Wednesday, November 18, 2009
It's Pine-Sol, Baby!!
One annoying little fact about moving from apartment to apartment every year is that you usually need to re-buy a lot of the "little things" that you either don't think about, or throw away when you are packing. [You don't really want to box up things like old trashcans, or your toilet brush, and take it with you when you move.]Anyways, I went on a mop hunt recently to replace my swiffer wet-jet. (As much as I LOVE that thing, I can't really justify the $10 refill sheets and $11 soap cartridges.) After I came home, I pine-sol'ed the hell out of our floors. Our apartment smelled so lemony fresh.... Nothing screams 'Accomplishment' more than the reek of cleaning products. I wish I could douse myself in the smell - or roll in it. Damn... I wish I could pine-sol my life.
You know, I really shouldn’t take long naps in the afternoons. I get really, really effed-up dreams. This is a little compilation of some of the highlights:
In one dream, Chris and I were living in a rental house, and he wanted to test how flame-resistant everything was, so he kept trying to set the curtains and lampshades on fire, and see how long he could leave the oven on. I had to beat out the fires with a wet blanket, because Chris had used up the fire extinguisher playing “snow party” with the guys from Russian House, who had all decided to move in together again after college, and shared a yard with us. After putting out the fire, I informed Chris that we probably wouldn’t get our damage deposit back for this. He got really pissed about that, and threw a tantrum.
In my next dream, I was at the Midway YMCA (an old, dilapidated city Y where I learned how to swim, and had to stay in kiddie prison camp… I mean… daycamp.) Anyway, I actually have a phobia of swimming pools, thanks to the Midway YMCA swimming pool. So I attempted to conquer my fears by going in to the pool area, but when I got to the pool area through the communal shower room, (I saw waaaaay too many unshaved/pierced/I don’t even want to guess vaginas in that shower room as a vulnerable youth.) someone from behind pushed me into the pool area, and locked a door behind me. It was terrifying. The pool had dilapidated to the point where there was only one light left working in the deep end, and since there were no windows in the pool, the rest of the place was pitch black. Like, you couldn’t tell where the water started, or how to get out. I finally managed to get out via the men’s locker room, and found my way back to the lobby to find Chris. Chris, for some reason told me that he wanted to have a party there, and when I told him I was terrified of the place, he told me not to be such a pussy. I got really mad at him for that.
My final dream was me waking up as a seven year old, and being carted off to YMCA day-camp. (Are we seeing a trend here, folks?) We went on a field trip to McDonalds, but while the other kids and I were standing in line, I got tackled, and carried away by a huge black man. I was taken back to the kitchen, where I was put in a barbeque-sauce-filled vat with the other day campers. When I told the other kids to run away, they all said I was crazy, and that they all still wanted to see how chicken McNuggets got made. Let’s not even TRY and interpret that one.
In one dream, Chris and I were living in a rental house, and he wanted to test how flame-resistant everything was, so he kept trying to set the curtains and lampshades on fire, and see how long he could leave the oven on. I had to beat out the fires with a wet blanket, because Chris had used up the fire extinguisher playing “snow party” with the guys from Russian House, who had all decided to move in together again after college, and shared a yard with us. After putting out the fire, I informed Chris that we probably wouldn’t get our damage deposit back for this. He got really pissed about that, and threw a tantrum.
In my next dream, I was at the Midway YMCA (an old, dilapidated city Y where I learned how to swim, and had to stay in kiddie prison camp… I mean… daycamp.) Anyway, I actually have a phobia of swimming pools, thanks to the Midway YMCA swimming pool. So I attempted to conquer my fears by going in to the pool area, but when I got to the pool area through the communal shower room, (I saw waaaaay too many unshaved/pierced/I don’t even want to guess vaginas in that shower room as a vulnerable youth.) someone from behind pushed me into the pool area, and locked a door behind me. It was terrifying. The pool had dilapidated to the point where there was only one light left working in the deep end, and since there were no windows in the pool, the rest of the place was pitch black. Like, you couldn’t tell where the water started, or how to get out. I finally managed to get out via the men’s locker room, and found my way back to the lobby to find Chris. Chris, for some reason told me that he wanted to have a party there, and when I told him I was terrified of the place, he told me not to be such a pussy. I got really mad at him for that.
My final dream was me waking up as a seven year old, and being carted off to YMCA day-camp. (Are we seeing a trend here, folks?) We went on a field trip to McDonalds, but while the other kids and I were standing in line, I got tackled, and carried away by a huge black man. I was taken back to the kitchen, where I was put in a barbeque-sauce-filled vat with the other day campers. When I told the other kids to run away, they all said I was crazy, and that they all still wanted to see how chicken McNuggets got made. Let’s not even TRY and interpret that one.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Misc.
Hm... having sex on the living room couch whilst watching "Cops" and "Judge Alex" on patchy, broadcast t.v. at 1am. You cannot get trashier than that. It's a slippery slope, my friends. :)
Chris: "Chocolate is a tool invented by Satan to enslave women."
Chris: "Bonus is a funny word. I always thought the plural should be 'boni.'"
Fable II: [Note: In this game, there are various dyes you can purchase to change your character's clothing color, hair color, etc. This was one of them - I think I almost shat myself when I read the description. Hint: think "Princess Bride."]
'You have found, "Swarthy Indigo Revenge Dye"! Descr.: "You have found the rare Indigo, of the genus 'Montoya.' You have crushed its flower. Prepare to dye."
My dad was looking over my bank statement on a shared account we have while I was in Washington this summer. Suddenly, I get a panicked e-mail from him about one of the places I used my card while in Washington. Apparently he thought I had gone to see a doctor, and he was all worried that it wasn't covered by my health insurance.
Dad: "Who is this, 'Dr. Juanita Bothell' that you saw when you were in Washington??? You KNOW our health plan doesn't cover out-of-state doctor's visits!"
Me: Um..... Dad....? That was from when I got gas at a gas station on Juanita Drive, in Bothell Washington."
Dad: "Oh."
Me: "Nothing says "Goner" like a piranha owned by a vegan."
Me: "What would my super-power be? Well, you know how some people can throw their voices, and it sounds like someone else is talking? Yeah, I wish I could do that with my farts."
Me: "Chris, pull your pants up. Your fun parts are showing."
Chris: "Yeah, well your NON-fun-parts are showing. Like you FACE."
Chris: "Chocolate is a tool invented by Satan to enslave women."
Chris: "Bonus is a funny word. I always thought the plural should be 'boni.'"
Fable II: [Note: In this game, there are various dyes you can purchase to change your character's clothing color, hair color, etc. This was one of them - I think I almost shat myself when I read the description. Hint: think "Princess Bride."]
'You have found, "Swarthy Indigo Revenge Dye"! Descr.: "You have found the rare Indigo, of the genus 'Montoya.' You have crushed its flower. Prepare to dye."
My dad was looking over my bank statement on a shared account we have while I was in Washington this summer. Suddenly, I get a panicked e-mail from him about one of the places I used my card while in Washington. Apparently he thought I had gone to see a doctor, and he was all worried that it wasn't covered by my health insurance.
Dad: "Who is this, 'Dr. Juanita Bothell' that you saw when you were in Washington??? You KNOW our health plan doesn't cover out-of-state doctor's visits!"
Me: Um..... Dad....? That was from when I got gas at a gas station on Juanita Drive, in Bothell Washington."
Dad: "Oh."
Me: "Nothing says "Goner" like a piranha owned by a vegan."
Me: "What would my super-power be? Well, you know how some people can throw their voices, and it sounds like someone else is talking? Yeah, I wish I could do that with my farts."
Me: "Chris, pull your pants up. Your fun parts are showing."
Chris: "Yeah, well your NON-fun-parts are showing. Like you FACE."
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Be Nice to Your Barista
I am halfway through my second month of living in Minneapolis, making my way in the world as a minimum-wage earning employee, at the mercy of any and all powers that be. While it is a little scary (I was terrified at the prospect, before I moved here) I know now that it is very much possible to make your way in life by dropping in on a completely new place, and that you don’t necessarily have to let geography limit your actions. [Provided, of course, that you are lucky, able-bodied, hard-working, and ballsy as hell.] I am learning a lot out here. It really is surprising how much your motivation and attitude changes when you realize that YOU are the only person who is going to help you make it in life, and when the only person you really have to fall back on in case something goes wrong is yourself. None of the places (two cafes) that I work at have any high-school aged kids working there, nor do they have any seasonal workers. Everyone who works with me is either my age, or older, and all of them are trying to do things like make rent, save up for a house, or pay their way through school. I am very lucky to work with a bunch of motivated people who work like they need the money. (Which we do.) It is a way different dynamic from, say, a college work-study job, or a summer job that you don’t really care about. So why is my post title referring to baristas, you might ask??
I am a barista at both of the jobs I work at, right now. Baristas are generally an awesome bunch of hardworking folks, whose temperaments and job duties fall somewhere between those of a waitress and a bartender. We chat people up, and get to stand behind a counter like a bartender, but we also bend over backwards to be pleasant, and provide excellent customer service, like a waitress. The catch? You get shat upon by spiteful, disgruntled people with way too much of a sense of entitlement like a waitress, and you can get majorly creeped-upon like a bar-tender (this applies more to the females baristas, out there.) So, it’s sort of an odd modge-podge of working styles, and one that has only recently been established, so it is understandable that there is a lot of confusion as to how, exactly, one treats their barista.
1)Baristas make minimum wage. We are generally poor, poor, poor. (Unless we live with our parents, or something, and don’t really need the money.) Baristas
make tips, and we need them. After taxes and whatnot, I only make $375
every two weeks, from working over 70 hours. Since that alone barely covers
rent and utilities, where do I get my money for food, personal care products, and gas for my car? You guessed it – tips. Tips make up a large percentage of the take-home pay for anyone working in the service industry. Be that a pizza
delivery guy, a waitress, or a hair-stylist. Some people are better at tipping than others – but what I have noticed, is that the absolute best tippers are those
fellow, minimum-wage earning service employees. It’s like an unspoken rule. I always leave a ten-dollar tip for a hair-stylist, or a masseuse, and I generally tip 20 – 25% at a restaurant, unless the service was extremely sub-par. Now, since I don’t make much money, it’s not like I have cash to throw around – but I KNOW that tipping well really makes a big difference in people’s lives. I know that I appreciate it when someone leaves me a $2 tip for a $3 drink, so I figure I may as well ‘pay it forward,’ and help a brotha’ (or sistah’) out.
2)Coffee shop etiquette: Rule number one: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE! It is very disrespectful to the person attempting to serve you, and to everybody else in your general vicinity, who has to hear about your latest doctor’s appointment, or your opinion about your sister-in-law’s-cousin’s-daughter’s divorce. I (and everybody else) has had to stand for a minute or more behind a cash register, with a sweet smile plastered on our faces, waiting for whoever it is (usually a middle-aged woman) to stop blabbing into her cell phone long enough to bark “Soy Mocha!” at you – no ‘please,’ no ‘thank you,’ and generally, no tip. They usually get annoyed at you if you attempt to ask them while making their drink things like, “Would you like whipped cream on top?” So you have to play the part of super- psychic mind-reader, and hope that you can discern exactly what they want, because their conversations are (obviously) more important than you attempting to get their order right. My personal thought is this: If you enter an establishment with the intention of making a business transaction, be it buying post-it notes, or ordering a pizza, you owe it to the person involved in helping you accomplish these goals to actually be civil, pay attention to them, and treat them like a human being.
3)Your barista is not really flirting with you. When your barista flashes you a wide, sweet smile, and asks you if you would “Like room on top for cream?” they are not really trying to get into your pants. This is usually because people who work in coffee shops are (mostly) very sweet, nice, affable people, who try their utmost to give excellent customer service. While your barista may express genuine concern for you if you are having a bad day, they are not going to want to have you unload all of your negative feelings and frustrations on them while they are trying to help the other five people in line. This isn’t because we’re mean – it is because we are doing a job, and we need to serve everybody that comes in the store. In general, I think that a minute and a half is a good length for a conversation with your barista. Two minutes is the absolute limit. It is not okay to blatantly hit on your barista, or to make suggestive comments towards them. (Although it is sometimes tolerable if you tip well enough.) I have a lot of stories of super-creepers, and the raunchy, disturbing things that they have said to me (and others) that I think I will save for another blog post. Some of them are pretty funny, if you get over the initial freak-out factor. I think that a lot of this stuff happens because a coffee shop is sort of a weird, ‘in-between’ place. It has all of the comforts of home, you can relax, and stay as long as you want, and you can chat up the employees, as well as other customers. It is not really a public space, but it is not really a private space either. It is a place where you are supposed to feel comfortable, and have a sense of ownership over, but you are sharing that space with hundreds of other strangers every day. It’s sort of like, it isn’t your living room, but it isn’t McDonalds, either. The people who work there may know you well, but they are neither close, personal friends, nor are they your shrink.
And with that, I think I’m done talking about coffee shops for a while. I just want to offer a sincere “Hollah!” to all of my fellow minimum-wage earners out there. To all those who make sandwiches, deliver pizzas, and have to deal with other people’s shit (I think that’s everybody on earth) I want you to know that I love you, I’m pulling for you, and that we can totally rock this bitch-of-a-thing called ‘life,’ and go off to accomplish great things. Keep living the dream! Peace!!
I am a barista at both of the jobs I work at, right now. Baristas are generally an awesome bunch of hardworking folks, whose temperaments and job duties fall somewhere between those of a waitress and a bartender. We chat people up, and get to stand behind a counter like a bartender, but we also bend over backwards to be pleasant, and provide excellent customer service, like a waitress. The catch? You get shat upon by spiteful, disgruntled people with way too much of a sense of entitlement like a waitress, and you can get majorly creeped-upon like a bar-tender (this applies more to the females baristas, out there.) So, it’s sort of an odd modge-podge of working styles, and one that has only recently been established, so it is understandable that there is a lot of confusion as to how, exactly, one treats their barista.
1)Baristas make minimum wage. We are generally poor, poor, poor. (Unless we live with our parents, or something, and don’t really need the money.) Baristas
make tips, and we need them. After taxes and whatnot, I only make $375
every two weeks, from working over 70 hours. Since that alone barely covers
rent and utilities, where do I get my money for food, personal care products, and gas for my car? You guessed it – tips. Tips make up a large percentage of the take-home pay for anyone working in the service industry. Be that a pizza
delivery guy, a waitress, or a hair-stylist. Some people are better at tipping than others – but what I have noticed, is that the absolute best tippers are those
fellow, minimum-wage earning service employees. It’s like an unspoken rule. I always leave a ten-dollar tip for a hair-stylist, or a masseuse, and I generally tip 20 – 25% at a restaurant, unless the service was extremely sub-par. Now, since I don’t make much money, it’s not like I have cash to throw around – but I KNOW that tipping well really makes a big difference in people’s lives. I know that I appreciate it when someone leaves me a $2 tip for a $3 drink, so I figure I may as well ‘pay it forward,’ and help a brotha’ (or sistah’) out.
2)Coffee shop etiquette: Rule number one: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE! It is very disrespectful to the person attempting to serve you, and to everybody else in your general vicinity, who has to hear about your latest doctor’s appointment, or your opinion about your sister-in-law’s-cousin’s-daughter’s divorce. I (and everybody else) has had to stand for a minute or more behind a cash register, with a sweet smile plastered on our faces, waiting for whoever it is (usually a middle-aged woman) to stop blabbing into her cell phone long enough to bark “Soy Mocha!” at you – no ‘please,’ no ‘thank you,’ and generally, no tip. They usually get annoyed at you if you attempt to ask them while making their drink things like, “Would you like whipped cream on top?” So you have to play the part of super- psychic mind-reader, and hope that you can discern exactly what they want, because their conversations are (obviously) more important than you attempting to get their order right. My personal thought is this: If you enter an establishment with the intention of making a business transaction, be it buying post-it notes, or ordering a pizza, you owe it to the person involved in helping you accomplish these goals to actually be civil, pay attention to them, and treat them like a human being.
3)Your barista is not really flirting with you. When your barista flashes you a wide, sweet smile, and asks you if you would “Like room on top for cream?” they are not really trying to get into your pants. This is usually because people who work in coffee shops are (mostly) very sweet, nice, affable people, who try their utmost to give excellent customer service. While your barista may express genuine concern for you if you are having a bad day, they are not going to want to have you unload all of your negative feelings and frustrations on them while they are trying to help the other five people in line. This isn’t because we’re mean – it is because we are doing a job, and we need to serve everybody that comes in the store. In general, I think that a minute and a half is a good length for a conversation with your barista. Two minutes is the absolute limit. It is not okay to blatantly hit on your barista, or to make suggestive comments towards them. (Although it is sometimes tolerable if you tip well enough.) I have a lot of stories of super-creepers, and the raunchy, disturbing things that they have said to me (and others) that I think I will save for another blog post. Some of them are pretty funny, if you get over the initial freak-out factor. I think that a lot of this stuff happens because a coffee shop is sort of a weird, ‘in-between’ place. It has all of the comforts of home, you can relax, and stay as long as you want, and you can chat up the employees, as well as other customers. It is not really a public space, but it is not really a private space either. It is a place where you are supposed to feel comfortable, and have a sense of ownership over, but you are sharing that space with hundreds of other strangers every day. It’s sort of like, it isn’t your living room, but it isn’t McDonalds, either. The people who work there may know you well, but they are neither close, personal friends, nor are they your shrink.
And with that, I think I’m done talking about coffee shops for a while. I just want to offer a sincere “Hollah!” to all of my fellow minimum-wage earners out there. To all those who make sandwiches, deliver pizzas, and have to deal with other people’s shit (I think that’s everybody on earth) I want you to know that I love you, I’m pulling for you, and that we can totally rock this bitch-of-a-thing called ‘life,’ and go off to accomplish great things. Keep living the dream! Peace!!
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Final Chapter of the Evil Plot to Yuppify Uptown
Hey Folks!
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
The Nuva Ring - Women's Liberation, or Sadistic Instrument of Evil???
I HATE THE NUVA RING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
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