Friday, February 24, 2017

Atrophy, Parking Lots, and Vera

Trigger/Content Warning (TW/CW): the following blog post contains mentions of masturbation and (anatomic) female sexual dysfunction. Reader discretion is advised.

The argument that probably would have swayed my decision to not remove my last ovary had nothing to do making babies, but rather the baby making process.

Had a fucking doctor told me that I was going to lose the ability to naturally achieve an orgasm, I more than likely would have said, "Wait, maybe I should do another cystectomy."

But nooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo.

Apparently folks with vajayjays don't think about sex every seven seconds, unlike folks with peniseseseses. Because social proper and media propaganda.

It gets kind of hard to not think one is keeping it 100 in the damaged goods section of this department store. But when your parking lot isn't properly taken care of, folks are less likely to visit and do business with you.

Yes. I am openly discussing (anatomic) female sexual dysfunction because I can't currently achieve an orgasm by, you know, natural means. The parking lot is no longer tarring and repaving itself and that tingly sensation well all bye bye.

Over the past couple of days, I have been actively trying (trying!) to rub one out for the sake of the siblinghood and my hand starts a fight with my brain, arguing over carpal tunnel preventative measures or some shit. *looks at rubbing wrist* Poor wrist. Poor hand. Poor fingers.

The parking lot has lost its natural spark and its sparkle.

This makes for one hella pissed hornet.

Sex is one of those few things I take great pleasure in, along with food, pissing off fellow transit passengers, Trapper Keepers, the Rolling Stones, and watching countless hours of game shows and professional wrestling.

Not only has the parking lot lost its spark, sparkle, and shine, the department store's manager has been in an internal tussle over whether or not to just close up shop or to keep the place open and save the jobs of those precious American employees made with Ukrainian parts.

This is absolutely unacceptable.

Is there a got damn union for department stores like mine to keep everything essential once that luscious luster rubs off quicker than I do?

I looked up on the interwebz how to solve this epic problem of the 21st century, and between sales pitches of certain proverbial snake oil cures and expensive lubricants and stimulations (YES, THIS AUTISTIC BRAT IS ACTIVELY LOOKING FOR STIMULATION FOR THEIR ATROPHIED VAGINA AND CLITORIS, FIGHT ME), I ain't found dickshit.

Um, Vera? Maybe it's time to see the doctor?

I was just there fucking last week! And the OB/GYN's office a couple of weeks ago! Well, maybe that's because I was kind of not interested in having sex, especially after the got damn emotional and psychological trauma.

And besides, I like to experiment before I have to go to a doctor and be all like: "Mom! This isn't working right!"

I'm not a contestant, I just accumulate muses. And with my bevy of muses, not a got damn one has been able to crank the Ford Model T to run like it should.

You know, this adulting bullshit is really getting on my last nerve.

Open forum: do you have any suggestions (before I resort to the got damn doctor) on how I can fix this small (no, fuck that; UNHOLY GOT DAMN EPIC MASSIVE) problem?

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