, precisely how to piss me off, and absolutely how to, um, push my buttons.

We moved in together to save money, not a good enough reason at any age, let alone when you are twenty-two. We lived in a one-bedroom, third floor walk-up where I was the apartment manager. Together we paid about two-hundred dollars a month in rent and sometimes we couldn’t even scrap that together. For most of the time we lived together, I remained indignant. He never picked up a finger to help with the maintenance of the building, though, he benefited with the cheap rent. He wasn’t particularly neat. And his idea of apartment decorating included hanging up his baseball cards willy nilly on the mantel so that they fell anytime the door slammed shut.

Still, we had fun. It was new, this living together thing, and we made the best of it. In our hearts we knew this was just a practice run for later, when we had the capacity to take these things more serious. We played house. And in the process, we learned one or two things. One Thanksgiving someone had given us a twenty pound bird, no doubt a freebie with the one they had purchased for themselves. We invited over a few friends and stuck it in the oven. Four hours later, it was no where near being cooked. It seemed our tiny oven couldn’t handle a turkey of that size, and so, minus any kind of meat thermometer, we started sawing off the drumsticks hoping we could at least eat those. And we did. And lived to tell about it.

The OSC once tried on one of my dresses. It was a slinky, low-cut number and it startled us both to see how good he looked in it. He pranced about the house, dancing back to the full-length mirror to wag his ass and giggling the entire time like a schoolgirl in her first bra. I can’t remember if it turned us on, or if the absurdity of his hairy chest and his high, round buttocks kept us in hysterics the rest of the night. He could make me laugh, that man, he could also make me forget, and for those alone, I will always keep his company. He might have been the boyfriend that behaved the worst–we were kids, after all, it could be argued that we hadn’t known any better–but he was the one whom I have actually known long enough to completely forgive.

We’ve been to hell and back, both as a couple and each on our own. We’ve seen each other act the worst and we haven’t always been there to witness the best. One marriage, one divorce and one abortion between us. We share a million stories. And one hopes there will be a million more. Lovers, jobs, apartments, they may change. But he is the well-worn map I turn to when lost. Separating at the seams, edges thinned from touching, the map may not always tell me where I am headed, but if I trace its contours, it can begin to tell me where I’ve been.

In the vastness that is the internet you can find some truly mind-boggling shit. There is such a multitude of peculiarities out there that there’s almost too little bizarreness. Where’s the shock value any more? In a way, we have become desensitized. But every so often, if you’re truly lucky (and bored out of your ever lovin’ mind), you stumble upon something that takes you right back to that comfort zone of strange and bizarre internet finds.

The Proud Pussy, thankfully, is one such site that encompasses all that we know and love about the world wide web.

The rings are made of sterling silver with a juvenile - pink cubic zirconia, at the place of clitoris.
The ProudPussy-rings comes in five models - Tove, Leyla, Amanda, Eva and Kristina. While they are beautiful to look at, they also show the variation in what womens sex really look like. All different. But all just as good. Be proud of your pussy!”

What makes this ring so damn fantastical, besides the fact that it’s a pussy on your finger, is the seriousness, not only with the product itself, but in the way it’s marketed. That’s the primary reason it made my list of astonishingly bizarre internet crap. The sheer fact that it isn’t in the least bit centered around vulgarity, but honest to goodness wholesome vaginal sanctification is just kooky enough to warrant attention. Bless the Swedish and their affinity for shock and awe.

I’m not sure if the ring depicts radical feminism gone astray or an ingenious avowal of femininity, but it does beckon many questions. For example:
Would it be appropriate to wear in all social settings? What bout the PTA or Uncle Ned’s funeral?
Would I be able to give one to my grandmother one and not have to worry about sending her into cardiac arrest?
What would be the appropriate response when the checkout clerk asks about the ring (and no doubt, she will ask)? Could I proudly proclaim pussy pride publicly?

Putang bling. It certainly does have a certain je ne sais quoi to it. Without a doubt it’s a definite conversation piece. Of course, one would first need to straddle a mirror to determine which ring accurately depicts her fortune nookie jewel. In the right company the process could turn downright kinky.

Move over cock ring, there’s a new ring in town….and this one doesn’t require lube and careful maneuvering to slide on.

I bet you didn’t even realize it but today is Paul Davidson Appreciation Day. Yes, you heard it here first. (Oh and can someone please let him know?)

So you’re probably asking yourself, “How do I go about celebrating PD Appreciation Day?”

Well, it’s pretty simple. It’s kinda like Mardi Gras, kinda like catholic confession, mixed with a bit of chipotle. Mmmm, tasty. Get on yer party hats and let’s get ready to rumble…

If it weren’t for the non-legally-binding marriage proposal I would TOTALLY be his wife.

I pull on my favorite butt hugging jeans and revel in my thinness. Top it off with a completely precious cleavage baring tank top that makes my medium b-cup boobs into lovely 36-C beauties and I am feeling great about myself. God Brandy, you’re SO cute.

Then I look into the mirror that I bought at KMart shortly after moving into my apartment.

Instead of a tall, lean size 4 (Abercrombie, American Eagle, and BCBG)/size 6 (in every thing else), what do I behold?

A FAT COW.

Now, I’m not a girl who complains about weight. I’m thin, I don’t work out and I count Taco Bell, Waffle House and Krystal as three of my favorite restaurants. Whenever I’m around people who obsess about the muffin top spilling over their too-small Citizens of Humanity jeans, I sit back and secretly smile, knowing I’ve got room to spare in my brand new True Religions. When I hear the telltale complaint of “God, I’m so fat,” I’ve been known to reply: “That’s sucks. I’m so skinny.” I’m a firm believer in girls coming to terms with their bodies and most times I refuse to be a sounding board for pretty girls ranting about their weight. I’ve embraced who I am and if you can’t come to terms with and love yourself, I don’t have time to listen to your “I’m going to go work out” bullshit. I’m not going to work out–I’m going to have another french fry.

So of course, I have a fat mirror.

This mirror would make Lindsay Lohan look like Rosie O’Donnell, it would turn Nicole Ritchie into Britney Spears. The warpedness of it probably has something to do with the fact that it’s propped on top of the living room radiator. But still. It was a fat mirror before that. I stand in front of this mirror and my 5′8 frame is squished down about three inches. My hips have suddenly become the child bearing variety. My stomach could easily be housing five month old twin fetuses. My thighs look like they belong to a high school varsity girl soccer player. Even my back looks fat.

I want to throw this mirror off my roof. But currently I don’t have the ten dollars it would take to replace it. It’s times like these when one realizes that one really is broke.

I guess the point of this post is this: The only times I ever have Fat Moments are during PMS and whenever I check myself out in this fucking fat mirror. So now I know how my “I hate my body” friends feel and I feel slightly bad that whenever they complain, I’ve retorted “That’s too bad…can you pass me another cookie….I’m going to have four more since you obviously shouldn’t be eating them.”

Are you feeling the strain of a relationship that’s tweaked to the max? Or maybe you need help deciphering signals from your companion to assess your tension level. Whatever the case may be, here are some handy translations for you and your (soon-to-be-ex) companion! From your smart-ass friends here at Girlspoke…always here to help…find examples of phrases recently uttered from the mouth of the beast and get their accurate translations:

Better half says: I’m going for a drive

He/She really means:

Basically, I’d rather do all of the following (happily!) than be in the presence of you:

1. Pay about 58 cents a minute, just to drive around aimlessly in my inefficient SUV that likely has an oil leak.

2. Possibly participate in the funding of terrorists. (Everything’s connected these days!)

3. Flip off Al Gore and the ozone layer.

4. Enter into the arena where my odds of death are about 1 in 15,000. Yeah, I’ll take that bet, sir.

5. End up at a seedy bar surrounded by peanut shells and stale alcoholics that likely started their pathetic journies when they left the house “for a drive” about 15 years ago.

Better half says: Do you think you could start [enter suggested behavior modification here]?

He/She really means:

I’m now realizing that you’re not the person of my dreams. However, I’ve invested too much time into this gig, so I’ll commence my transformation of you at this point. I’ve been putting up with your hairballs in the shower for like a fucking year, and it’s so damn gross that I can no longer stand the sound of you breathing. So, yeah, if you could work on that, it’d be great! Mwah!

Better half says: What?!

He/She really means:

Well, this isn’t one of your run-of-the-mill inquisitions. This what is a loaded question, and you could hear it the moment it was uttered. In fact, maybe you heard it for several moments, as this what seems to take on several sylables. And these sylables are all pointing the finger at you. In fact, this what is more of an accusation for being the stupid, worthless, unmotivated, unorganized, waste of space that let him/herself go months ago, isn’t it? In fact, your mate is essentially telling you to shut the fuck up, and fast, because if there weren’t that glimmer of hope remaining in your puffy eyes, your sense-lacking ass would have been dropped weeks ago.

Better half says: We could really use a vacation.

He/She really means:

I’ve kind of forgotten why I like you. Maybe some time in a tropical location may trigger this back to memory. That, or lots of rum. Or maybe seeing other people in bathing suits. Either way I figure I’ll know if you’re worth keeping around. It’s worth the several grand just to put this one to bed.

Better half says: You know what….just!….forget it!

He/She really means:

Fuck you!

This is a good sign though, because the restraint is still present. In fact, none of these red flags should worry you too much. Nothing’s a done deal just yet. But maybe you want to firm up those thighs before your judgement-day vacation, eh? At the very least, always remember: it’s ok to cry, as long as you end up laughing. (Or fucking.)

Ah, the boob job. What’s left to be said, right? Well, I was reading some commentary over at MyBodyPart.com and I had to lay down some of my own thoughts. I’ll try not to sound mundane.

The site is clearly pro-boob job, and basically pro-cosmetic surgery. But before I get into that, let me make my own stance clear.

I love me a perky set of titties.

There. I said it. I mean, I know I’m supposed to hate the notion of plastic surgery and all the unrealistic expectations it sets and bludgeoning blows to esteems it hands out. But the truth is that I think some superficial enhancements may just do some bodies good. According to this site, the number of surgeries has been steadily increasing in our nation. Therein lies the debate. Are we seeing more surgeries because our young girls are feeling overwhelmed by pressure to look like Anna Nicole (may she rest in luxurious peace)? Or do you think it’s because women are feeling more empowered and are scoffing at the stereotypes that overshadow the saline sacs? Maybe it’s both. I’m certainly no scientist, and many around here would suggest I’m closer to an asshole or even Satan, perhaps, than I am a philosopher. But MyBodyPart.com kind of sums it up best, here:

Breast augmentation surgery is an effective way for people to obtain a fresh perspective on life. An unattractive chest can be a mental drain for a person and after obtaining this treatment, many patients are surprised to see how a procedure designed to create changes on their physical bodies has also rejuvenated them mentally and emotionally. If you view breast augmentation as the cure all for all of your problems, you will probably be disappointed with the results. However, if you understand that breast augmentation is a treatment that will only enhance your attractiveness, then this could be one of the best things you can do for your life.

You want to get more ass? Fit into those hot halter tops? Stop playing lift-em-up in the mirror every time you take a shower? Then get a new set. Or maybe you’re suffering from the sag after years of breast feeding or intense jogging without the help of a sturdy support bra. This gig is for you.

But maybe you prefer yourself au natural. If that’s the case, send a big flipped bird in the direction of anyone who may make you feel self-conscious. Fuck plastics.

The thing to remember here is that everyone does things for their own reasons. Who are we to judge an 18 year old that gets implants because of a birth defect? Or even the Beverly Hills blonde who wants to keep her marriage firey hot? Same for the flat-chested that couldn’t be more in love with their just-a-handful.

So, kind of like prostitution, I think boob jobs are a victimless crime. Wait…did I say that out loud? If you want a biased, but not in-your-face obnoxious pro-surgery pep-talk, head over to MyBodyPart.com. (Please don’t tell them I compared them to hookers.)

*_{As a matter of disclosure, this was a paid for sponsored post, but didn’t we make it fun?!! Now Jenna can buy herself some decent fucking bras for her kickass knockers. -Meme}

There. It’s over. I hope you all survived.

It would seem that I’ve become just as cynical as the rest of the married-too-long-to-give-a-shit V-Day haters. I wasn’t always this way, though. I used to be wrapped up in the over-commercialized anticipation and romanticism of gilded love just as much as the next fool hearted woman. And perhaps a better relationship might still be laden with romanticism eight years, two kids, a mortgage and three dead gerbils later. But not this one. I suppose the fact that we haven’t killed or at least severely maimed one another does speak volumes about our love. Hallmark simply can’t top that.

My distaste for Valentine’s Day started only a couple of years ago and I’m still coming to terms with my cynicism. I’ve always been a giver, but unfortunately, it’s become too disheartening due to a lack of reciprocation and so I’ve let those inner yearnings to be romantically exuberant fall by the wayside. Letting go of wanting to be indulged and pampered has been more difficult than I anticipated. Truth is, I’ve never had a real reason to hate Valentines. I’ve also never been single. Let me be the first to point out that my never having been single has less to do with being some sort of extraordinarily awesome chic that any man would give his left nut to be with, and more to do with the fact that I’ve got self-esteem issues which demand I cling on to any two-legged able-bodied being who will have me. Um, that’s not to say that I’ve ever been desperate. As pretentious as it may sound (and I know it does), I’ve never been single long enough to become desperate. From the time I was fifteen years old there has always been some poor schmuck waiting in the wings who I could give my heart to, be it blinded by stupidity or not. Pseudo-love evolved purely from stupidity was an unfortunate repeat offense by yours truly.

Now that I’m actually thinking about it, maybe that’s part of the reason I’ve adopted this Debbie Downer attitude towards le jour de l’amour. I’ve had many “Our First Valentines”. I’ve been given pounds and pounds of chocolate (which I still carry around my thighs and ass to this day), dozens of flowers and so many frickin’ cards that I should probably feel more guilty about all the poor trees that have perished. But where did those gift bestowing relationships get me? Heartache. Divorce. Tears. Yah, no thank you. Maybe it’s not so much that I’ve grown cynical, maybe I’ve grown to realize that I don’t need those things in order for a man to prove his love to me. I have been down that road and, in the long run, none of those gifts mattered. It could be (yes, perhaps!) that after seventeen or so years of relationships I finally get that.

Wow. That was a brilliant attempt at delusion.

Fine. Yes, I still crave thoughtful and romantic gestures on a day that has become more about proving ones love rather than embodying it. But what I consider to be romantic now is a little different from what it used to be. Flowers are still wonderful, yes. Sentimental rhymes mass produced on card stock, okay, can still make me smile. But what I really want (what most women want) are the simple and often cost free gestures that let me know without any shred of doubt I am loved: take the time to cook a dinner that doesn’t come from a box. Offer to do all the dishes without bitching. Light a few candles. And then eat me out until I can’t breath anymore without expecting a blow job in return. If more men (my man) could do that then they would have Valentines in the bag without so much as a Hershey Kiss needing to be tossed in.

Plus, with that sort of effort, they’re nearly guaranteed to still get that blow job.

As it stands now, there were no flowers, no chocolates, no homemade dinner, no candles and certainly no midnight buffet at the Y. In the 2007 match up between Valentines Day versus Cynicism, cynicism won by a landslide.

Some of us over here at Girlspoke Central are feeling particularly lonely on what should be the most auspicious of days. Click the widget below to send us your best Valentine greeting and make us feel loved.

Or if you’re grooving on the hate vibe send us one of these: Be My Anti-Valentine (email: info at girlspoke dot com)

Either way we’ll appreciate the effort.