The Demon Stain

This week has truly been a failure of adulting.

A week ago I decided to actually pay real money to a real gym (I have never done this before in my life) and take exercise classes in an attempt to look less like an amorphous blob and more like something that has, I don’t know, curves? A general shape? I’ve so far taken three intense classes in one week and managed to both gain weight and discover that my arms are weaker than noodles. (The exercise coach kept demanding the girls use a minimum of 15 pound weights, meanwhile I’m huddled in the corner barely lifting my measly 8 pounder wishing it was a quarter pounder, if you know what I mean). Not only that, I’m so sore it hurts to walk downstairs, upstairs, and on level surfaces.

These exercise classes have ruined my life in more ways than one. After the second class,  I changed into my work clothes and realized I forgot to bring clean underwear. I was forced to wear sweat-soaked, olfactory-sense-killing, weirdly stained underwear the rest of the day. (The day went by without anyone mentioning the smell or fainting in my presence, which I considered a victory). When I got home, I discovered that the deodorant I had thrown in my backseat after working out had melted in the extreme heat and left a large stain on the upholstery of my car. My 6-month-old leased car.  My 6-month-old leased car that my dad helped pay for. The same dad who is coming to visit me in a week and who will ride in my car and inevitably find the stain as parents are wont to do and will be forever disappointed. I have already cried in the car, begging the stain to go away and feeling in general like a stain on planet Earth. My boyfriend (bless his heart) has since hired a car cleaner who specifically deals with stains that will disappoint your parents — the guy set to work this morning and is still trying to scrub the stain out as I type this. He is baffled by the tenacity of the stain and is going to come back on Tuesday with new and stronger chemicals. It is assumed to be a demon stain of an unknown variety.

To top it off, we have a high school intern at work who I keep trying to impart wisdom on, hoping she won’t notice the way I’m hobbling around from being too sore, or the fact that my underwear smells like I shit in it and then fermented it and then wore it for a week straight, or the fact that I have a weird stain in my backseat. We were picking up lunch the other day and I was doing my civic duty of teaching her how much wiser I am because I have lived seven more years than her, when she points out that a meter maid is giving me a ticket TWO MINUTES after the meter expired. As I tried to fight it, he shrugged and said, “Once I start writing the ticket, I can’t stop.” The intern gave me a look that said, “If I’m doing this much better than you and I’m only in high school, I’m gonna be a millionaire by your age.” Too right, intern. Too right.

The Exhilarating Game of Poop Chicken

Hi internet friends. I missed all of you. I missed blogging. I missed that anonymous net of support that comes when something really embarrassing happens to me and I get to tell all of you about it. Here’s a silly story to get back into the swing of things.

The other day I picked up lunch for my office (I now have a job where my main responsibility is to make sure everyone gets fed) from Tender Greens. The drive over, I felt a poop coming on and knew this was a great opportunity to do my business far away from the confines of our tiny office space. I had a plan going in:

Step 1. Go to the bathroom and poop.
Step 2. Pay for and pick up the food.
Step 3. Leave, feeling like a champion.

I entered the bathroom and discovered it was empty, which is great because otherwise I couldn’t have carried out step 1 (see this post for a detailed list of my pooping conditions). I slipped into the stall and settled in, elated at the thought of relieving myself. And then, the dreaded sound — some goddamn bastard walked into the bathroom and seated herself in the stall next to me. Okay, this isn’t the worst, I thought, annoyed. I’ll just wait it out until she leaves, and then proceed with step 1. So I waited. And waited. And finally realized that this girl had the same plan I had and we were now locked into a game of Poop Chicken. Intrigued and horrified at the same time, I lasted thirty heroic seconds before sucking my poop further back into my lower intestine, flushing the toilet, and shamefully leaving my stronger opponent to her well-deserved business.

At the counter, I paid for and checked all the food, and then had to awkwardly hand all of the food back to the cashier so I could use the bathroom. I’m sure she thought I was an idiot for not going before getting all the food, but if only she knew about my close call only moments before… Step 2 complete, I retreated to the bathroom and triumphantly discovered it to be vacated once again. I sat down on the familiar toilet (hello, old friend) and with the comfort that comes with being completely alone, I let that poop flow out of me like honey. It felt liberating. I almost enjoyed it, until — SPLASH! I whipped my head to the stall next to me and heard the telltale noises of a pooper. I nearly fainted. Some sneak had been hiding in a stall and avoided my vacancy check. And now we were pooping simultaneously. Someone in LA now knows that I poop. Terrified, I performed a cursory wipe before properly finishing and darted out of the bathroom. I grabbed all the food from the confused cashier and ran to the car, uncomfortably feeling the effects of a poorly executed wipe. Once back at the office, I had to inform my colleagues that we can never go back to Tender Greens and no, I will not be taking any questions about it.

The Third Most Traumatizing Event To Ever Happen to Me Happened Last Week

Man Friend (from here on out I’ll refer to him as Monkey JUST BECAUSE) and I recently adopted a cat. It took me three months to convince him it was a good idea, and he finally came around due to the persistence of me, his friends, and the gun I put to his head. He agreed, but not without conditions, first and foremost: the cat will not be allowed on our bed lest we inhale cat fur while we sleep (or he rolls over the cat at night). By our cat’s (Theo) second night at home, Monkey was sitting on the bed trying to coax Theo to jump up and cuddle, all his previous conditions promptly thrown out the window. They’ve been pretty good friends ever since, and to my extreme disgust I think Theo likes Monkey more than he likes me.

After Theo had been home for one day, we discovered his favorite place in our apartment was the windowsill. (It should be noted we adopted him on one of the hottest weekends in Los Angeles, and the poor guy was panting and slightly afraid after we trained four fans on him). We went around our apartment and closed every window where the screens weren’t secure considering we were on the second floor. After one terrifying day where it reached 105 in our apartment, we decided to open some windows that we normally keep closed so Theo could hopefully not die.

Let me set the scene. It’s night. Our entirely black cat has blended into the window screen so we don’t notice he’s there until we’re in bed. I inquire, “Isn’t that a window we usually keep closed?” Beat. Then Monkey and I both jump up to grab Theo, which causes him to jerk backwards in surprise, and then he’s gone. There’s a quiet moment where our hearts drop out of our butts and Monkey sticks his head out the window and then everything happens at once. I literally start sobbing the contents of the Pacific Ocean repeating, “Is he okay? Is he okay?” Monkey says he thinks he saw Theo take a step, and then we both bolt downstairs. I’m still sobbing (“Isheokayisheokayisheokay”) while Monkey runs barefoot over the loose gravel to grab our cat. He retrieves Theo and holds him to his chest and I can’t really see him and we run upstairs and collapse on the floor in a big heap and that’s when Monkey starts crying too. Now we’re both a big sobbing mess and Theo seems fine, if not a little shocked. He slowly starts to regain his senses, realizes these sniveling humans are holding him too tight, bites Monkey’s hands and runs to his food bowl. We make sure he’s not limping and shower him with treats and for the rest of the night we’re pretty much traumatized. We watch Bob’s Burgers to decompress, and worry the rest of the night that we’re terrible, irresponsible cat parents who should have cat social services called on us. We close every window in the house while sobbing and wishing ourselves into Cat Hell, all the while Theo is licking his balls like nothing happened.

Because I am an unabashed cat lady, here are cat pics:

Theo’s first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

Theo sleeping on the windowsill. I KNOW I’M BIASED BUT HE’S SO CUTE.

PMS, Period Diarrhea, and The Missing Tampon String

This morning I got my period. This isn’t usually a pleasant experience for anyone, but for me it’s particularly bad. The week leading up to my period, I get PMS, which stands for: “I am a fragile baby animal with many emotions”. Once, in the throes of PMS, I sat on the kitchen floor crying because we ran out of peanut butter. Two nights ago, PMS reared its ugly head and I sobbed to Boyfriend that I had no friends and our cat didn’t even like me even though I literally only adopted him so that I could have a friend. In addition to my breakdowns, I get period-diarrhea, headaches, cramps, and several times throughout the day I have to peek inside my pants because I think my period started when it actually hasn’t. I imagine my uterus snickering, “Made you look!” every time this happens.

When my period finally hits, the first day is like full-on periodgeddon. The diarrhea comes full force, chunky blood (yes, I said chunky) gushes out of me like Niagara Falls, and my uterus cramps so bad I can do nothing but ingest a ton of extra-strength ibuprofen and curl into fetal position (THIS IS SADLY NOT AN EXAGGERATION). Today is no different. Except now I have a cat. He’s usually kind of a douche but he was very loving today, which turned out to be weird when I sat on the toilet letting the diarrhea flow and he jumped onto my lap, purring. I was torn between being grossed out or touched but he was too happy to move so I let it happen.

Anyway, I’m writing this post because I was g-chatting Boyfriend while he was at work, relaying every gruesome detail about my nether regions with a sadistic pleasure. He offered to get me more tampons because I was running out, so I sent him a picture of the EXACT box (Playtex/Sports/Super+Regular) that I wanted lest he become lost in the tampon aisle. I told him I believed in him before excusing myself to change my tampon. In the bathroom, I couldn’t find the tampon string. This happens occasionally, and normally it’s squished up against my vagina. But this time was different. This time it took me a minute to discover there was no string. Meaning, there was only one place to look. INSIDE MY BLOODY VAGINA. When this realization struck me, I cried. Then I texted my mother and sister calmly stating, “I CANT FIND MY TAMPON STRING HELP ME”. I then g-chatted my boyfriend updating him on the terrifying turn this day took (panicked, he asked if I should go to the doctor, but after consulting the interwebs I informed him tampons are too big to fit through the cervix, duh, so the only place it could be was my vagina and the only way to get it was to dig around and aren’t you glad you’re a man?!). Knowing what was coming, I stood in the bathroom crying “fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck nononononono”. I really didn’t want to dig around for this stupid fucking tampon. It’s not like it would harm me to do so. It’s just that at that moment, the thought of sticking a fist into my bloody vaginal depths made me feel a little nauseous. I accept that I’m a wimp.

After many minutes of a self-pep-talk, I finally bit the bullet. My fingers plunged in (it wasn’t nearly as nice as the last time my fingers were in there) and searched around for a while until I finally grasped the string. And, as I pulled it, I discovered the end of the string was burrowed into my butt crack. What a beautiful ending to the story. When my hand emerged from down below and I threw the vindictive tampon away, I looked as if I had plunged my hand into somebody’s chest and ripped out their heart. Now I know what it would look like if I had tried to stop someone from bleeding out. I vigorously washed my hands as my cat sat in the corner wondering who the fuck I had just murdered. People make fun of me for preferring pads but this NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED if I was wearing a pad. Ugh. I’m ready for a hysterectomy.

What Sadistic Bastard Invented Eyebrow Threading

I’ve been ping-ponging the decision for months whether or not to get my eyebrows threaded. Half of me really didn’t want to because I’ve done it once before and it felt like someone was lighting a match by striking it against my eyebrow hair. The other half of me was egged on by my mother (who loves pointing out my excessive hair) and Man Friend (who called my eyebrows “interesting”, which we all know is code for “horrifying”). After staring in the mirror one fateful Friday and seeing this reflection:

Source via

…I decided to make an appointment at a threading salon.

On the way there, I felt as if I was heading to my execution and took some steps to calm myself down. First, I imagined Coach Taylor, taking a knee, waxing some inspirational mantra along the lines of “Clear eyes, full hearts, thin eyebrows.” Then I queued up a podcast on my phone so I could listen to it and hopefully distract myself from the pain. Desperately, I hoped it would either be super busy in the salon and no one would pay attention to me, or I would be the only patron so strangers couldn’t watch my humiliation. The worst would be a small handful of people waiting for their turn who have nothing to do but sit around and watch me cry with static-y pop music mocking me in the background. Which, of course, is exactly how it turned out.

I wish I could say it didn’t hurt at all and I didn’t cry and my body didn’t spasm every time the thread came for me and my podcast successfully distracted me. Alas, twas not the case. Not to mention my pain and embarrassment were heightened by the threader lady smirking at me every time she ripped out some hairs. After what felt like years in Hell I was finally released to look at my reddening eyebrows in the mirror. I didn’t see any difference. How can it be possible that she spent twenty minutes delivering excruciating pain to my face and yet I couldn’t tell the difference?! Okay, maybe there was a slight difference. I guess my eyebrows went from the picture above to this:

Source via

I HATE that women are expected to look a certain way and do certain things, especially because I think I’m mentally too weak to return every week (my hair grows back so fast you’d think I’m taking Rogaine). After getting home and attempting to forget the traumas from earlier, I gave myself an impassioned speech about how women shouldn’t conform to society’s beauty standards and if I fucking wanted to avoid weekly pain and keep my hairy eyebrows then I deserved to look like Sam the Eagle and not be looked at weird! One week later I noticed some hair growing back around my eyebrows and immediately made another appointment at the salon. One day, I will stop caring. Until then, I will embrace the smirks from the threader lady and weep quietly into my pillow while admiring my Eugene Levy eyebrows.

The Cliché Post About How It’s Okay To Not Have Everything Figured Out at 22 Except Is It Really Okay?!! Oh God, Someone Employ Me!

I am currently unemployed, which is a terrible, terrifying thing. As someone who has been working at least part-time since she was 13, finding myself suddenly in the absence of a cash flow has been a black hole of despair. I mean, I guess unemployment is scary for anyone, but for me, an over-achiever with anal parents and an impeccable grade history, being unemployed at 22 and unable to get even an assistant job in the industry I want…well, let’s just say my parents would take it better if I told them I was pregnant and Carrot Top was the father. To put it bluntly, I feel like a loser and am constantly plagued with thoughts like, What if I never get another job ever again? What if I have to abandon my dream of writing and fall on my backup plan of becoming a zookeeper? What if I’m a bad zookeeper? What if I have to move in with my mother? Who will show up to my funeral?? And from there it’s a quick hop and a jump to writing my will. Man Friend says I’m being too hard on myself, so I put together a list of pros and cons to prove to him that I’m not being hard on myself, my life is, in fact, shit:

Pro: I have time to work on my writing
Con: By “writing” I mean “browse Facebook and envy those more employable than me”

Pro: I have time to do household errands
Con: This means spending all the money I have left on things like finally getting my car’s steering wheel to stop listing to the left, buying art for our all-white-mental-hospital walls, and adopting a cat (no really, I adopted a cat)

Pro: I have time to network with people
Con: A friend who is writing on a show introduced me to the other writers and when they asked what show I was writing for, I had to respond with, “Oh, I’m actually just…developing from home…”

Pro: I have more time to exercise
Con: I have more time to lament about the current state of my life

Pro: I have time to submit article ideas to websites I love
Con: They don’t like my article ideas

Pro: I have time to keep the house clean and cook more
Con: When Boyfriend comes home and the house looks like a war zone and we’re having leftovers for dinner, I can’t exactly pretend my day was productive

Pro: I have the ability to take a job on last-minute notice
Con: No is offering me a job on last-minute notice

The good news is I just found out I got an internship on the Warner Bros lot. The bad news is it’s unpaid and I’ll be the only college-graduate intern, which basically means my life is now a Vince Vaughn/Owen Wilson comedy. Here’s to hoping in twenty years I can joke about that stint I was an unemployed 22-year-old intern while lounging in my mansion surrounded by thirty cats.

Lessons Learned: Never Leave the House When You Have a Crusty Zit

Friday night was one of those nights where I should’ve stayed in but instead I went out. My hair was greasy (I hadn’t showered in three days), I hadn’t shaved my moustache or chin, I wore workout clothes (even though I don’t remember the last time I worked out), my sweatshirt had a stain with an unknown origin on the front, and I had a giant zit on my chin (not even the small, forgivable, red kind; it was the angry, crusty kind because I had been picking at it). Man Friend was even like, “Hey, it’s totally cool if you want to stay in and order pizza and not embarrass yourself”. I should’ve listened. Instead, I fixated on eating at this new dinner place that serves bacon grilled cheese with a cracked egg on top because I am determined to get fatter in addition to already having crusty zits.

We got to the restaurant around 9 PM because it took me two hours to decide whether or not to stay in or go out and let the public see me in this state. When we finally arrived, starving and broken, the hostess had the nerve to tell us it was going to be a 45-minute wait. Dreams crushed, we decide to walk around and find another option. THREE RESTAURANTS LATER (one said they were open on Yelp when clearly they weren’t, one only served coffee and pastries, and the other also said they were open on Yelp when they clearly weren’t — Is this some kind of joke to you, Koreatown?! Do you enjoy tricking hungry Yelp users into coming to your closed restaurant?!!), we ended up back at the initial bacon-grilled-cheese-egg-on-top restaurant just in time for our name to be called. And that’s when I saw him. I was standing outside the restaurant trying to look like a patron as opposed to a homeless person when I saw Kyle (my Freshman crush whose nose I broke) walking towards me. In a moment of brilliant immaturity, I covered my face in my arms and face-planted onto the table. If he had called my name I wouldn’t have put it past myself to just cover my ears and yell “I can’t hear you!” My mentally-ill-homeless-person disguise must have either fooled him or scared him because he didn’t approach me.

I immediately found Man Friend and 1) told him the dramatic backstory and 2) gave him the once-over because all of a sudden he represented how much I was succeeding in life. He didn’t look much better than me. Man Friend responded by A) saying Kyle looked like a douche and B) not giving a shit about any of this. Feeling like our stomachs were about to eat themselves, we decided to stay in the restaurant and eat the meal, but not until I made Man Friend switch places with me so that I wasn’t in direct eyeline of anyone walking in (i.e. Kyle). I nervously scanned the restaurant, dreading when the waitress would seat him, and didn’t calm down until the tables on either side of us were filled because if Kyle was seated next to us I would have died an extremely painful death and brought the whole restaurant with me. Kyle walked in with a guy (AKA not a supermodel with a vagina AKA THANK YOU FOR SMALL MIRACLES) and was seated two tables over from us. This is when I experienced a series of what-ifs. What If, when Man Friend asked me to stay in, I had responded with, “YES, I will stay in and not terrify the rest of the world with what I look like right now.” What If I had groomed myself before going out? What If I had decided to eat out quicker and we left two hours earlier? It would have been so easy. But no, I had to have that bacon-grilled-cheese-with-an-egg-on-top because if I know anything about myself, it’s that food comes before dignity.

I simultaneously shoved half the grilled cheese in my mouth and asked for the check. Man Friend was disappointed he couldn’t eat more. I walked out of that restaurant so fast I think I may have actually burned a calorie. If Kyle saw me, he didn’t say anything. Briefly, as I was speed-walking away, I wondered if I should’ve said something to him if only to have a good blog post to write about. I quickly came to my senses. Am I really at that point in my life where I would willingly go up to a former crush with a crusty zit on my face just to get a good blog post? No. No, I’m not. (Give it a week or two).

My OKCupid Profile, for Your Amusement

Disclaimer: Hello again! I’ve been MIA for a while, but I’m now unemployed and therefore very capable of posting every week. Plus I missed your anonymous faces.

While I was on OkCupid, I had this deep fear that someone I knew would come across my profile. Not because I was embarrassed to be on OkCupid, but because I didn’t want them to see what I looked like in desperate “I hope you find me attractive” mode (ew, gross). In person, both in dating and platonic situations, I feel like I come across as fairly normal, nice, and reserved. If you met me in person you probably wouldn’t guess that a peen has touched my b-hole. On the internet though, probably because of the anonymity, I come across as a crazy, self-deprecating, loud-mouthed motherfucker who has definitely had her b-hole breached by a peen.

This does not translate well to online dating. Not surprisingly, I’m bad at selling myself as someone you could potentially see as a date. My self-deprecating sensibility combined with my concerning habit of telling the world about my most embarrassing, horrific moments hasn’t snagged me a bunch of winners. Case-in-point, the OkCupid profile I crafted last year. Then-Carly thought this thing was a fucking piece of genius. Now-Carly is slightly wiser.

I present to you my annotated OkCupid profile, which was written with the actual belief that it would attract normal, wonderful human beings.

Brought to you by OkCupid and a year of being single.

So I Guess Hairy Legs Aren’t Sexy?

I’m not quiet about the fact that my leg hair and I have a rocky relationship, which can mostly be summed up by me doing everything short of plucking each individual hair out and my hair going “Fuck you and fuck your mother”, and then promptly growing back in the next two hours. Understandably, I’ve given up on this endless war and have resorted to shaving my legs on a schedule that depends on the weather. For example, if it’s cold and rainy, I won’t shave. If it’s sunny, I won’t shave. So basically, I don’t shave. If I do, it’s because I woke up super motivated to be an adult for the day and after shaving will proceed to clean my room and do laundry. So, like, once a month.

A couple weeks ago, my man friend and I were making out on his bed and when we realized where it was headed, we both stopped to quickly assess if we had accomplished enough personal hygiene for the day to be seen naked. A quick sniff and a fond memory of my last shower, I decided I was good to go. “So, shower after?” he asked. I nodded and we resumed where we left off. I pulled off my jeans and he grabbed my legs and suddenly paused. “Actually, let’s shower now.” “What? Why?” “It’s just… it’s a little… prickly right now.” I felt my face get hot, and then, oh the horror!, I started leaking embarrassing tears probably because I’m horribly insecure and his dislike of my physical appearance confirmed my worst nightmares. But that’s just a guess. Before he knew what was happening my furry legs and I ran into the bathroom and started shave-sobbing.

The more I shave-sobbed, the more my anger built, and with each stroke of the Razor of Justice, I spewed a rant through the bathroom door that included some, if not all, of the following statements: Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t you know what feminism is?! I don’t get turned off by your body hair! You’ve been tricked by the social beauty construct! Society! Big Brother! What about the hippies?! How do female Yetis get laid?! It was then that the angry/conflicted texting to my sister began. ME: So Man Friend basically told me he’d rather I shave my legs before sex and I can’t decide if I’m really really pissed at him or if that’s a valid opinion. SISTER: Well, it’s a socialized opinion. I mean, we shave our armpits and legs and pubic hair because we’re taught that women are only sexy when they’re hairless. ME: I FUCKING know that. (I’m a douchebag-know-it-all when I’m mad). SISTER: I know. So it’s hard to fight against socialized preferences. You can for sure but it’s uphill.

We exchanged some “Ugh, society” texts for a while and after we were done I started to feel better. And I realized something. Society aside, I want to make my partner happy. I definitely make him do certain things for me because I like it (for example, I love when he doesn’t cut his hair too short and whispers sports facts to me), so if he wants me to shave my legs, then by golly I’ll shave my legs. As long as he doesn’t say anything about the bushiness of my eyebrows, because I am NOT enduring the public humiliation and pain of getting my eyebrows plucked in the middle of busy mall again. No fucking way.

Cause Baby Now We’ve Got Bad Breath

A couple weeks ago at work I got so busy that I literally had no time to eat anything. My stomach, normally accustomed to snacks every minute or so, was freaking the fuck out. When I finally returned to the office after running errands, I grabbed the first edible thing I could find: Mustard and Onion chips. Seeing as it was 5 PM and they were the first thing I had eaten all day, they tasted like freedom, or early retirement, or Zac Efron’s nipples. I ate a bag and a half before dusting myself off and retreating to my desk, where my horrified coworkers recounted watching something similar on Animal Planet.

Exhausted from the day, I was ecstatic to see Boyfriend when I got home. Now, I had just absorbed a shit ton of Mustard and Onion artificial flavor, which in hindsight should have been a red flag for me to keep my mouth shut until I got near some mouth wash. But I remained blissfully unaware, ignoring those flags like the pile of unopened envelopes on my kitchen table from something called the DWP. When I finally saw Boyfriend, I jumped all over him, kissed him a bunch of times, and told him all about my day, much to his utmost horror. Looking back, I can recognize the signs of him turning his head away from me every time I spoke, subtly trying to hide his gagging, and generally keeping a distance of at least fifteen feet from me. But in the moment, I was content to exhale my toxic fumes all over the place.

That night we walked to Ralph’s together and while I browsed the aisles, picking out the items from our grocery list, he zoomed to the check out. When we met up again, I had our groceries and he had one thing: tic-tacs. “Why did you get tic-tacs?” I inquired. “Those weren’t on the list.” “Because…………” Boyfriend is bad at making excuses. “Because?” “Just……..because.” “Uh, okay.” As we walked home, he produced the tic-tacs and ate one. He offered me a handful. “Want some?” He was holding at least six in his hand. “Why? Do I have bad breath or something?” “Uh……..” It was then the night flashed before my eyes. The avoiding, the head-turning, the gagging. “Wait. I DO have bad breath?!” I was mortified. How could I not see it? Mustard and fucking Onion?! I don’t even know why that flavor exists! The only time someone would need Mustard and Onion simultaneously is if they were a hot dog in desperate need of condiments. I hate-spiraled the rest of the way back, convinced that there was no longer a situation in the future where Boyfriend could find me sexy. Not after he smelled my lovely aroma reminiscent of raccoons diarrheaing in a garbage can. When we returned I brushed my teeth so many times my gums started bleeding, which only made my appearance more disgusting (“Love me” I cried as blood poured out of my mouth, or something like that). Luckily for me, Boyfriend has forgotten about the whole incident and we’ve moved on (I think the sharp blow to his head I administered to induce short term memory loss helped).