Sex with corpses. Everybody thinks about it. They don’t want to talk about it openly, though. Slightly less harmful than pedophilia, equally stigmatized, and the quickest way to kill a conversation. Seriously, when’s the last time you had an open discussion about necrophilia with your friends or coworkers? We live in such a sexually repressed culture. Sad.
Let’s break free, shall we? Hell, our president once starred in a porno. The time for modesty is over.
Necrophilia suffers from heavy stigma. And yet, it’s a natural act. Biologists have documented acts of necrophilia in the wild among several species. The French didn’t coin the phrase “little death” for nothing.
A morgue worker once admitted publicly to having sex with more than 100 corpses. Not back in the late 19th century, either. Just a couple of years ago. His bosses made him do it at first, but then he learned to accept it. On top of that, nobody would date him. Girls were too creeped out by his job. Poor guy. So he just kept on fucking the dead. You know what? I’m skeptical. I don’t think anyone made him. I don’t think he did it just because he was lonely. I’ll bet a big part of him enjoyed it. More than once, a guy or two have dug up a chick for a little action. One physician kept his wife preserved for decades.
Kellyanne Conway can teach us something about promotion. Yeah, it’s nuts. Watching her try to plug Ivanka’s awful clothes last week made my skin crawl. It wasn’t just unethical. It was so far off the mark, and pathetic, that the show hosts were cringing. They tried to stop her. They warned her. Yet, she persisted.
Funny how many writers and artists have tried the same move. A few years ago, I watched a friend of mine on the local news. He was talking about his first novel. Great for him. It was a nice chat, but then he did something stupid as hell. He tried to guilt the co-hosts into buying his book on air. They asked how his book was doing, and he said, “Well I’m hoping to sell you two and the camera man one each right after the show.” Automatic facepalm. I had to take a shower on his behalf. And I had just taken one. That’s how bad it went over.
A few weeks later, a bunch of friends and I were getting drunk at a bar. A book festival was in town. Instant excuse to behave badly. Authors came and went. They told funny stories. They flirted. They gave advice. Midway through our happy hour, someone we didn’t like showed up. She talked about her writing for several minutes, killed the conversation, and then passed around bookmarks. Everyone just nodded politely. When she left, we threw them away.
You’re not trying hard enough. You make stupid decisions. You take too many risks. That’s the voice in my head sometimes. Okay, a lot.
Life would be easy if I had moderate expectations of myself. I worked for years to become a professor, and now I’m an associate department chair. My own parents did everything they could to dissuade me from majoring in English. My friends and relatives mocked me for going into a PhD program. Now, I make just as much money as my dad did at my age. The problem? That salary doesn’t quite go far enough when you have student loans. I’m trying to solve this problem.
People envy me. And yet here I am, pissed off that I’m only getting 200-400 hits on my blog every day, with occasional spikes of 500. I just paid $300 in taxes. It’s the first time in my life I’ve never received a refund. I’m in a different tax bracket now. It seems unfair. I have some money saved up. It’s hardly enough to make a down payment on a house. Barely enough to raise a child. I’m not even sure I want kids. My spouse does. So I’m sorta stuck here.
Last year, something caught my attention on my drive home. A sign outside a drugstore read something like this: Did you forget Valentine’s Day? Don’t worry! Roses, chocolate, stuffed animals, butt plugs, all half off. It was February 14th. I’m lying about the butt plugs. I mean, life’s not that good.
Seriously, fuck whoever bought their girlfriend or wife anything from that place on actual Valentine’s Day. Do you know what that says about that person? First, they actually care about this holiday. Second, they also forgot. They’re a spineless piece of shit.
Hey, I’m really sorry if you did that. You’re not a piece of shit. There’s time to repent. You could do something real this year, like take your spouse to a concert or something. Or make plans for a nice dinner. My lovey dovey and me are going to a concert this Saturday. We might fuck. I don’t know. It’s been a terrible week for us both. We might just make out and feed each other Breyers. Well, who am I kidding? We’re both in our 30s now. Frozen yogurt. Less guilt.
Source: Yes, It’s Really Me, Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl ‹ Thought Catalog ‹ Reader — WordPress.com
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Has anyone ever dated a real manic pixie dream girl, or even close? I’m sure that sometimes I come off like this. I’m strange. I think and say weird or sometimes poetic things. I do strange things. I’ll stay up all night if I feel like it, and drink when I want to. And I’ve managed to find a job that’s a strange blend of freedom and hyper-responsibility. But I’ve never shopped for groceries barefoot, at least not that I can remember. Gross. I think a lot of people can find someone attractive for flouting certain social conventions. Not giving a fuck can be sexy. Maybe that’s part of the real personality type behind this trope.
I’ve been a bad girl. A very bad girl. And yet somehow I’ve managed to stay out of the slammer. I’ve only paid a couple hundred bucks in fines my whole life. Others haven’t fared as well. Racial profiling shouldn’t make anyone laugh. But when I look back at my teens and 20s, there’s no way I can deny my privilege.
Let’s start with my first traffic ticket. On Halloween night, I left work and sped downtown in my Harley Quinn outfit. There was a guy I wanted to make out with. Faced with a red light, I chose to fuck it. After cruising through the intersection, a pair of blue lights appeared behind me. Shit. I pulled to the curb.