The Over-Educated Nympho

I just finished writing my last post about how I don’t feel the love for my job and wouldn’t it be oh so cool to be a writer? Ok, I didn’t say THAT specifically, but in hindsight I should have, because I’ve been thinking for ages how cool it would be to take my writing professionally, writing articles, or a column on sex and relationships, book reviews, short stories, eventually a novel…. Can you tell that this is what I daydream about every day when I’m bored shitless at work at my nice dull respectable job?

So right after I finished writing about how I don’t like my job that much, I checked my email and saw that a publicist for a publisher had contacted me and asked if I would review a new book on my blog. I emailed her back and said I would (I already checked out the book’s website to make sure it sounded interesting) and to keep me in mind for future book reviews. Happy happy joy joy, right?

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Today was my six-month anniversary of working at this office, my first real, non-internship, 401(k)-holding, post-grad school job.

So I called in sick to work and felt sorry for myself all day by refusing to get out of bed except to watch tv and eat oreos.

I don’t exactly hate my job, but I don’t love it either. I don’t jump out of bed, eager to go to work and prove myself as a valuable member of society. It takes me three snoozes, two dogs walking over my face, and my boyfriend threatening me before I get out of bed to go to work.

Is it possible to be having my mid-life crisis, like, twenty years early? Wouldn’t that make it my quarter-life crisis?

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I have amazing kegel* control. In general I have a very muscular body, and the kegel is no exception. With no other movement or thrusting, I have been able to make guys cum from my kegels alone. My gynecologist has gotten in tug-of-war matches with it, and that poor little woman nearly lost an eye.

This is an ode to the almighty power of The Kegel.

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In dis-honor of Valentines Day, aka National Singles Awareness Day, here is a photo of those damn nasty Pepto-Bismol flavored Sweethearts, the token candy of Valentines Day for some unknown reason, saying all those things you wish they said.

Because, I mean, you don’t just want anyone thinking they’re your shmoopie, do you?

Valentines Day is just around the corner, so hurry up and break up with your S.O.b. (Significant Other… SOB… not just a coincidence…) and save yourself all that money on silly romantic gestures that you’re not creative enough to express on your own the rest of the year. (but if you want a few ideas–)

If you don’t have the ovaries to break up with your SOB in person, here are a few clever “Dear John” letters you may copy for your personal use (if you credit this site and note the proper creative commons licensure, of course). FYI, if there is any possibility that your SOB may try to talk you into staying in the relationship, add some extra asshole factor by breaking up with him on a post-it note, overdue electricity bill for your shared residence, or a pantiliner wrapper.

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Some days it’s hard to summon up a lot of sass. Even among my small readership I receive so many compliments on my writing and general badass-fabulousness that it begins to build up pressure to be snarky/brilliant/witty/charming and generally at the top of one’s game all the time. I am rarely at the top of my game on anything. Between depression and having ADD, I’m a big fat daily roller coaster of emotions and ability. And on top of that I’m a gemini, which means it’s chemically, emotionally, and astrologically impossible for me to be even-keel for more than an hour and a half, and that’s fully medicated.

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ie. How to Flick Off Someone in Style, for those of you with a very special fuck you Valentines Day planned.

I have a huge monstrous slightly gaudy ring my mother gave me right before I moved to New York City. The band is thick wide heavy silver and holds a large sparkley stone that changes color in the light. It’s something you would only see on someone fabulous, like a drag queen. Or a nympho with serious attitude. And conveniently enough, it fits perfectly on my middle finger, aka My Favorite Finger, aka The Driving Finger.

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In dis/honor of Valentine’s Day, and in celebration of my return to the blogosphere, I will be posting Valentines-related entries every day through V-day. Or D-Day? VD-day. ha. Celebrate Valentines Day with your favorite V.D.

Let’s be realistic. Roses-and-backrubs romance is only for teeny boppers and relationship newbies. For the rest of us, however, romance is a four-letter word. And not the fun one you hope for on Valentines Day.

So for the rest of us, where do we find romance? Does it even exist after you’ve been dating someone more than four months? Well… it does if you kinda sorta redefine romance to include not-so-sexy things–

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Everyone has been here at one point or another: you date someone great for a couple months, everything is going well, you talk about how “in like” you are with each other, and then out of no where you get dumped. You get dumped, and you get mad. The phone calls begin, and he refuses to take your calls because you turned into a crazy pyscho bitch. Ok, fair enough. You just want to know why HE BECAME AN ASSHOLE.

I’m here to explain how both people feel in this situation, to play devil’s advocate when The Asshole and The Pyscho so desperately need representation in what can be a horribly memorable event.

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The article for Maxim on nymphos is finished. The writer sent me a draft of my section in the article, and it was awesome. The only bad news is that we have to wait until May or June for publication.

The suspense is going to make my clitoris pop off, I just know it.