The Over-Educated Nympho

It’s time to overhaul my website. If I want to be a professional writer, it helps if I look like a professional writer. (Oooh, I want my cool glasses back! Then I’d really look like a professional writer!) Which means my site needs to look as professional as possible. Especially if that helps ward off the perverts who think shit like this will get me to jump into bed with them.

One of the things I want to do is find a totally slammin’ character illustration of Vix the Over-Educated Nympho to post in the header of my homepage. Who better to ask than the many talented readers who visit my site every day? I’ve received so many emails from you telling me about your own dreams as an aspiring photographer, writer, screenwriter, dancer, singer, entrepreneur–and that is awesome. So I figure that we could help each other out, aspiring writer to aspiring artist. Let’s get beyond this “aspiring” bullshit.

So those of you who are handy with markers and Photoshop, please submit an illustration by August 1st. I’ll select one winner and then we’ll collaborate to develop the illustration from sketch to pure awesomeness. Once everything is set, it will become part of my official logo and it will appear when I launch my new site design. And if the illustration is really wet-yourself awesome, then it may eventually become, well, you know.. more. I can’t say what exactly because I don’t know myself, but I’ve got my eye focused hard on potential.

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I have been packing and freaking out and whining and packing some more. My friend Barbie totally called me out on my eminent panic attack and insisted on coming over to help. My little brother (who is freakishly big and strong, so weird to see him turn from a total goob into someone kinda hot) drove in tonight and helped as well. At this time tomorrow I’ll be in my new grown-up apartment, the one I want to make a nice place to live, not just somewhere to crash and store all my crap.

When I moved one year ago it was triumphant but a little sad because I was moving on account of a break-up. This time there is nothing tainting the move. Today when I went to sign my lease I finally felt that moment of glory I had been expecting so many times before this, the one of pride when the leasing agent asks “are you the only one signing the lease?” For the first time I said “Yes. Just me.” No roommate, no boyfriend, no mother as a guarantor. Just me.

Now as I look at my living room filled with stacks of boxes, I think about how far I’ve come since I moved into this apartment. As Stockton reminded me, it will be a glorious moment when I finally sit down in my new apartment on my first night alone and take it all in, with a glass of red wine and a bag of Oreos sitting on a box in front of me. Although I still don’t know what I want, I’m in a much better place now than I was one year ago, and you know for damn sure I’ll be drinking to that on Sunday night.

For the nightly dose of funny, I have revised and expanded an old post called The Fine Nuances in Name-Calling. This is a great guide to use when you can’t decide whether to call someone a dipshit, a fuckwit, or a mindfucker.

I do what I can to help people ridicule others.

So I may not yet be anywhere close to being done packing for the move on Saturday, and I may be –cough cough– calling in sick to work tomorrow. My boss already granted me permission to be sick, and my coworker clapped me on the back on his way out today and chuckled, “hope you feel better.”

Now that that is out of the way, I can move on to completely freaking the fuck out that I’m only halfway done packing. My father and one of my brothers is showing up Saturday morning to help me move. Every day for the last two weeks my father has been emailing to ask “are you going to be done packing in time?” and I keep getting pissed off that he thinks I’m that unreliable. I can’t let the bastard know he was right.

–runs throughout apartment screaming and picking up items at random and throwing them in a series of giant trashbags which will later tumble to their death out the fourth-floor window–

I’m shopping for a new webhosting service because my current one has pissed me off so many times in the last month that if this were a guy I was dating I would have smacked him, swished his toothbrush around in the toilet then put it back in the toothbrush holder, sharpened my nails on his face, and stolen a twenty from his wallet. Actually, if this were a guy I was dating I would have dumped his sorry ass ages ago but it’s not that simple when there is a huge amount of data involved and I can only muster so much patience in a short period of time.

Has anyone had good experiences with a particular webhost? I have my eye on a couple but after all the crap I’ve been through in the last month I want some personal recommendations that their host doesn’t suck big donkey balls.

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I’m moving Saturday morning. I am about to be royally fucked when it comes to packing in time, especially since I was an idiot last night and slept for eight hours instead of packing. Tonight I became such a panicked packing fiend that I neglected to eat dinner–unless if veggie potato chips and peanut butter M&Ms count.

What I’m getting at: I’ve sucked at responding to emails over the last two days, and I probably won’t return to normal correspondence until after the move-in and after cable is installed. If I don’t answer your emails, don’t take it personally. Unless if you wrte emails lIkE this bc ur 2 qul 2 spel, then you should take it personally.

I’m moving into a new apartment this weekend.* As I’ve been packing I have remembered all the many people and things I have to say goodbye to, as I did in the style of Dear Annoying Coworker.

Goodbye, Hot Moron. Thank you for all the blog material you supplied me. I will leave a giant bag of charcoal on your doorstep.

Goodbye, ex-boyfriend TiVo. The times we had together were very special. The times you pissed me off–well, DO please forgive me for the dents in your casing. We tried to remain friends, but it was not meant to be. I have a brand new TiVo** showing up at my apartment on Monday, so suck on that. And yes darling, there will be cuddling with the remote.

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When I lived in New York City a couple years ago I had no friends and no cable, so I went to the gym. I spent roughly twelve hours a week at the gym for eight months. I hardly lost any inches off my waist line because I had a nightly three-way with two cute and lovable guys named Ben and Jerry. Every night I ate an entire pint of ice cream for dinner. Some nights that may or may not have been followed by cake frosting directly from the container.

That year was the worst of my depressive spells. It had nothing to do with the city, oh hell no. If the city were a man I’d be all kissy-kissy on him. It was miserable because I was in over my head. I had finished college and went off to the dream internship in Manhattan. I thought I was the shiiit.

I was so full of hope. It might have been cute if I were ten years younger and wore a bedazzled baby-t that said DUMBASS.

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Many of my girl friends and female readers have told me that their man doesn’t like going down on them. Why the fuck not, I ask politely. Cooch is awesome. I’ve gone bush-diving and I’m down for another round or eight any day.

I’ve always known that it was common for girls to find the penis icky–it grows, it shrinks, it waves hello, it shoots things in your eye– but I haven’t heard about many guys who don’t like going down on a girl. What the fuck is this shit?

I’m going to be honest. That’s a deal-breaker for me. But don’t take my opinion too seriously, because I’m kind of a huge bitch when there’s something important like an orgasm on the line.

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Until tonight, I had not seen Hot Moron since this brief shirtless sighting. Prior to that I had not talked to him since his attempt to win over my affections with red meat. –shakes head in direction of his apartment–

Come on now sweetie, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if the equation HOT GUY + STEAKS = HAPPY MEAT LOVIN’ VIX doesn’t add up, it’s because there’s another factor missing. Like (-) COMMON FUCKING SENSE, (-) KNOWING WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP, or perhaps (-) A MALIGNANT CASE OF DUMBASS.

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This morning I woke up early to watch something I was bidding for on eBay (and I got it too! Kiss my grits, bitches! HOW YOU LIKE MY BOOTY SHAKE NOW?!) and since then I’ve been taking my time getting ready for once instead of running around the apartment in my underwear trying to apply mascara with one hand while stuffing my face with the other.

A word from the late-riser trenches: don’t. INEVITABLY YOUR HANDS WILL GET MIXED UP AND NO ONE SHOULD START HER MORNING WITH A MOUTHFUL OF PATOOOIE UNLESS IT TASTES LIKE SPOOGE.

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The other day my friend Barbie called me to say that Handsome Nerd isn’t bringing a date to the wedding. I didn’t know whether to feel happy, smug, sympathetic (okay empathetic because I don’t have a date either) or what over this news. Indifferent?

Indifferent would have been awesome. But I was definitely completely notably not indifferent.