I have a bruise on my boob


For the last few weeks at the gym, this random guy has been giving me a fist bump every time he sees me. I’ll be walking to one part of the gym and he’ll be walking to another and he’ll casually hold out his fist to me and I’ll casually hit my fist against it. It make me feel like a total bad ass to casually walk past this dude and tap my fist against his. Normally when it happens I am pouring sweat, my heart is racing, and one muscle group or another is shaking. But no matter what, I can almost always walk past this guy and be a total smooth criminal while knocking my fist against his.

fist bump

Except for tonight. Tonight gym dude decided to change things up. I was just walking out the room where fitness classes are held when he was walking by and instead of holding out his fist for me to bump, he held his hand up like he wanted me to shake it. So I let him grab my hand in a grip that I’m positive shattered all of my fingers and let him pull me in for that weird hand shakey hug thing that guys do.

As he pulled me in for a hug, all I could think was “be cool, be cool be cool be co-”


And then his shoulder slammed into my boob and I felt like my world had just shattered into a million pieces in the worst of ways. I was positive that he had popped my glorious right chesticle with his body slam. My D-cup had either exploded into nothingness or was in the process of swelling into a DDD-cup. I wasn’t sure, but I could feel pain radiating out from where he had body checked me so something was going on with my now abused fun bag.

It hurt so bad that I wanted to cry on the spot. Instead I continued to tell myself to be cool while he told me that my squat was looking better and I whimpered a quick thank you told him to have a good workout. He was completely unaware that he had just destroyed my poor boob and told me to have a good rest before walking off to another part of the gym.

Now I have a bruise on my boob and I still feel like a total bad ass because I’m totally a casual gym fist bumper sort of person who occasionally dude hugs people without being a total spazz. In a world where I feel out of place and not the most confident, there is this one guy who is a shining light. Every time I awkwardly tap my fist against his, I feel like I belong. So, yes, my boob hurts right now, but I still feel like a total bad ass.


How I learned that you should take the hoodie off the hook before putting it on


I wish my personal style could be described as “bed bug.”

My personal style can be described as “frumpy athlete”. I wear socks with my flip flops, comfy leggings, and giant hoodies. If I’m at work then I wear a comfy top that barely passes for “business casual.” Everything is big and chunky and comfy and warm. I feel like I’m perpetually in the cocoon stage of what should be my metamorphosis. Do I look good? Probably not. But do I love feeling I’m cuddled by a fire 24/7? Heck yeah, I do!

Personally, if I could get away with going to work wrapped in a giant comforter, I would.

That’s totally not the point of this blog though.

The point is that I wear hoodies and like any good adult, I sometimes hang my hoodies up when I’m not wearing them. I have lots of those little hook things you put over the top of your door for all of my hoodies because I have more hoodies than sense. Normally I come home, take my hoodie off and then hang it up. Then when I leave the house, I pull a hoodie down off a hook and put it on as I walk out the door.

Except this one time where I decided to crawl up into one of my hoodies while it was still on a hook. It looked easy! Just slide my head and arms on up and keep on walking. One fluid, and smooth motion. I was a genius. Why didn’t I think of this before? Why did I waste time taking my sweaters off the hook and then putting them on? So there I was, crawling up into my hoodie and sliding my arms into the sleeves and…


I had hung myself up on the door.


Let me explain! I’m tall at an easy 5’10” so this situation never crossed my mind. It didn’t occur to me that my hoodie hanging off a door hanger would be too high up for me to slip off the hook once I was in m hoodie. So there I was. Hung up on my door with the rest of my hoodies. To make matters worse, I had put the hoodie on backwards so I was dangling from my door and couldn’t see what I was doing.

It took me a solid five minutes, but I eventually got myself down, got my hoodie turned around, and got myself to work. I wasn’t even late for work! I was just slightly miffed that my genius idea hadn’t turned out to be so genius after all.


I shouldn’t cook topless



I don’t have a whole lot of body confidence. Which is weird because I dislike clothes and love being naked. I will wear flip flops year round unless there is at least an inch of snow on the ground and I will traipse around my home in as little clothing as possible. It’s more comfortable and just means less laundry for me. If not wearing clothes means I get to be comfy and do less laundry then I am all for it. Plus being naked is just all kinds of decadent fun.

It’s not so great for cooking though.


No matter how often I think that it’s ok to cook in only a sports bra and shorts, it never is. I used to have some scars on my stomach from an unfortunate bacon cooking incident and a burn mark from a run in with a hot pan. I’ve burnt my hands, my chest, stomach, shorts, and even my hair and…sometimes I learn from it. Very briefly I learn my lesson.

Except I forgot all of those lessons while making soup the other night. I still have scars on my person, but I still decided to ignore them and traipse around in my kitchen in a sports bra and sweats. I had been cooking without incident for several months and was confident in my mad kitchen skills.

Everything was smooth sailing on my potato soup making adventure. Bacon was made with no incident. Potatoes were chopped and put in the pot with broth with no incident. In fact, I had followed the whole recipe without incident. I had cut, measured, and done everything with care as the recipe told me to do.


Or at least I had until I realized that I had forgotten to add celery to the pot. The pot that was now full of piping hot liquid. The pot that was almost full to overflowing because I should have used a bigger pot. Of course I didn’t think of any of this then. The recipe said to add the celery so I was going to add the damn celery.

Without any thought, I picked up the cutting board covered in celery, grabbed my knife to scrape it in, and pivoted to start carefully scraping the chopped and crunchy green bits into the pot. Cutting board in one hand, knife in the other, everything was fine. I can cook now. I don’t need adult supervision. I carefully slid little bits of celery in a little bit at a time. I gently scraped and pushed those crunchy green bits in, bit by bit.

Or at least I did until being careful was taking too long. Patience is not one of my virtues. I’m also not known for thinking my thoughts through. At this point I was a kitchen wizard and nothing could hurt me. So instead of continuing to carefully add the celery to the pop full of nearly boiling liquid, I tipped my cutting board up and dumped the rest in with an audible scrape and SPLASH.

A splash that sent a tidal wave of potato filled, scalding broth flying up into the air. A splash that caused hundreds of tiny drops of burning liquid to spatter across my stomach and always ample cleavage. A yelp of pain and terror escaped as a line of burning liquid burrowed its way into the abyss of my chesticles and I immediately dropped my cutting board and knife to try and claw the liquid away from me.

sharp knife

Let’s read that sentence again.


As soon as I let go of the knife I let out a yelp of terror as I jumped back from the falling blade.

Then I just stood there. Potato soup spattered across my chest and stomach like some weird porn, knife and cutting board on the floor, and the smell of burning potatoes that had escaped into the element slowly filling my kitchen. There was really nothing for me to do in that moment. I just stood there and admired the mess that only I could make while trying to make soup.

Really good soup too, I might add. I eventually finished making my soup and it was darn delicious even though my cleavage was a bit sore from the cascade of hot broth that jumped down there. Now for at least the next few months I’ll cook fully clothed despite loving nudity and hopefully I’ll cook with a little more care and patience.

I mean…probably not, but a girl can hope right?


I Killed a Spider


i see pride

I am a strong, independent woman. I live alone, I can kind of cook for myself, I can put out fires all on my own, and as long as I don’t have to kill spiders or care for myself when I’m sick, I am great at living single life. I am basically that one scene from Cool Runnings in real life.

Anyway, as per my usual Friday night shenanigans, I was laying in bed watching a movie. I had my lights out and I was just getting ready to drift off to sleep amid Captain Jack Sparrow announcing that he had a jar of dirt when out of the corner of my eye I saw something huge and very gross skitter down my wall and drop on to the floor. Of course the only light that I had to see it by was my TV so I couldn’t be sure that it was a huge creepy crawly or if it was my hair moving around in the shadows. Sometimes it really is my hair and I’ll immediately want to shave my head to avoid future terrors.

This time though? I couldn’t be sure. Was I sleepy and just seeing things? Or was there a spider skittering off somewhere to lie in wait for me to bite me and not give me any neat super powers? Because the only things I get from spider bites are rashes and horrible bumps that hurt to touch.

Just to be sure that it wasn’t my crazy mass of curls going bonkers in the light of my laptop, I turned my light on and looked around for a large spider with hairy legs. I saw nothing. Except I was still convinced that I saw something, so I left my light on. In that moment I was hoping to all deities that what I saw was a combination of my sleepy mind and my frizzball hair. There is no way that something that huge could be in my bedroom. However, I was still going to sleep with my light on. Just in case. Or maybe I woul-


I saw it go scuttling across my bedroom floor and into my bathroom. It had long, spindly legs, a giant body, and it was making a break for the bathroom like it had eaten its weight in laxatives and it’s butt was about to explode with spider turds.

In summary, I had not mistaken my curly, crazy hair for a spider. The spider was a spider.


In that moment I decided that I needed a booty call. Except instead of coming over for sex, they would come over and kill spiders for me at 1am. No questions asked. No expectations. They would just walk in, I would point the creepy crawly out, then they would kill it and leave. Maybe they would cuddle me after if it was a particularly huge spider. This spider killing booty call has been one of my longest standing wishes and one of the few reasons that I would get into a relationship. I would marry the person who promised to always kill spiders for me. I’m willing to settle for a friends with spider killing benefits situation though.

But with no one else to kill the spider for me, it was up to me to blast “Eye of the Tiger” and go kill the thing. It took me a solid 5 minutes to root the thing out from behind the toilet and kill it, but it eventually died a horrible death after I sprayed it in place with extra strength hair spray and squished it.

As I knelt over the dead creepy crawly I couldn’t help but consider the problems of frizzy hair and single life. I considered shaving my head, but my skull is super lumpy and I don’t want a potato head, so I won’t be doing that. After that I considered being in a relationship, but then I realized that I was dressed in boxers pulled up to my tits with a scarf tied around my head as a sweatband and…well, I also realized that I’m not ready to give up single life either.

But hey, if you’re reading this and want to kill spiders for me at 1am, hit me up.