I never claimed it was a GOOD blog post.

Wait a minute . . .

. . . what’s this?

Is it . . . could it . . . be?

A BLOG?

From LRC?

Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.

Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:

Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”

Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.

Why, you may ask?

Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.

And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!

And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.

Obviously.

With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather

1. take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
2. eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.

Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.

Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.

So yeah.

I guess option number one is out.

While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.

Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.

I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.

Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.

SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE

So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.

TMI Thursday: The time my boyfriend got intimate with my fecal matter

Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!

This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.

On with it . . .

—

Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.

That was a bad pun. I apologize.

Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.

A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.

What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .

Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.

As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.

Into the sink.

Bounced out of the sink.

Into the now-flushing toilet.

Down the drain.

Oopsie.

Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”

I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.

So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:

Check out that detail!

I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.

Oh yeah.

Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.

It. Sure. Fucking. Was.

Oopsie again.

So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.

So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.

And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.

That’s love right there.

Romance is not dead

Things with The Lawyer are going swimmingly, thank you all for your concern. There’s not really much else I can say on the whole situation right now. You’ll forgive me, yes?

For just over two months now, I’ve been enjoying the best sex of my life. No lie! We do it probably 7 or 8 times per week. And it is glorious.

Sometimes, when you’re as horny as we both are, however, the art of seduction gets lost.

“Let’s make love” (ok, I never say this, and neither does he, but let’s just use this as an example of something “romantic” people say to let their SO’s know they want to touch dirty parts together repeatedly) becomes “you wanna do the sex now?”

Post-sex phrases like “that was fantastic” and “was it good for you?” turn to “good fuckin’, baby” with an ass slap.

I realized that maybe we needed to slow down a bit. Be a little more . . . romantic.

So when we were lounging at his pool yesterday, I said to my Lawyerman while giving the flirty eyes, “Come here.”

He came over to where I was sitting on the edge of the pool and put his hands on the small of my back. I kissed him softly and then turned his ear toward my lips.

“Baby, tonight, when we’re fucking . . .” I whispered softly.

“Mmmhm?”

“I’m gonna fart so hard it makes your balls vibrate.”

Dirty texts, body farms, and incest

Oh, hello there, blog!

I almost forgot you were here!

I was telling Andy the other day that I feel like I should be blogging more regularly. That I shouldn’t start being boring just because I have a boyfriend. And while I don’t want to blog only to have something up here and be able to say, “Well, I blogged. Now I can get back to reading TFLN my low-paying job,” if I stopped blogging now, I’d feel that it was a result of being boyfriended.

And I can’t be havin’ that.

I’m an independent woman, yo.

This is MY SHIT.

Anyway.

So after all that whining about Being My Own Person and Not Allowing My Relationship To Define My Blog, I’m going to talk to you about my boyfriend.

Swell.

So, this past week was the longest we’ve been away from each other. He had some continuing lawyer education crap in Buttfucky starting Tuesday, and I had a wedding to attend on Saturday. He was coming home Friday, and I was leaving that same day, before he got back home. So it was Sunday before we could see each other again.

In a new relationship? Where it’s all sex, all the time?

Six days is a Long.

Fucking.

Time.

So what did we do to pass the time?

We sent naked photos of ourselves to each other!

Awesome!

I admit, this was my first foray into amateur porno photography. No man before The Lawyer has ever received a dirty picture from me, except that one time I sent Murray a picture text of my boobs. So I felt a bit cheesy doing it, but we did have a lot of fun. It’s a good thing we’re both on Verizon, because holy hell the amount of texts we sent each other last week. Lawd have mercy.

I had some real gems from The Lawyer: Drunk In Buttfucky Edition. I would have saved them, but there wasn’t enough room on my phone. They were somewhere along the lines of “I cn haslryd stadn up rghhtnow” and “jesus peprmnt telphone ham sandwch.” These were still going strong into the weekend when I was in South Carolina at my cousin’s wedding.

So I spent about 40% of the reception going into the bathroom to meet his demands of “show me your boobs/ass/vagina.”

Class. I has it.

Some other lovely bits of information I picked up at the wedding?

One of my cousins works on the body farm at [Southern University], where he has the distinct pleasure of boiling the skin and meat off dead human bodies, then piecing back together their skeletons. Hello, dream job! JEALOUS!

And here’s the really sad/fucked up info.

The mother of the bride? AKA my dad’s sister? Dating. Her. Stepson.

Let me repeat that. Step brother of the bride? Is dating the bride’s mother.

If you STILL haven’t wrapped your head around that one—this means that my aunt is dating her ex-husband’s SON.

They even have the same FIRST NAME.

FUCKING. KILL. ME.

Someone pissed in my gene pool.

Then vomited and shat in it.

I hate the fact that I’m even admitting this. It makes my family sound so trashy. But hey. The things we admit for blog fodder.

And if THAT weren’t exciting ENOUGH . . . when I went to The Lawyer’s house upon my arrival back home, we immediately got down to business and were promptly walked in on by his mom, who is visiting town to watch his swearing-in.

FAIL.

TMI Thursday: It rubs the lotion on its skin

Does everybody know what time it is?

TOOL TIME!

No, damn it. Get out of my blog, Tim Allen. And put down the coke straw.

It’s . . . TMI Thursday!

Okay, let’s get right down to business.

So once I was dating this guy. At this time, we’d been dating for about a month and had yet to do the nasty. I really liked him and I hoped that inviting him to a party and getting him drunk enough would result in a little after-party sexytime.

I’m such a man sometimes.

Except when I cry at my desk. Like this morning.

But I digress.

ANYWAY. So we went to this party and proceeded to get sloppy, nasty drunk. After becoming sufficiently wasted, we stole some cookies from the snack table (this was a Grown Up Party with actual food in place of a drug buffet a la college parties).

What, your college parties didn’t have drug buffets?

Loser.

So my man friend and I left the party with our stolen cookies, went back to his house, and began sucking face.

It’s finally going to happen! I thought.

Oh yes. It did happen. I’d gotten him drunk enough to slip me the tubesteak.

However . . . apparently, it had been a while since he’d had sex, considering the fact that he lasted all of about, oh, three minutes.

Yeah. Lame.

So we started doing Other Stuff.

The details are fuzzy at this point considering we were both tanked, but I do remember this. At one point, he shot his swimmers all over my back.

And instead of going to get a towel? Like a NORMAL person would do?

He proceded to rub his semen into my back. Like lotion.

Vigorously.

My mouth was agape in horror. But I was too drunk (and too enamored with this dude) to say anything. I just waited until he was finished and we got back down to business.

Is this, like normal? Do other people do this? Because it sure as shit weirded me the fuck out.

So I guess I just had a nice cum lotion layer on my back all night. Awesome.

Maybe he was trying to give me a sensual semen massage?

(Doubtful.)

And what was even weirder? The next morning, when he requested morning head (which I graciously gave, because, again, enamored with the kid), he pulled my head out from under the covers when he was about to come . . .

and then he came all over himself . . .

and never cleaned it up. He put his clothes on and went about his day.

Maybe he had some kind of weird evaporating semen?

I don’t know. But I never quite figured it out.

My guess is, he was just gross as fuck.

I sure know how to pick winners!

Lettin’ it all hang out

I honestly believe that sunshine and warm weather have a direct effect on my psyche and general state of happiness.

Case in point.

This weekend, I went poolside for the first time since the weather forecast turned happy. I threw my body issues to the wind and braved the public with the teeniest bikini I have ever owned. I’ve had it for at least five years, but as long as it never gets too sun-bleached or it never allows my love handles to spill over the top like too-hot rice water in a tightly lidded pot, I am never throwing it out.

It has served me well.

Navy blue and polka-dotted with lighter blue circles, I purchased it from Old Navy for $25. I saw it in an Elle magazine and knew instantly that it had to be mine.

Its tiny-ness has the power to give me the gonads to do things I normally would never be able to get it up for. Yesterday, at the communal pool at an apartment building my cousin’s wife’s family owns, a neighbor brought his 4 foot long king snake out for some sunnin’. And I took that opportunity to grab that snake, put it around my neck, and pose for multiple photo-ops.

This may sound like peanuts to you, but for a generally non-adventurous person, this was a rush. It felt good to put that snake around my neck and let him make me his bitch. And I was surprisingly so non-fazed, the snake took to me rather easily. I wasn’t scared, so he wasn’t scared.

That action inspired me to do something today that I’d never done before.

My parents are at the beach for their anniversary, and I am house/dog-sitting for them while they’re away. They have a fabulous yard which is perfect for sunning, and a misting fan that makes the 90-degree heat somewhat bearable. Upon glancing down at my chest, I noticed how lobster-red my shoulders were, and how alabaster my ta-tas were.

“Well, that’s not good,” I thought.

So I untied the top of my itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, BLUE polka-dot bikini . . .

and decided that just wasn’t going to be enough . . .

so I just took . . . it off.

I sunbathed topless today.

And it was glorious.

I felt very self-conscious at first, despite the fact that my parents’ house is situated on 25+ acres of wooded land and there would be no chance of anyone ever catching me in my naughty act. But despite having a pretty decent body, I’m always self-conscious of the way I look naked. I’m the girl that sprints to the bathroom after sex, hoping I ran fast enough that my body was a blur to the man I’d just gotten busy with.

So, naturally, when the clouds covered the sun at times, I’d shake the proverbial fist at the sun. “Come back! Otherwise, why am I sitting here with my tits out?”

Then, it all started to become more natural to me. A low-flying small aircraft flew overhead, and I thought to myself, “I wonder if he can see me?”

Even if the pilot could have seen me (and for purposes of this post and my self-esteem, I am going to assume the pilot had a penis), would he be able to tell what was going on? Would my nips look like those annoying black flecks in otherwise ivory sand?

Then I went to full-on exhbitionism, arching my back to achieve optimum sun exposure. A male cardinal (I know he was male because he was bright red. This is one of those random bits of information I store in my head and try to impress people with from time to time–the females are a more camouflaged brown color so they can hide from predators and protect their young. Damn male cardinals, stealing the spotlight) flew to a nearby tree, where he sat for a couple minutes.

Nearby, a chameleon was doing push-ups, a mating ritual.

Perverts. 

This has been sort of a mini-breakthrough for me. I’m trying new things. I’m becoming more comfortable with myself. I’m lettin’ it all hang out!

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’ve only gotten laid once in oh-nine.

Either way, my boobs look good.

This is The Final Countdown . . . until I blow grey matter all over the wall

So, you want to hear about my date?

Fine.

If you must.

It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.

He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.

The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.

Because he was kissing my ass.

I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.

Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.

Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.

He put in a burned CD.

And Nickelback permeated the speakers.

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.

Then, he asked the dreaded question.

“So, do you like Nickelback?”

Blink.

Blink.

“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”

I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a  half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.

NICKELBACK.

Let me repeat that.

NICKELBACK.

His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.

Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?

I have to question your intelligence.

Nee, your sanity.

I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.

If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.

So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.

Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.

(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)

Don’t worry, it gets worse.

After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.

The Final Countdown.

Hold me.

I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.

When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.

No such luck.

He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.

He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.

And I didn’t like his shoes.

I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.

And whenever I start to miss NY?

I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.

That makes me feel a little better.

This girl can’t catch a break

Friday evening when I got home from work, I did a little tidying up and sat down at my computer to catch up on all the blogs I didn’t get a chance to read while I was, you know, working (sit in front of a computer for eight hours, come straight home and sit in front of a computer some more. My life is awesome).

As I was clicking away, all of a sudden I heard a noise. Kinda like “eee! eee! eee! eee!”

I knew immediately what it was.

I didn’t want to face the creepy little thing in fear of it flying at my head (I’m not afraid of being hurt by a bat, I’m just terrified of it touching me. NASTY), but I knew I had to remedy the situation sooner rather than later.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, where the sound was coming from, trying not to make any sudden movements. It was sitting on the rug, next to my dog.

GROSS. Those things are so vile.

So I went back into my computer room and did the first thing I always do when faced with an icky rodent situation.

I called my Dad. Duh.

“Dad, uh, there’s a bat in my kitchen. What do I do?”
“Open the door and get a broom to swat it out.”
“Ew, I don’t wanna do that. What if it flies at my head? OH SHIT. AHHHHH! AHH! AHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

It was at that VERY MOMENT that the bat decided to fly into my computer room, TOWARD MY HEAD, screaming “EEE! EEE! EEE!”  in circles the whole mother effing time.

So I did what any sane person would do. I ran, phone in hand, still screaming at the top of my lungs while my poor Dad listened to my embarrassing ordeal. Where did I run to? Anywhere that bat was NOT flying toward.

When I thought I was safe, I put the phone back to my ear, apologized profusely for all the screaming, and said “I’ll call you back, Dad.”

(He told me later that he’d let my mom listen in on my embarrassing ordeal.)

So I did what he said. I opened the door and grabbed a broom. Then I went to look for the little beast.

I found it in my living room, which is on the other side of the house, so I had to swat it across the room, through my kitchen, and once we got to the laundry room (ALMOST THERE!), he decided to crawl the rest of the way behind my cats’ litter box.

It took some maneuvering, but I coaxed him out from behind the litter box, made sure his disgusting little head was facing toward the door, and pushed him into flight.

DIRECTLY OUT THE DOOR.

Oh, but that would be too easy, right?

As soon as he was crossing the threshold, my kitty Pepper SWATTED HIM BACK DOWN, and he flew past me, back into the laundry room.

Fuck.

Thanks a lot, Pepper.

So I repeated what I’d done before, making sure Pepper was out of the way in the process (not an easy task, as she was WAY TOO INTERESTED in this bat situation and wanted to have him as her plaything).

SUCCESS. He flew out the door.

Directly into my dog’s mouth.

I closed the door. I wasn’t interested in what transpired after that. I just wanted to make sure the damned thing didn’t get back inside.

NASTY NASTY NASTY.

I heart vlogging

Every time I vlog I feel like it’s gratuitous (oh, but vlogging, why can’t I quit you?), and this is two minutes of your life that you will never get back, but I got inspired when Rachel at I’m a Mom in Real Life vlogged about the winner of her contest.

Guess who won, by the way?

ME!

And all I had to do was vote for her new comic blog, which, incidentally, you should be reading. So go there now and add it to your reader.

See what a good contest winner I am? Gettin’ all linky and shit? Future contest holders, take note.

I’m ecstatic about all the prizes, but I am especially excited about this little gem. I <3 it!

So here’s my vlog. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. It could go either way.

And yes, I know I have a ridiculous southern accent. Do it, y’all! REDNECK POWER!

Ahem.

Also, in the spot where I focus on my cat Oliver, you can see my foot, and I am wearing the shoes NY so lovingly calls “pilgrim shoes,” because they look like, well, pilgrim shoes.

I gotta P

The lovely, hilarious, and beautiful brookem over at Skrinkering Hearts did one of those posts where you are assigned a letter of the alphabet and then you have to blog about ten things you love starting with that letter. I wanted to participate, so brookem assigned me with the letter P. If you want to participate, leave me a note in the comments and I’ll assign a letter to you. Fun fun!

10 Things That Make LRC’s Life That Much More Enjoyable, Beginning With The Letter P

1. Purring. Those of you who are cat lovers can attest to this—there is nothing more soothing than the sound of a cat purring in your ear. Especially when kitty has that look of contentment on her face, eyes closed and an expression that you’d swear was a smile, if only cats could smile (pictured below). My kitty, Pepper (yep, that’s her in the picture!) is the BEST at purring and snuggling. She has it down to a fine art. I’m one who has to have a low, constant buzzing noise to go to sleep (box fan, let’s elope) and Pepper’s purring soothes me to sleep almost immediately.
2. Photography. This has become a hobby of mine over the past year, since I got my current job and hence inherited the task of handling a big, fancy DSLR camera. The one I use is pictured below. I want to purchase one of my own someday (D90, I’m looking at you), but right now it’s just not in the budget. Thanks, Murray, for leaving me with a mortgage I can’t afford. You’re super! I recently went to a photography class so I could figure out how the eff to use the damn thing. I’m still pretty green at this, but one day I hope to improve and who knows, maybe I can make a side job out of it, photographing events and such. Right now, though? It’s just a hobby.
3. Pearls. They’re just so classy and timeless to me. I love them in any size or color. I’ve begun my own collection; I just can’t stop. My attire can seem a bit stuffy sometimes, what with the cardigans and argyle that can be found in abundance in my wardrobe, but I just love the classic look. Pearls just seem to complement my clothes nicely. Boys: no pearl necklace jokes here, mmkay?
4. Pretzels. Almost every time I go to the mall I get one of those gigantic, greasy, salt-covered pretzels from Auntie Anne’s and devour it in one sitting with a little tub of cream cheese. I don’t care how many calories these things pack. They’re just too damned good for it to matter. And none of that sugary shit. I want my pretzel with big ol’ fat grains of salt all over it. Bring it.
5. Photoshop. I use this on a daily basis, for work and personal use alike. I’m no expert, but I’ve done my fair share of photo editing and illustration in my day. Those of you who use it know exactly why I’m singing its praises. Shit is AWESOME. You can take a totally crappy picture and fix it up. I always make sure to cover up blemishes and shine on people’s faces in photos. I never go too overboard with it (you don’t want the person to look freakish or not like themselves), but it’s great to be able to fix those little imperfections so you have a nice looking photograph. Also, the Pioneer Woman has some SUH-WEET Photoshop actions you can download. “Boost” is a gift from heaven.
6. Puppies. If you don’t like puppies, you have no soul and should probably leave my blog now. I don’t think I want to know you.(from CuteOverload.com)
7. Pulp Fiction. This is one of my favorite movies of all time. It’s so quotable. Most memorable scenes include: Vincent (John Travolta) accidentally shooting that guy’s head off, the infamous dance scene (I can’t check to see if that is a good video or not since I’m at work and YouTube is blocked, so I’m just gonna trust Google), the scene where Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) has the wallet that says “Bad Mother Fucker” on it, the Christopher Walken watch-stuck-up-my ass scene, Jules’ monologue about “laying vengeance upon thee”, the Mia Wallace drug overdose scene . . . I mean, I could go on and on. But I won’t. But I do watch Pulp Fiction pretty much every time it comes on television.
8. Playlists. I love making playlists for EVERYTHING. When I’m working out, when I’m cooking, when I feel like singing, when I feel like DANCING, when I feel like hating men, when I’m feeling sullen, when I feel like chicken tonight (again, at work—can’t check the link) . . . I just love having music to fit my mood. Life’s better with music. Try to disagree with me. (Yes, I actually do have a playlist called “I Feel Like Chicken Tonight.”)
9. Porch Sittin’. In my area of the South, it’s sunny and warm about 632 days of the year (I might be making that figure up) and I love sittin’ (not sitting) on the porch and knocking back a few twelve ouncers while the sun sets and that gentle breeze brushes my skin. Relaxation at its finest.
10. Peen. Duh. I’ve you’ve been reading this blog for more than five minutes you know what a nymphomaniac I am. I can’t get enough of the sausage. You know what I’m talking about—that sweet man meat.

All images were stolen from various sources, so sorry if I stole one of yours. Remember, if you want to participate, tell me in the comments and I’ll assign you a letter.