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Not Even One

I was thinking about my recent vacation since I refuse to fully return back to my real life and something really struck me as a statistical impossibility.

There was not one super hot guy that I saw at the resort.

I just wanted something fun to look at, but how can this even be?

Does being coupled up lead to hideousness? There were a few guys that you could tell were once hot, but those days are behind them, hidden underneath what I call their, “happy fat.”

And so I’m not called sexist yet again, there weren’t any really hot girls there. Yeah there were a few sets of some nice gargoyles and decent bodies, but not one smoke show.

It’s not like they were total messes, but even the best looking couples were just almost good looking, like they were probably average at best, but looked better considering the rest of the sample.

At least the island scenery was gorgeous.

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And The Cold Streak Continues


Today commemorates 32 months of no sex. I can actually hear people’s gasps of shock with a combination of “ohs” expressing pity on my pathetic-ness. The Ice Age of my snatch is in full effect and there does not seem to be a thawing of the pussy juice anywhere on the horizon. I’m sure some may blame me for my predicament. Of course, I blame everybody else because how could it really be my fault? I shouldn’t say that I blame everybody else but I do blame certain men, the former sex partners that told me that I was “detached,” “cold-hearted” and “emotionally dead.” I never understood these statements because these same men would go out of their way to make me cry and the last time I checked tears express emotion.

Now, I don’t totally fault these guys that would make me cry. I know they would do this because part of them enjoyed the fact that they could make an “emotional dead” gal like me actually breakdown. It was like they got off on it but I get why they did. There is something extremely empowering and God-like to know that you have that sort of power over another person. The ability to make a person collapse emotionally makes you feel like you are dominant and the winner. Bravo and might I add kudos, way to torture people into tears, especially when it is a tough nut to crack.

So to these men who I fucked that would intentionally make me cry and then turn around and insinuate that I was an icy cunt like Mary Tyler Moore in Ordinary People, I just want to say, you made me this way. You made me indifferent. You made me lack emotions. This is a total case of Dr. Frankenstein and the monster. These dudes are the good doctor and I’m the monster that they created. Since I’m the monster, I’m the one that is being chased out of town by villagers with pitchforks and torches. The reality of the situation is that I shouldn’t be getting the brunt end of the stick, you should. The monster went haywire because the demented doctor caused him to. The doctor should be hated, not me, the monster, I’m an innocent bystander. I am the outcome of my upbringing. Aren’t sociologists always trying to prove that point with ghetto kids, that product of their environment junk, well same goes for me.

So I guess my vagina will remain on ice until the great thaw commences.

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