1) Christian Slater never ages. Luckily, through the use of Photoshop, neither do I!*

2) Starring in non-corny 80’s cult classics ensures that people like me cut their proverbial teeth on phrases like, “Talk Hard,” and “Chaos was what killed the dinosaurs, darling.”

3) If I were Christian Slater, it wouldn’t be creepy to have a crush on myself.

4) I could try and board a commercial airline with a gun in my bag and not have it be “potential terrorist,” but “quirky.”

5) I could be a vampire who DOES NOT SPARKLE. VAMPIRES DO NOT SPARKLE.

6) I could’ve been BFF with River Phoenix, my first television boyfriend from ages 6-13.

7) I could claim to have a “baboon heart,” and then die in the arms of my longtime love. Mostly, I just want to claim that I have a baboon heart, although I might call it “bonobo,” because it sounds cooler.

8) I’d much prefer to have “distinctive eyebrows,” than a “distinctively (dimply) ass.”

9) My sneering voice would allow you to impersonate Jack Nicholson over the phone, which increases not just my ability to get on radio shows, but also my credit line, as he’s got platinum EVERYTHING.

10) I could get Nerd Cred with a cameo role in Star Trek VI – which would mean that all nerds would listen to me. Forever (and we all know how much I heart nerds).

*A lie – I don’t own Photoshop. BUT I COULD. MAYBE.

When people used to say things like, “Oh, I can’t WAIT for the fall TV lineup,” or “I have EVERY NIGHT’S TELEVISION SCHEDULE COLOR-CODED and in a GRAPH!” I’d do one of two things:

1) Wonder what a chart of pies would look like (rather than a pie chart).

B) Seethe in jealousy because WHO HAS THAT KIND OF TIME?

(answer: not me).

I started getting into watching television when I was pregnant with Alex, and everything – including the ice maker making ice slowly made me vomit, then cry, then vomit again. Dick Wolf lured me in Law and Order: Their Life Is Worse Than Yours So Suck It Up, Cupcake because, well, no matter what time of day it was, there were at least three episodes currently playing.

(when, much later, I got a DVR and tried to record some of the Law and Order: Fuck You And Your First World Problems, it wheezed, groaned, then laughed at me before refusing to record anything Dick Wolf ever created)

(sidebar: I cannot decide if Dick Wolf is the world’s perfect name or the world’s worst name. Either way, he’s a brilliant, brilliant man who should probably pull an Oprah and have his own television channel)

Eventually, I watched most of Law and Order: Being Out of Seasalt Is Not The End Of The World, and realized I needed another distraction, some way to turn my brain off from 11 to a nice solid 4. And, based upon what my friends were saying, I should try this House, MD thing.

I did.

It was there, through medical jargon I so desperately missed, that I found someone like me; someone who wasn’t perfect. Someone who had issues and bad hair days and wasn’t glitz and glam – someone who was broken.

Someone who was broken.

Someone who was broken like me.

House made it okay for those of us just left of center, those of us who are fragmented, those of us who fight to be normal, to be, well, who we are. House made it okay to use biting humor to mask my feelings because, well, some things are easier said while dripping with sarcasm.

He made it okay to be an antihero.

He gave me the strength to write things like this, things I’ve never before said aloud because they seemed too scary, too real, like if I gave them the airplay, my life might implode.

I’ve watched him painfully go through rehab, recovery. I’ve watched as he lost his mind, then found it again. I’ve watched him be brilliant and I’ve watched him as he fails. I’ve found myself crying, nodding because there was finally someone out there who was just like me. Maybe – just maybe – I wasn’t alone.

Tonight, House, MD, will run it’s finale.

Before I watch it, box of tissues in hand, I wanted to say thank you, to you, the brilliant writers of House, MD, for giving me a character who has helped me confront my demons. Who made it okay to be broken. Who made it okay to be weak. Who reminded me to keep taking that one step forward.

Who made it okay to be me.

I tend to get into television shows far later than most. In fact, if there’s a series that’s about to be cancelled or IS, in fact, cancelled, I will probably get into it, fall in love, then be devastatingly crushed when it is over. BECAUSE I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, DAMMIT.

I’m still not over the ending of Prison Break – I cannot think of it without weeping. I may have a little bit of a problem.

(shut UP)

A couple of months ago, probably while looking for tweets about laser kitties, I stumbled across The Twitter babbling on about a show called Mad Men. I sorta want to put it in inappropriate quotation marks just because.

Well, I figured that if the REST of the world was watching it, I’d probably hate it. Even though I’m married simultaneously to Dr. House and Dexter – both popular shows – I always assume I’ll hate popular culture. You can thank my parents for that one, Pranksters.

About a month ago, after reaching the end of Numbers, spending several days in mourning and then realizing I needed a new hobby besides becoming overly invested in television shows (see also: my marriages to Dr. House and Dexter), I finally queued up Mad Men.

I’m hesitant about any show that I alone pick because I spent at least three months watching Nip/Tuck while hating every goddammed minute of it. I screamed at the TV like it was a football game every night until I watched every single episode. And then? I’m STILL furious that I spent so much time watching a show while hating every. single. character.

Alas, I digress.

But I picked Mad Men, and I began to watch it, unsure of how I could handle a show where people aren’t eaten by sharks or otherwise horribly disfigured, depressed or maimed (see also: my love of Cold Case and Law and Order: You Lead A Charmed Life, Motherfucker).

I admit, I was bored by the show. But I kept on because I HAD TO SEE IF SOMEONE WOULD BE EATEN BY A GIANT BEAR.

And then, I sorta, kinda, maybe liked some of the characters. Like a little.

But mostly, I liked the clothes. So what if everyone is repressed, drunk, and chain-smoking? THEY HAVE KICKY CLOTHES THAT I COVET! So what if everyone is having The Sex with everyone else? LOOKIT THE FANCY HAIRS!

I’m making an executive decision. I will go back to being a repressed housewife in the 1960’s IF I can get clothes like that. Because have you BEEN to The Target recently?

One word: ROMPERS. For WOMEN.

(that was more like two words or like fifty-niner)

I’m SO not okay with that. I’m also not okay with the scrunchies, acid-washed jeans, or jeggings.

NOT OKAY, PRANKSTERS.

So bring on the copious amounts of booze, gimmie my pack of smokes and fancy lady lighter, and screw being liberated. IF I CAN WEAR A TWIRLY SKIRT, I’M YOURS.

Please tell me this is not a joke. Please?

Once upon a blue moon, I came across this strange new craze. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, Pranksters. It’s called “scrap” “booking.” Scrapbooking, for those of you who haven’t heard of this strange and mystical art, is the process of putting photos and/or mementos into a specially designed with stickers and decorations to make it look, in clinical terms, “more full of the awesome.”

Back when I first graduated nursing school and was newly home with my kid, I decided to try this “scrapbooking” for myself.

I neglected to remember that I’m as crafty as a chimp with three thumbs and have about as much artistic vision as someone in a pitch-black room. If you think I’m trying to be funny or deliberately mislead you, I send you here, to my unintentional cakewreck.

I’ll wait.

…

…

(hums Jeopardy theme song)

Okay, that’s better. Got that image burned into your retinas? And that was me TRYING to make something cute.

So I invested a small fortune in scrapbook supplies. It appears that whomever is selling old bits of paper, crappy stickers and the kinds of paper hole punches we used as kids is laughing themselves into billions upon trillions of dollars.

I assembled my scrapbooking supplies on the dining room table in my condo and…

…left them there.

I simply couldn’t do it. As much as I tried to picture my crappy 3 x 5’s as anything other than crappy 3 x 5’s that’s all they were to me. I was too much of a perfectionist to do anything with the cute scrapbook stickers so I packed them into a box and have left them there for six years. They’re still in that box, actually.

But this weekend, I was at the local crafty store buying Valentine’s Day stuff for the VD Tree I was making with my kids (they can be as messy as they want with their projects, I should add) and I decided that I should probably check out my idol’s craft supply line.

Yeah, it’s probably a shock to you to know that I kinda idolize Martha Stewart, but there you have it. My dirty secret has been revealed. Martha Stewart + Aunt Becky = well, nothing. I just love her.

Normally, I roll my eyes at the thought of spending thirty bucks on some glitter (even Martha Stewart’s fancy-pants glitter!) but this time, something uniquely awesome caught my attention:

Oh Pranksters, my cold, shriveled heart opened up as the heavens shone down upon this glorious, glorious gold book. I twirled, I whirled, this book in my arms, as I imagined our life together. Why, it was almost as Martha, Herself knew I needed a photo album. And this, this was so much greater than a regular, boring photo album! It was a DISCO photo album! And I love disco! And Martha Stewart! And! And!

And I looked closer.

This was no ORDINARY disco photo album, all right. It was a SCRAPbook disco album. Not a photo album at all.

My heart sunk.

How could something so beautiful be something I just couldn’t use? I nearly wept.

Then I got an idea.

I could be Martha Fucking Stewart, too. Why did SHE need all the glory? So what if she had a million-billion dollar empire and I had some stained socks? I was gonna DO IT.

So I bought it. And now is the time when I turn a scrapbook into a disco photo album.

Take THAT, Martha Stewart. You and your smugly superior voice are THROUGH.

Once, um, I finish figuring out how. Pretty sure the Three Wolf Shirt will help.

Edit: NOT SO FAST, Martha Stewart! You can’t throw me off your tracks THAT easily! Throwing up some pictures of orchids won’t change my plans to dethrone you!

Oh yeah, you know what?

You know what? I AM offended.

DEEPLY OFFENDED.

———-

OH! And I wrote something about House, MD, for BlogHer, yo.

———

And it’s my second-to-last Toy With Me column. SOBS.

——–

Also Also Also: comments are being weird. If you have an issue with comments, specifically, not being able to SEE what glorious things the other Pranksters say, please let me know. Especially what browser you’re using.

After the way Vegas had been built up as a “weird place,” I’d half-way expected to be greeted in the airport by a midget Freddy Mercury impersonator juggling several quail. When all I saw were a handful of cowboys, I was slightly disappointed.

EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, AUNT BECKY, I said to myself as I hobbled to meet my friends. So WHAT if you haven’t seen a two-headed woman? So WHAT if the TSA ignored you even though you tried to dress like a hooker in the vain attempt at trying to get some action before you went to Vegas? SO WHAT?

At least, I cried, you have your KITTY SHITTER picture!

(Sky Mall, you never, ever disappoint. Let’s get married and have really bizarre babies.)

All I Want For Christmas is a Kitty Shitter

Indeed, that is what comforted me as I checked into my hotel only to find perfectly ordinary desk clerks. No one busted into an impassioned Elvis song. No one tried to barter with me for my room. No hookers tried to accompany me TO my room (except, of course, the hookers I was staying with – Mandi and Jana.) It was all very…normal.

Jana even brought me this all the way from Georgia (I’ve often bemoaned that I have never eaten one):

Chick-Fil-A, YO.

I might have wept. A lot.

It was time, then, to meet for lunch in the hotel. Which meant we had a bazillion options; all of them good. Apparently Vegas is an eatin’ town. I was hoping feverishly that this might be the time to see something weird. Tiny go-go dancers? A guy in a sequined bikini?

Nope.

Just the rodeo.

RANDOM.

This IS My First Rodeo.

I was also straight-up exhausted. It turns out that having major abdominal surgery 5 weeks before a Vegas trip is pretty EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER. But I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. Plenty of sleep when I was passed out from reenacting Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (or dead). RIGHT?

Right.

It didn’t work. I have a slew of pictures where I look like I’m about to weep. I look like someone just kicked my dead dog’s grave.

Eye of the Tiger Doesn't Always Work

No one did. Even AngiePangie.

It was time to start drinking. Before I did the lamest thing that anyone ever did in Vegas, well, EVER.

Aunt Becky + Mama Spohr

While the rest of my group went to a male strip club with the express purpose of having testicles placed on their face, I went out by myself. On a Friday night. To a concert.

A Leonard COHEN concert.

Don’t know who Leonard Cohen is? He’s a hippie singer/songwriter/poet who is probably best known for singing Hallelujah. But since my parents are depressing old hippies, I’ve been listening to his music since I was in utero. I’ve been anxious to see him perform for years. Even if it made me suicidal.

When I saw he was in Vegas, I realized that it was now or motherfucking never.

It was now.

*cue guitar solo*

Leonard Cohen

When he sang “Anthem,” it was exactly what I needed to hear.

Even if there were no dancing bears.

This spring, I made a deliberate attempt at making my house look as though a couple of serial killers didn’t live here. The 70’s, you see, seemed to be a time of Great Bushes, and the people whom we had purchased our home from hadn’t bothered to *snort* take care of their Bushes. So we had a Bush Overgrowth. *cackles*

Bush-Gate 2010 was born and I removed all 2,083 of the overgrown bushes in an effort to convince the neighborhood that perhaps my house was not populated by Dexter’s Biggest Fans. (you get your whore hands off my television husband)

And yet now, six months later, I ordered my groceries PeaPod AND attempted to use “dry” shampoo (turns out it’s bullshit) because I am so infirm. My skin is turning a milky-shade of white as I have been stuck on the couch, my muscles atrophying into puddles of goo. No longer can I say, “WHICH WAY TO THE GYM?” then kiss my arms as I flex.

Oh no.

I am a slug. A cockroach. An OLD PERSON. If I fell, I couldn’t get up. I need one of those Life Alert things. (much as one of my Pranksters suggested)

More than that, I’m afraid that my neighbors will think that I’ve been chopped up into tiny bits and shoved down the garbage disposal because they haven’t seen me. Every time the phone rings, I figure it’s the cops investigating a possible homicide at my residence. You know, since Becky Sherrick Harks hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks and even had groceries delivered (I hate ordering PeaPod).

I may not be particularly smart OR handy, but I am the person who is outside puttering around and staring at the car, willing whatever problem its having (JOHN C MAYER) to be fixed by sheer mental power alone. I’ll stand there staring, waiting until the solution jumps out at me, or my neighbor comes and points out out. I’ll let YOU guess which comes first.

So for me not to be outside at all is troublesome.

I’d guess that the neighborhood is going to be covered with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? signs soon. Not because I’m popular, just because if someone goes missing in your neighborhood, do you REALLY want to say, “Oh, I did NOTHING about it?”

No. No you do not.

There will be a search of the neighborhood, I’d bet and maybe even some of those rescue body dogs. Hopefully the dogs will uncover another murder since I am not actually dead. Merely pasty and slug-like.

Eventually, one of the kids will inform the search parties, or the weeping “WHY GOD WHY” ladies that have never known me, yet feel compelled to cry at my “death” that I am not exactly dead, merely bored and stuck on the couch.

The search people will be mad, of course, but really, who do they have to blame but themselves?

I would have told them I wasn’t dead or missing.

Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.

I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.

But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy””

THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.

They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.

And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.

I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”

(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.

Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:

Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)

When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.

His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.

And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke,  his hair asked me to be it’s bride.

The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.

His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.

His magic hair completed me.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.

The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.

Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.

If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.

Or…uh, something.

Dear Doctor House,

I feel so FORMAL calling you that considering we’re MARRIED and all, but that’s okay because I know behind closed doors I can call you “Shnookems” just the way you like it. But for my blog which is all PUBLIC and stuff, I’ll just call you by Dr. House. You can call me Your Majesty.

Now, it was recently brought to my attention on Twitter that I am probably not a very good wife because I am a bad cook.

It all started when I tweeted:

I mean, it’s TRUE, right? Apparently, this means that I’ll NEVER find a husband, because men like the womens who can cook. And since I caught you CHEATING on me with that lady with the brown hair (AGAIN), maybe it’s time to show you that I can cook and that I desperately need a new husband.

While rummaging through the pantry, I noticed the very same thing that had brought me running into the arms of yet another television husband, Dexter, so many months ago. (yes, I can have affairs, YOU cannot).

Those damn beef sticks! I am all for encased meaty goodness, and I occasionally doodle pink puffy hearts around the person who coined the term “beef sticks” but the kind of person who would willingly put tubular meat products into his mouth THAT HAD EXPIRATION DATES INTO THE NEXT SEVERAL YEARS is not someone that I can see longevity with.

Mostly because of a little disease I like to call DYSENTERY, but you know.

Hoping that they’d be expired and I could possibly feed them to him so that he might suffer botulism and leave me with a hefty life insurance policy SPARKLE RAINBOW UNICORNS!!! I hopefully checked the expiration date:

Sadly, no. Looks like I will have to wait until the end of the year to enact my plan of doom CUTE FLUFFY KITTENS!!!

So, left to scour the pantry for things to cook for you, my husband, to show you that I am, in fact, worthy of wifedom, I was left with a) cocktail salt b) a scary looking bag of malak paneer and this:

Oh don’t look so disgusted by it. Ramen was the breakfast, lunch and dinner of MANY champions up to and including MYSELF. Now, of course, I prefer bacon flavored vodka and, uh, bacon flavored vodka, but you know. It’s ancient, though, but made of stuff that will probably outlast even the tiniest microscopic organisms on the planet.

PHEW, good for a couple more…uh, weeks. THANK GOD. I don’t want to kill my TELEVISION husband or anything.

Wow! Will you look at the WORDS on the back? I didn’t even know that there were INSTRUCTIONS on the fucker! I sure as hell never read them.

P.S. Holy fuck is it bad for you. Check out the awesome fat content in HALF the noodles. Rock. Music.

Eh, it said 2 cups, and that looks about like 2 cups, right?

WHATEVER.

I’d like you to note the flowering hibiscus in the back, a plant I only bought because it sounded like a rare STD.

Gratuitous action shot done in a SHOCKINGLY artful way. Now you KNOW I am a true photoblogger! I should win a photoblogging award or something like the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in Artful Photoblogging of Gratuitous Action Shots That Serve No Purpose!

While we wait for this water to boil, I’d like to address a couple of things, namely that you cannot be going around kissing women your own age. I mean, I appreciate true love and all that yada-yada-yada, but don’t you know that your TRUE LOVE lives in a computer writing you LOVE LETTERS on her D-List BLOG?

There’s NOTHING wrong with that, you know. NOTHING. It’s not weird, or creepy, or stalkery, or ANYTHING. In fact, I think I’m going to change my blog name to “Mommy Wants Dr. House, Her True Husband Who REALLY Loves Her.”

I’d like to show you this picture that I think illustrates how I feel about your relationship with that OTHER woman:

SEE? I edited it MYSELF and I think it properly explains how I feel.

There, there, don’t be upset, just take some Vicodin to calm down. True Love is bullshit anyway.

There, don’t you feel BETTER? I do.

I’ll even let you use the LOVE bowl because nothing says “I Love You” like a plastic bowl with a heart on it. (I almost typed “bowel” but that would just be GROSS).

Aw, look at our LOVE NOODLES cooking! JUST LIKE OUR LOVE.

Mmmmmm….BEEFY.

P.S. My manicure is awesome.

Hopefully the Vicodin will have kicked in by now so these noodles won’t taste like a bowl of hot dicks because, let’s face it, Ramen is kind of not delicious.

But have no fear, my love, because I am also proficient at such things as “Spaghetti-O’s” and, um, well, Shamelessly Ordering Takeout.

Shit, maybe Twitter had a point.

Yours Until The End,

Your Wife, The Only One Who REALLY Loves You Enough To Write Creepy Love Blogs To You, Wait That Sounds Bad.

My Dearest Darling Dexter, Dr. House, Anthony Bourdain, et. all,*

Dexter, remember just this past winter, when I had the swine flu and you helped me make cupcakes? That was probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me in years. Except okay, there was that guy who helped me put my groceries in my cart AND THEN HE HELD THE DOOR OPEN FOR ME because motherfucking chivalry isn’t DEAD.

Sure, okay you’re a vigilante serial killer and I like the IDEA of killing people and “serial” is ALMOST like “cereal” and I could write massive tomes about my love of cereal. And maybe I am too cheap to have gotten Showtime to watch your forth season, but know that I tweeted ANGRILY at the stupid fucking New York Times Blogger who insulted your hat.

And you, Dr. House, your Vicodin-popping ways made me fall in love with you every Monday night. PLUS, I use your show as a way to use my medical knowledge to feel smugly superior to upwards of two toddlers and a host of houseplants. I am often way ahead of your team when I diagnose your patient for you. (P.S. It’s never lupus or perineoplastic syndrome)(except when it is)(that, my friends, is medicine for you) and then I feel very lofty and important.

Mr. Bourdain, while you can say words like “pube” on national television and are snarky enough to make my girl bits jiggle with glee, I have a feeling you’d take my steady diet of Uncrustables and Diet Coke personally. But call me, we can can wear matching BFF necklaces because I sort of want to follow you around everywhere you go and see if you really are always that awesome. If you are, I’m going to admit that I’ll be VERY jealous.

THEN, I might have to sic Dexter on you.

But, gentlemen, while we may always have our nights of the week together, I am afraid that I have found someone else that has captured my heart. While trolling Craig’s List for love porn missed connections a new couch**, I found my new boyfriend.

(please click to enlarge. But don’t get any ideas. He’s mine)

Now, see, he KNOWS that I won’t mind if things get a little weird, because with me they’re ALWAYS a little weird. I mean, I’m AUNT BECKY, bitch! And while I normally can only handle 3.5 minutes on a bucking bronco, baby, for you, I’ll hold out for four.

I’ve never cried after sex, baby, unless it was really bad, but I’m planning to collect your tears and weave them into a throw rug. We can lay on it while we watch The Notebook. Then I will run my hands through your heart-shaped chest hair and thank GOD we’re together.

I CAN’T FIGHT THIS FEELING ANY LONGER, so I won’t even try.

But since you posted this in February and according to my faulty mathematics it’s been like a year or three, I am afraid some other vixen may have snatched you up. You’re clearly a catch that no woman could pass up. So I am posting my OWN Craig’s List ad.

Are You The Cheese To My Macaroni? Wait, That Came Out Wrong.

THINGS I LIKE IN A MAN…Not a sex offender and can preferably recite the entire opening monologue from Men In Black II. Enjoys frying bacon naked. Can handle upwards of 6-12 hours talking about my feelings and what they mean to you.

THINGS I LIKE ABOUT MYSELF…I dislike talking about my feelings, bacon and Men In Black II. I enjoy lustily holding hands, abusing prescription narcotics and giving blue balls. If you ever talk about cuddling, I will punch you in the throat….No pic, no reply. Also, shaved balls are a must.

————–

I’m pretty sure the replies will be rolling in.

*at the risk of making me sound like a hugemongous slutbag who puts out for her fake television husbands.

**Fidget sent it to me.