I recap a lot of different reality shows where women fight and snarl at each other and wear bandage dresses, and the thing that unsettles me most about them is how the main characters all seemed to stop developing emotionally at twelve.
I've never had a breakup, not a real one, not one where you both decide that things are not working out, or where one of you walks out, not one that breaks your heart into tiny little pieces.
He gave me a novel about fetishes written in 1928 called "Story of the Eye" by Georges Bataille and halfway through the book I realized that I very very much wanted to have sex with this boy.
Keep your gross homocooties to yourself, lady.
Really I don’t know what’s more embarrassing -- giving my vibrator to the laundry man, or the fact that it only took me four minutes to realize it was gone.