Christmastime Blues (Old Post from Old Blog.)

As a joke, the RA of my floor put a bunch of condoms on the wall so that we “wouldn’t have to buy extra presents next year.”
Do you want to know something sad? I TOOK one of them, and put it in my pocket, just to trick myself into thinking that I will be using it sometime soon. Like, just by having the condom, I’d be sexually active by association.
Honestly, it’s pathetic, you guys. There’s less pink in my life than there is on Marilyn Manson’s body. The Virgin Mary probably makes fun of me in heaven, because at least SHE was raped by God.
My knowledge of the female anatomy is fairly abysmal. If you asked me if I could find the clitoris, I’d probably say something stupid like, “That depends… have her tonsils been removed?”
It wasn’t until late high school that I realized that vaginas DON’T eerily whisper a guy’s name when a girl is aroused and that they DON’T communicate to their owners through a Morse code of queefs.
The closest thing I got to a blow job was when I spilled hot tea onto my crotch at a Chinese restaurant and forced the waitress to blow on the spill-area at gunpoint.
Sigh… that’s life, I guess.
Oh, well. I have a condom now, so at least my sock won’t get pregnant. I don’t want any freakish Muppet versions of me running around.


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