How Dirty Girls Get Clean.

In the shower this morning I realized two things: 1) I should probably shave my legs, 2) it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and 3) it’s been even longer since I’ve had shower sex. 

I recalled the last time I did, and vaguely remember having too many drinks and too little patience. I ended up giving him shower head, then heading to the bedroom and getting his sheets all wet even wetter during sex. It definitely wasn’t a bad consolation prize. 

The thing about shower sex is it’s a double-edged sword. Sure it can be wet and wild, but it also leaves you pruney. While I’ve never had “bad” shower sex, I can definitely say porn dun lied to me! Here are the pros and cons of shower sex from what I’ve experienced.

  • Location + It’s not sex dangling 70 feet over a waterfall, but a change of scenery is always a nice and adds a little spice (and splash) to the bedroom. Mostly because you’re actually in the bathroom. 
  • Location - Unless you’re balling outta control, you’re more than likely banging in a standard shower/tub combo filled halfway with your roommates hair products and loofahs. Thus, there won’t be too much room to do too much for too long without getting a cramp, or accidentally knocking an economy sized bottle of Herbal Essence over.
  • H20 + The addition of water is great. For starters, it just makes everything look sexier (unless you have mascara on). It provides lube (kinda) and most of all, makes everything dirty, clean! I’ll suck a penis through a straw with the water running, and actually let a guy go down on me without being so self-conscious about it. 
  • H20 - While water is sexy, it’s also risky. Shit is dangerous son! You could slip and get a fucking concussion. There is also the possibility of choking on it. If you don’t believe me, try sucking a guys balls with the water running on full pressure over you. It’s hard to breathe with water up your nose and testicles in your mouth. 

All in all, I am totally for shower sex. But depending on how much time you have or the mood your in, it can definitely be a hassle. Besides, there’s a fucking drought in California. 

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“Let’s not just make noise, let’s make a difference”

Amidst the news of Panda leaving us for Boston and having an aneurism over my Fantasy Football game yesterday, I caught wind that the grand jury in Ferguson did not indict Darren Wilson for the death of Michael Brown. Soon after, news of it began to flood all of my social media feeds, and coverage of the riots interrupted my attempt to catch up on Sons of Anarchy. I bowed my head in silence for a moment, and braced myself for inevitable. Then, I continued to watch Charlie Hunnam’s fine ass put in work.

A part of me felt insensitive and shallow for Tweeting about JLo and her AMA performance, knowing that there was a #blacklivesmatter hashtag trending. And as a writer, a part of me felt guilty writing about anything NOT the Ferguson verdict. Still, I refuse to.

The truth is, I did not follow the trial as much as I should’ve. Therefore, I do not have enough information about the issue for me to formulate a substantial opinion about it. To some, this may reflect poor character. However, I rather not form an opinion solely based on a sensationalized media or what I’ve seen on my FB feed from others that don’t even know the difference between a “jury” and a “grand jury”. 

But I will say something. A few things actually. 
I will not say “Fuck the police” just because I feel obligated to as a young minority.
I will not say all cops are pigs either, because it also allows me to assume that all men of color in baggy pants are criminals.
I will not support violence with violence, especially when it doesn’t solve anything and affects the innocent. If there is anyone that deserves an “eye for an eye” pass, it’s Brown’s parents. Instead, they are requesting that you keep protests peaceful.

I have never experienced racism from a white person or been a victim of police brutality, so I cannot relate. But I don’t need to because as naive or ignorant as this may sound, I don’t see the MAIN issue being a race issue. I look at this as an unarmed kid who was shot to death. If it were a Michael Bautista as opposed to a Michael Brown that had been shot, it wouldn’t make the issue any less or more important to me.

I don’t have a son, so I cannot even begin to imagine the pain Brown’s parents must be feeling. It’s completely understandable if they wanted to hurt people and break things. I would too. But at the end of the day, it won’t bring Michael Brown back. Furthermore, it won’t prevent something like this from happening again. It will add fuel to the wrong fire. 

So if you’re going to make noise – whether it be by breaking into a Foot Locker or standing on a soapbox, make sure that people actually listen.


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Fuck Up Hard.

You are not going to believe me, but there is a simple solution to every problem


With the rarest of exceptions, there are usually two clear cut options (if not more) one is faced with when making an important decision. It’s people – not “situations” that make things complicated. I should know, I’m one of those people. Sometimes, the difficulty doesn’t actually lie in making the decision either, it’s sticking to it. Picking Option A or Option B is simple enough. However, choosing Option A then teetering back and forth into Option B and C and D territory is where things get convoluted. This is exceptional when it comes to matters of the heart. 

Say your boyfriend cheats on you, but is more than apologetic, wants to work things out, and says he will never do it again. You now have the choice of staying or leaving. It doesn’t matter if there is a right or wrong answer. What matters is owning your decision. Stress, anxiety, grief, sadness, etc. doesn’t occur when you forgive someone who has hurt you. It manifests in your inability to truly live in the moment and make peace with yourself.

So if you’re going to fuck up, FUCK UP HARD. Fuck up so bad that you gotta fuck down. If you’re going to reconcile with someone that lied to you, treat them as if you’ve never felt pain before. If you’re going to stay with someone that hurt you, love them whole-heartedly. Forget until you are able to forgive. Forgive until you are able to forget. Do not look through their phone. Do not pick fights with them. Do not regret. Do not look back. Do not question them, and most of all do not question yourself. 

Go hard or go home. You shouldn’t half ass anything you are passionate about. Especially love

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TBT in Pictures – Fall Classic Edition

During our 2010 postseason run, I drank. A lot. The closer we got to the ‘ship, the more I drank. Me and my co-worker Dre who is a fellow Giants fanatic, would come into work in the mornings with matching dehydrated, haggard faces. And we would complain about how tiring the season was, and how the team needed to hurry up and win so that we could get some sleep and give our livers a rest. Despite the torture, we both did it again and again until we came in the morning after the last game (probably) still drunk. We were relieved to not only have won the World Series, but to be getting a full nights rest SOBER. 

This lasted no more than five days before we got postseason withdrawals, and didn’t know what to do with ourselves. The very same things we complained about, we missed. This years road to the ‘ship was no different. It’s like those last few months leading up to your high school graduation. Prom, senior cut day, senior banquet, and graduation etc. create an anticipation unlike no other, and when it’s all over you experience a feeling of not having anything left to look forward to. 

Thank God for 2016 ;)

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The Non-Date. TBT Post 09.17.12

They left shortly after breakfast, and arrived a little after lunch. They checked in, and were pleasantly surprised. Clean sheets, cable, and the best shower head (no pun intended). They hiked for two hours, with at least 20 minutes uphill. Identifying poop, and random animal noises along the way (zebra, and velociraptor just to name a few). The sun was hot, and so were they. They took in the view up top, then hiked back down thinking of cold beer in their near future.

It could’ve been the perfect date.

The brewery was unsuspecting, but quaint by all accounts. Reminiscent of the bar from Waterboy, with an outdoor/indoor bar and what seemed to be ancient hick artifacts all around. The weather was perfect, and the game was on. They drank, and ate. And drank some more. People watching in between innings, and shit-talking all the time. A double double-date with Jamie and Jack, a winning game, and it was a wrap.

It could’ve been the perfect date.

Back by the room a fire was blazing. One, two, three four. Four couples in their 60s and maybe even 70s surrounded the fire pit roasting marshmallows, and drinking wine. Tipsy from four beers and two shots, they tip-toed over. He made her s’mores, while she talked to the woman next to her. Smacking the sweetness off their lips, and pretending to fit in. After two each, it was time to go to bed.

It could’ve been the perfect date.

Wine and Raw. And Tumblr and Instagram. Plantain chips and fruit belts. And shared pjs. He was handsome. She was beautiful. They were cute. She had dreams, he had goals. He was an asshole, and she was snarky. He was single. She was single. They were single together.  It could’ve been the perfect date.

If only they actually liked each other.

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There’s Something About Mare.

The most special of birthday wishes to my dearest Gail. Missing you now more than ever. Party it up boo, I heard there’s no such thing as a hangover in heaven.

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The Living Dead.

Sometimes I talk to the dead.

I lay in her bed, and get my shoes dirty from playing with her sheets. I bring her trinkets, hoping they will amount to more than forgotten trash weathered by the morning mist. I water her flowers just in case she can actually smell them. You know, just in case.

When I’m feeling optimistic, I hear her in the wind that sends the pinwheels spinning. I see her smiling in the sun that brings color to my face. And I feel her in the rain that tickles my eyelashes. 

I tell her my secrets. I tell her my fears. I tell her about the sadness in my soul.
I tell her I miss her, and wonder how things would be different if she were still here. I ask her how she is, what she’s been doing, and if she’s seen Paul Walker yet. We reminisce about the good times we’ve had, and the good times we should’ve had. I ask her for strength, and remind her to visit her husband. I thank her for being such a good friend and say, “See you later!” when I go.  

I wonder why I talk to the dead. When no one responds, and I feel so alone. When it makes me cry, and I leave more sad than when I arrived. Then I realized.

I talk to the dead, because it keeps her alive.  

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