Okay, so I’ve been tagged by A Slip of a Girl. I read her post earlier this morning, and wondered if I was ever going to get tagged for one of these things. They seem like they’d be a lot of fun. Little did I know how difficult it would be to get to the big 10. Of course, for some reason I thought they had to be oddball facts about myself. I read the rules after I wrote the list. See what happens when you don’t read the rules? Which are:
The Rules: Once you've been tagged you can't be retagged, you have to write a blog with 10 random things, facts or habits about yourself. At the end, you choose 10 more people to torture (er...tag...Louise said tag) and post a note telling them they're tagged and make them come along and read your blog.
- 90% of my jeans and 100% of my work slacks are men’s pants. That’s right, I shop at Men’s Warehouse. This isn’t a cross-dressing adventure: I just don’t have “female” hips. They’re only slightly wider than my waist, which isn’t elongated like most women’s are. When I wear women’s pants, particularly jeans, they puff out at the hips, need to be pulled up to just under my ribcage, and when I sit, they make me look like I have a large, erect cock. (I don’t even need a tent pole.) Guys’ slacks and jeans fit me perfectly, though. Particularly Levi’s 501s.
- I have big, scary Fred Flinstone feet. It’s true, take a look.
- I take people on weird dates. For example, I took one girl to look for UFOs and other supernatural phenomena. I was positive we’d see something, because I’d seen floating orbs and zipping lights there several times before. (I really did!) This was going to be one cool date. We bunked down in the back of my truck with take-out dinner and a video camera. We saw nothing. We didn’t even fool around. We went home. She never called me back.
I took another girl for a street luge ride down one of the steepest streets in Los Angeles (Baxter). We crashed and tumbled, and almost got hit by a passing car. Yes, we survived. It was awesome! For me, anyway. When my date was through screaming and freaking out, she hit me on the head with her bag. That one did call back, but only to leave a nasty message on my answering machine.
And yet, I still persist in thinking up “fun” dates.
- I use cheesy or rude come-on lines to get laid. “Wanna fuck?” “I’d like to slip into something sexy. You, perhaps?”
- I fantasize about aliens, statues, and machinery.
- I carry toys in my purse. Not sex toys, these kinds of toys.
Okay, sometimes I carry one sex toy around. Or two.
My favorite toy, the Rock Chick. Proof positive that size doesn’t matter.
- I’ve always wanted a penis of my very own. The harness & dildo only go so far, and while the Feeldoe is awesome, it’s not the same thing. Of course, I want it to be interchangeable with my tunnel of looove.
- I used to dress up as Princess Leia (as the Ubese bounty hunter, Boushh) and go to scifi conventions, until someone stole my head. (That’s not me in the first link, she’s just wearing my costume. Okay, it’s her costume, but my mom helped me make mine so it’s better. This gal looks hotter than I ever did, though. I so want to peel her out of that.) I still go to comic conventions. I dress up sometimes, but I need bigger breasts to do the costumes justice.
- I’m an exhibitionist and I have BDD. Figure that one out.
- I don’t drink much soda, but when I do, I like to drink Pepsi. However, I can only drink it if it’s in a can or a fast-food cup that has a lid–and I have to use a straw. Looking at the fizzy brownness completely grosses me out.