Monday, February 16, 2009


Under my shirt, have to amass
Sling the tainted words
Wolf in the Breast - The Cocteau Twins


That word is such a creepy turn off to someone like me. Me, the female that has no intention of reproducing (at least not until my Master Satan returns from the underworld with his holy plan - oh wait, I am Satan*).

I realize that long ago when anatomical monikers were being decided upon, women were mostly relegated to “baby factory” status only, but in times where women are not just vessels for screaming, bald brats, it would seem appropriate to “she” define some things.

I’d like to start with “nipples”. Men have them too, but they’re apparently for decoration only (Linen’s and Things doesn’t carry much of a selection) or for shaving off when LSD points you in the wrong direction. At my request, my mom felt up her male Chihuahua “T.T.” in search of nipples, but alas he is without. Go figure. My cat Scoob dentally objected to my groping him, but according to a few web sites, all cats have nipples regardless of machismo.

For the females that choose not to or can’t have children, nipples are still functional, though only in the sexual sense. I don’t know if men are aware of this, but sometimes stimulating this area alone can bring your girlness to orgasm. So even if you’re not a “breast man”, one should still delicately massage the berries if one is at all considerate (trust me, some aren’t).

I’m not really into the cutesy names for body parts; “nips”, “ninnies”, “nippers”, “headlights”, and such aren’t always fitting or suitable for some personality types. I know there are a bazillion slang words to describe breasts and their elements, but none really appeal to me, especially when engaging in the act of sexual expression. I totally can’t get it up if thinking about babies, and hearing my peaks called a food source can completely dry a She up. Barring cannibal attacks, I’ve never envisioned mine ending up on anyone’s menu, so a name unassociated with infantile cuisine would be preferable.

“Areola” is no better than “Nipple” either, as it sounds too close to “Aioli” (again food) or the font "Arial", which I always use in this blog.

I think in sexual situations, this area should now be called a “Vey” (rhymes with “lay”) or “Veys”. It’s short, to the point (heh), and when you need to direct someone’s attention there, you can just say “Oy Vey”.

*I have references.

Currently listening:
Twin Peaks (Season One TV Soundtrack)
Release date: 1990-08-31

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Best Text This Week

"Emily, Kristine, Adri, and the lesbians await your arrival" - Received from my friend Maxwell.

Still doing reposts. This one I pulled out in honor of Annie Rhiannon's post
The Sad Truth of it All:

Needle and the Damage Done 3/19/08

Nope, it’s not about the infamous Neil Young song.

I had some blood taken a couple of weeks ago and I went in for the results this afternoon.

I hate needles, I hate blood, and I especially HATE pain of any kind. I know some people get off on pain, but I definitely don’t ride that bus. Tickle? Yes. Slap? Hell no! I’ll take some tenderness with a drop of gentility, thank you very much.

OK, the phlebotomist who had previously removed my life flow was awesome. Mosquitoes are more invasive, so kudos to her! Unfortunately, the results revealed several vitamin deficiencies and I had to get an IV of what is called a "Meyer’s Cocktail". Cocktail? Yes. IV? Oooooh nooooo.

I was a little more than perplexed, as the nurse who was going to stick me had an undecipherable, deep southern accent and she could not stop hacking. One false cough during her quest for a vein could land me the lead story on tonight’s local news - "Distraught IV victim beheads pregnant nurse with her IPOD but SAVED THE BABY! See how she did it at 11!"

I would have a better chance at discovering true love at a KKK rally than this woman did at finding a vein. I didn’t cry but my top lip disappeared as I started to tell her, through my oh so clenched teeth, that I needed the smallest needle they have. SIZE DOES MATTER in this case. She assured me this was the smallest and proceeded to stab at me with the finesse of a three year old making mud pies.

"Weelllll," she drawled, "lets try the hand." OMFG I’m trapped in "Hellraiser Part DUH: The Hick’s Revenge"!!! YOUCH!!! It was in - we thought.

I sat back and got lost in Damian Kulash’s voice until something felt weird.

"Hey, should my hand be all cold and sting-y and making me feel the need to chop it off?" I yelled.

A vehement wall of "No’s" shot back as some other nurses rushed over to stop the beginning of what looked like a very unhappy hand about to give birth. The needle wasn’t in right and was shooting fluids under my skin and they had nowhere to go so they just sat around stinging and swelling until further notice.

New nurse said she couldn’t understand why OLD nurse didn’t use the smaller needle. I then requested a pen so I could begin my suicide note.

She started over on the other arm, THIS time with a children’s needle (insert every expletive known here).

It was in and she ordered me not to move, as if THAT’S what happened. I didn’t move, as hard as that is when one is listening to "Oxford Comma", instead, I mentally plotted to relocate to Austria. It just seemed like the thing to do.

The physical pain was over, finally, and I would take it any day over the mental pain you get with heartache and loss. Luckily, I’m not dealing with anything like that right now and I’ll try to remember that next week when I have to go back for the next one. UGH!

Currently listening : Oh No By OK Go Release date: 30 August, 2005