Oh, wait... You said you never wanted sex again?

Today, I was flipping through my newest Cosmopolitan magazine. Now, being the not lame ass girlfriend that I am, I like to read all of the "kinky sex tips!" "This  will drive your guy wild!" articles and test them out a little bit. Which up until today, I thought was a good thing to do. Apparently, not.
My boyfriend, Chet, (his real name is Charles. Not creepy Chester. Charles, but so is his dad's.) was sitting beside me on the couch while I was watching another one of those really pathetic Lifetime Movies that I get sucked into over and over for hours at a time. My Cosmopolitan--I pay like forty bucks for a subscription every year to make his hairy ass happy-- was laying on the coffee table. He picked it up and nonchalantly said to me, "You know, Miranda, I think men should have a complimentary copy of Cosmo along with their girlfriends." My mind chimed in, screaming at me He's going to say we should start having more sex! YES YES YES! He loves my tricks! He swallowed like he'd just eaten a rock and looked at me, "Because some of that crazy shit I feel like I should be warned about!! Like remember last month when you told me that pressing the dimpley things in my back with your heels while we have sex will turn me on?" "Yeah..." "Well, your feet are so dry that all it did was scratch me!" You sonofabitch. "Thanks, Chet." I'm sure that people in China probably heard my sarcasm. "Well I'm just tellin' ya. And like look at this! It says you're supposed to kiss someone and spell the alphabet with your tongue instead of just making out? That's SO GROSS!" [Note to self] 
Now, I don't know if every woman is like this, but when I get really pissed off, my entire functioning motor system shuts down. I could feel the fine tuning of tying shoes going away and my cheeks turning red.
"Really. Well, then I guess I won't try that anymore. Actually, you know what, let's just not have sex."
"What?" I'm pretty sure his motor skills shut off too. You see, men have two emotions. Hungry and horny. My married friends joke "If you see a man without an erection, make him a sandwich." To which i respond, "God gave me feet the size of an abominable snowman. That meant he didn't want me to stand close enough to the counter to spread Miracle Whip. Chet knows where the knives and the bread are." They smile and shake their heads, but I just pretty much am at the fuck it stage. He cooks because my skills aren't up to par. (Can you hear me rolling my eyes??) He can make his own damn sandwich.
"You complain about it all the time, maybe if we just don't have a sex life then you can't bitch." Princess Miranda for the win. Not only can I stop wasting razors for a few weeks, I can also go to sleep and not be groped all night. Yes.
Cosmopolitan, apparently, you suck.
Chet, apparently, I don't.
So for now, my lacking sex life is over until further notice.
Hashtag winning.

The Donovan Diaries

My name is Miranda Donovan. I'm twenty four years old, most certainly not a virgin, and most certainly not anywhere near marriage. My life consists of only a few very lame, very boring things. These very lame, very boring things include being a wine connoisseur--or perhaps borderline wine-o, my incredibly lame sex life, my boyfriend of three and a half years, studying journalism, eating an incredible amount of unhealthy frozen foods, and scrubbing the spot on my floor that everyone keeps telling me is permanently stained, convinced that I WILL prove them wrong.
You see, I live alone. Well, kind of alone. I own a four bedroom house with three empty bedrooms with my half-dead goldfish Josh. I like him, he doesn't really talk back. But he's a damn good listener.
That's how incredibly lame my life usually is.
So why the hell should I start a blog?
Because when my life's not being incredibly lame and I'm not just making myself scrambled eggs or frozen deep fried mushrooms while bitching to Josh, it's pretty damn exciting.
To say the least.
The Donovan Diaries sounds racy. Sounds slutty and whorish and everything that my Grandmother trained me not to be.
Because I, ladies and gentlemen, am a closet slut.
Yes, that's right. A closet slut. You see, I don't really sleep around at all. But I'm pretty flirty and kind of kinky. With shots of gin and a swig of Grey Goose straight from the bottle, I bubble like champagne on December thirty first.
From parties to broken hinges on doors, my life goes from crazy to mellow in a night. But it's a Saturday night of drinking myself single that fuels this crazy, fucked up life. So sit back, folks... because stupid is as stupid does, and I'm about to tell you more stupid than you have ever imagined can be done.