Monday, August 17, 2009

I haven't wanted to write in this for a few days, due to various circumstances that need not be discussed in a public forum. But a few things are backing up, just some little bits and pieces that probably don't make up a full post anyway, so let's let them out:

-Tomorrow, I get to go see Mr. L and have a head-on conversation about his advice that I sleep with another man-- which I didn't take. Which I'm not going to take. I'm going to ask him exactly what the fuck he was thinking, I'm going to write it down, if I can remember, that early in the morning, to take a pen and notepad. I'm going to explain to him all the various consequences of his just giving the advice, let alone what would have happened if I had taken it. And I'm going to find out, once and for all, what the old hippy thinks of marriage, and decide whether or not he's the appropriate man to be seeing in an attempt to rescue mine.

If he doesn't piss me off too damn much, and he might, then I'll schedule an appointment for Zack and I to attend together. Won't this be fun?

-My ideal form of celebrity: to be one of these hot, B-listy celebrities that gets to be on the cover of playboy without having to actually show anything on the inside. Last month, Olivia Munn was rocking the cover, but the one picture of her on the inside featured her in panties that she was sort of vaguely pulling down (but she hadn't revealed anything), with her nipples safely under her hair. This month, Heidi Montag from the hills looks so fucking hot on the cover, it makes me want to go out and shoot that douche Spencer (with the creepy, flesh-colored beard, if you follow the soup) more than I usually do, but her photoshoot on the inside is completely tame, there's only one photo showing crack, every other major hotspot is totally covered. These are the the kind of photoshoots you expect in Maxim, not playboy.

If I got the choice of which magazine to be in, and I mean, I never will, but if I did, I'd pick playboy over Maxim, but just barely. The bunny is what puts it over the top. Gotta love an iconic rodent.

-And now for a few public letters:

Dear Rachel Maddow:

I know you're supposedly very happy with your life partner, but if that ever changes, I'd like to go ahead and put my name on the list, or whatever. Somehow, I definitely think you're the sexiest woman in the public eye-- you've knocked Angelina Jolie, Eva Mendes, and Scarlett Johanson right down the list.

If the people's veto goes through, I'll move to Massachussetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, Connecticut, wherever. Say the word and I'll leave Zack, Rachel. Anything for you.

With Love,
Linda H.

-And, to Cosmo.

Dear Cosmopolitan Magazine:
What the fuck? On the cover of the August Issue (with the Katy Perry Cover), you tooted to have an article inside about "The Orgasm Whisperer", and how "every woman needs one." I spent a long month wondering precisely what that article could be about, fascinated by all the different possibilities--- could it be a hypnotherapist who rents out their craft to orgasm-lacking women everywhere? Instructions for chanting yourself into a tantric state of bliss? Some kind of bizarre audio device? What, what what?

I finally checked out the article today. It was about lube. Personal Lubricant. It claimed I could make my man into an "orgasm whisperer" by just using lube.


Bullshit false advertising. Fuck you.

Linda H.

I've always hated all the assumptions that Cosmo magazine makes about it's readers. If you've picked up a copy, you must be a 110-pound career-oriented CEO who pulls in 250k a year, with fucking spectacular sex life and great fashion sense. How many women out there like that actually read Cosmo? I'm guessing two. And I hate them both. I hope they and there slimy orgasm whispering boyfriends fuck themseves off a cliff.

Hmmm. I may be bitter tonight. Towards everyone but my Rachel.

Kinda a wasted post, but it's a matter of staying in practice. See you soon, maybe even with something relevant to say. On with it!