Bitch, Bitch, Bitch Edition

Jell-o does not make mango flavored gelatin, and I'm pissed off about it. A smart person probably would have looked on the Jell-o official website before visiting every Giant in the surrounding area in search of a product that does not, in fact, exist. But no, I waited to check the website until I had already ascertained that no stores carry such a food. That's three hours I'll never get back.

Starbucks pissed me off this morning, too. I normally don't go there because I live in the only neighborhood of a major U.S. city without a Starbucks on every corner. Well, that and because I have no idea how to speak their stupid retail language and thus can never get my order correct. Going to Starbucks and attempting to purchase anything gives me a great deal of empathy for people who are Autistic. I look totally normal and I'm speaking the same language as the barista, but through some processing fluke on my part, am completely unable to procure a cup of coffee without assistance. Fortunately, The Friend of Friend was able to recognize the inexplicable difficulty I was having and got my coffee for me. I'm thankful that the coffee was right since my egg sandwich somehow ended up with spinach on it. I may be coffee shop retarded, but I know there's no way I ordered that.

Boxers bunch up too much to be comfortable. How do boys wear them? Sure it's endearing that someone offered me their boxers and a t-shirt to lounge and sleep in, but I probably would have been more comfortable in my thong and push-up bra. At then my tits would have looked great and no one would have noticed my chubby thighs because they would have been staring at my breasts and ass.

On a happier note, I discovered last week that Giant carries vibrating cock rings. I had heard that large stores like Target and, unbelievably, Wal-Mart sold them, but I mostly took it as some kind of urban mythology. Apparently it's true. And here I've been buying my cock rings from Babes in Toyland like a sucker. While wandering around the grocery store in search of non-existent gelatin flavors, I *happened* upon the "family planning" aisle. I didn't find the condoms I was looking for (are they mythological too?) but I spotted the cock rings. How could I not, honestly? They were right there at eye level, not even hidden on the back of the bottom shelf where no one would see them. I already have a perfectly lovely cock ring that vibrates and even has a little turtle on it, but I felt compelled to buy one based solely on the shock of seeing it in that environment. I felt a little guilty walking through the store with my basket of fruits, veggies, conditioner, toothpaste, yogurt and cock rings, but the voyeur in me couldn't help but spurn the self-checkout line for the one manned by the awkward clerk. Frankly, I was a little disappointed that he didn't seem as shocked by my purchase as I clearly was. Perhaps people buy them there all the time. In conclusion, I went into the store to buy a $1 necessity item that I believed existed only to leave with a $6 unnecessary item that I largely thought to be a legend. In an odd way, this makes perfect sense to me.

Marking Your Territory

Certain things make me wonder exactly how much evolutionary ground we've really gained. Ever seen men swarm around a beautiful girl at a bar like lions around a gazelle carcass? Noticed men pushing each other like slightly less hairless apes? Been a witness or a party to the classic "no, my trunk is bigger!" argument amongst elephants? It's frighting to think of all the disturbing similarities between boys I date and animals. And of course, it's not smart animals like dolphins. It's animals whose brain to body size ratio is distressing small, like opossums.

The animalistic behavior I hate most is definitely the leave behind. Sometimes I happily chalk up items left around my room to general laziness or stupidity. Like the time that I forgot my panties at that kid's apartment on the Forth of July three years ago because I was in such a rush to get out of there without having to talk to him again. These things happen, and are the occasional casualty of having a sex life. I'm willing to put up with a pair of boxers or a sock left casually on my floor. I'd rather it not be there, but I accept it as an unfortunate side effect. If unchecked, this type of laundry aggression only escalates. Before I know it, there's boxers and a t-shirt on the floor. Then somehow, while I'm not looking, it's as though the dirty clothes mate and produce a pair of shorts. At first, I call it an accident and return the clothes to their original owner. Then, after several "accidents", I'm starting to wonder how much laziness explains. Frustrated, I try to return the clothes, but later that day, I notice them still laying on the edge of my bed. Perplexing because I gave them to the person they belong to. In my monthly attempt to clean my room, I angrily throw the two pair of shorts, three t-shirts, two pairs of boxers and a pair of socks into my own laundry basket. After being washed and folded, still the clothes don't make it back to their home. Are they too good for their home? Every few days, clothes disappear from the pile a little at a time. Then one day, they're all gone. I do a victory dance and celebrate my defeat over invading laundry forces!

A mere week passes, and again clothes accumulate. Oh, dirty laundry. You think you're so sneaky but I see you. I refuse to wash you! You may have won the battle, but not the war. Then this morning, dirty clothes in plain sight, your owner asks me if he has any clean boxers there. ! Funny thing about that. I'm not actually your maid.

I'm not actually that annoyed that he thinks he can get his laundry done for free, or that even that he thinks he can leave his shit all over my place. Honestly, I respect that kind of bravado because I would probably try to do the same thing. What pisses me off about the clothing war is that I suspect what this is really about is marking his territory. Beware other boys who enter! I have already been in here!
Just pee on me and get it over with, fucking monkey.