Vagina Monologue

It all comes back to you, I tell the Great Vagina in the sky. How it’s gotta be. I write, but if I’m not writing about you then nobody clicks. No clicks means no reads means I’ll be sucking dick for Ramen money in five years. And I’m probably going to suck at sucking dick because I have no practice, wouldn’t even make the JV team. So from now on everything discussed here on will separated from you, Oh Great Symbolic Vagina, by not more than one degree. Good thing my life is already set up that way.

So. Here’s my day, as a vag-centric montage:

Morning, it’s spring, blink awake with Terminator vision. A digital red clock on the lower right counts up: time elapsed since last penetration, last validation. Sober Fred has been laid about twice ever but, Good Lord, Bar Fred is on a tear. Still, the birds on the wire outside twitter an exhortation: fuck fuck fuck. It’s spring, that’s what this season is for, the Korean women on the sidewalk can’t manage to keep their skirts down when they encounter even the lightest of breezes and so their hot clouds of pheromones will flood the air, turn you into a dog with your tongue lolling sideways out of your jaw… basically, why are you not fucking right now, you unfuckable fuck.

Cut to lunch. You’re single, enjoy your time, the other teachers implore me. They have kids, and they appear perpetually stunned by this fact. Unfocused, drained eyes, they always seem as if they just walked out of a car wreck. Eighteen full years of having always just walked out of a car wreck.


Cut to right now, gotta write something. Post something to harass the Internet with. That girl from Friday didn’t text me back. But maybe she’ll find this blog like the others have done and think: well, he can write a little bit. Or probably not, actually–I’m talking about skybound vulva here.

Goddamn you, Anna. I thought it was spring. Let’s do this. Last chance before I’m famous. Actually… scratch that. You’ve probably got plenty of time.


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