Crop Dusting my Crop Circle

Dearest Twink Puppet,

I need to talk to you. And by talk to you I mean write a passive aggressive blog entry in honor of you.

As the T-shirt says, I heart you. I really do. From the second time I met you on the 4th car of the L train, for that short little ride between Montrose and Bedford, I hearted you. I didn't really care for you the first time I met you cause it was my birthday, and as a result, I was way more into me than you, or anyone else for that matter. But it could have been as close to gay/straight love at first sight as a gay man and a straight woman can get.

Let me tell you why I heart you so much...

I love that you think three month old vodka sauce tastes tangier and subsequently better than a freshly opened jar of Trader Giotto's. And I love that you once made and ate a blue cheese quesadilla without realizing that it was actually moldy Monterrey Jack.

I miss seeing you in your child-sized clothes. I miss your awkward noises (how do I spell "oup"?). I love that you love the Spice Girls because they are the soundtrack to your childhood and that you were in 1st period on 9/11. I love that you strategically crop dust semi-desolate subway trains and walk away to revel in the accusatory and gaseous glances of fellow passengers. I love that your definition of alone time is actually big boy sex with strangers. And I love that it was your idea to give the menorah a blow job, and take pictures.

You are truly precious, like a precious little baby and I have become your Queen (vag) Mother. But like any mother, there comes a time when one must be a parent rather than a friend.

My things are your things. I am honored to have you squat our squalid Bushwick apartment in your time of Brooklyn despair. You can use as much of my hair product, Paul Newman's, and vicodin (ok, maybe not) as you want. And surely, you are a testament to the fact that your stuff is my stuff. You've lent me toothpaste (maybe without knowing) and offered me the use of your frozen masturbatory accoutrement as well. And I love you for this.

But dearest Twink Puppet, a line must be drawn.

And I am going to draw that line in the form of a thick crop circle around the mismatched pair of your dirty socks which I found in my clean sheets last night. Having your soiled black sock stroke my inner thigh while the white one snaked around my bony knee was just too much.

I've never had an STD and I don't want my first one to be Athlete's foot of the Vag or a labial corn.

So my love, I miss you and am desperate without you. I might be ready to utter those three little words to you. But for now, I'll leave you with thishwords "keep your f-ing socks out of my bed".

Love you mean it,

Your Queen Mother Vag

get out the moleskine!

i am sorry, dear reader, that you could not partake in the shitshow that occured between the hours of 8p and 2a in the avenue of puerto rico domicile we call "home." (with quotes, we do)

valentine is a wretched saint that brings about temper and plague every year it comes.

there was yelling, there was some yelling, and we all survived, and we made it through, but i am telling you, dear reader, that if we hadn't eaten a spinach salad with avo and sprouts and some organic balsamic paul newman spittle, but rather had had beefburgers with heinz and yellow mustard, that we wouldn't have ended so civilly.

we're okay. we're going to all get through it. and we plan to have a great time this potus w/e, dear reader, and we hope you can join us. look for the dancing white people at dc9 on sunday. you'll have a drink in each hand and we'll be the ones in the moose costumes.