Today I got my first ever check in the mail from BlogHer which totally legitimizes every single time I've talked about my vagina on the Internet and called it writing. And when I saw the envelope in my mailbox I was so pumped and had all these grand ideas of putting my blogging checks aside every month to start chipping away at some of these wedding costs but when I saw the amount I decided that's not really much of a help at all and decided to use it to help pay for my weekly booze allowance instead. Or maybe buy something totally awesome. Like a vintage Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. Or a poison dagger. Or, like, a crap ton of tacos. There's so many options, really.
Because this morning, when I opened up my e-mail and read a weekly stats report for Yellaphant, the first search term that popped up was "shit in boyfriends mouth" followed immediately by "when you sprinkle when you tinkle" with falko naked women close behind, which by the way, I totally assume is my friend Falko Googling to see if any pictures were taken of him and naked chicks over the weekend after he woke up after a night of heavy drinking and didn't recognize where he was. So I was really starting to question exactly what it is I'm doing here.
Okay, I share some thoughts, I attract some pervs, I make some money, RIGHT ON. But then I realized that's pretty much the same exact thing as being a prostitute except I don't show my bubs or anything or make nearly as much money, which is awesome but kind of weird to realize at the same time. But at least this verbal prostitute will be tucking in with a pretty gnarly vintage Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sleeping bag. Or fatally stabbing bad guys with my poison dagger. Or eating lots of tacos. Whatever.
P.S. Today B's mom commented on one of last week's posts and was all "sometimes i wonder if i should fear for the lives of my future unborn grandchildren," and I was all pssshhh but now I think she might have a valid point.
P.P.S. This comment also came shortly after I told a group of lady bloggers that they can bet any babies I'd be having would come trained in how to run to the store and get me a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel when I'm too hungover to do it myself and I'm pretty sure at least a couple of them were totally offended. And one of them was like yeah that usually takes twelve years or so and hello, my sandwich would totally be cold by then.
P.P.P.S. I'm actually really good with children. I've had a lot of practice with my dog, the jerk. And this weekend when Mojo and I were walking Rooney and I was in the process of scooping up a pile of his poop in my hand, we decided that dealing with all of this dog poop totally qualified me to take care of a small child, should the need arise.
P.P.P.P.S. Just to make sure everything is crystal clear because I could potentially see a lot of distraught e-mails in response to this one, I AM NOT PREGNANT.
P.P.P.P.P.S. B's mom is seriously worried now.