Being Daddy’s Little Girl


Picture it:
The doctor says, “One more push and you’ll get to hold your baby”. Mom takes a deep breath and pushes with everything she has left as
her husband holds her hand. Seconds later, the sounds of a newborn’s cry fills the room, as the doctor announces, “it’s a girl”, quickly swaddling her and handing her to her father. For the first time, this dad looks into the eyes of his new baby girl, she looking back at him. As tears roll down his face, he clutches his tiny bundle next to his heart and says, “I love you so much and, with God as my witness, I will objectify you from this day forward, while simultaneously demanding, under threat of physical harm, that no one else objectify you, which I will demonstrate by objectifying you. I will protect your vagina and its internal membrane with my very life”. Awwww, isn’t that sweet? Don’t you just squirt a tear picturing it?





I hate purity culture. It is gross. It is creepy. It is damaging. It perpetuates shame, sexist stereotypes and tropes, and rape culture. Worse, it is embraced and celebrated; with its ideals spouted as “raising the bar” with its rules about how girls and women should dress, behave, speak, and date. In purity culture, it starts early, with some sects involving a world of purity covenants, purity balls, purity rings, etc, in which fathers compel their young daughters (8-13 or younger) to “pledge” to remain “pure” until marriage. They use flowery language and euphemisms about sex, purity, chastity, and wax on about being the protector of said purity until the right man proves himself worthy with a walk down the aisle to assume the role from the father. Peel past the bullshit and you see little girls granting their fathers ownership of their bodies, their vaginas specifically, until her wedding day, in which he will transfer ownership to her husband. Purity culture proponents have found their poster child this week, in this story of a bride’s gift to her father on her recent wedding day:

In case it isn’t clear, this is a picture posted to Instagram of a bride and her father dancing at her wedding. That’s fine. Nothing weird there. In the caption, however, she also shares that, on this day, she gifted her father with a certificate of “purity”, signed by a doctor. I repeat: at her wedding, she presented her dad with medical confirmation of an intact hymen. Evidently, this gift was presented in tandem with a purity contract she had entered into with her father (aka “the covenant”), at the age of 13. She then posted about it on social media, because why limit information about your hymen to just your family and wedding guests? Some might see that and think it is creepy as fuck. I know I did. From what I’m told, that’s only because I took some premarital spins on the cock carousel and, as I’m damaged goods, wouldn’t know pure love if it smacked me in the face with a hymen.

Today, as it’s always been, it’s rough raising daughters. Society hurls rules and advice to girls  about how to be a “lady”, which boils down to “cover up but be sexy”, “speak up and engage, but shut the fuck up about it”, “be assertive, but don’t be bossy”, “stand up for yourself, but be polite”, “don’t be a slut, but don’t be a prude, and nobody likes a tease”, “be yourself, but not completely”; and how to be safe, like “dress like someone who doesn’t want to get raped”, “act like someone who doesn’t want to get raped”, “take  measures of varying degrees to avoid rape (weapons, escorts, etc)”.  Life for girls from minute one is a sea of double standards and contradictions, so much so that they’ll grow into young women and adults that don’t bat an eyelash when friends and acquaintances label a girl a whore, because of what one guy said about her, but those same people don’t think 50 women telling the same story is enough proof to call Bill Cosby a rapist.


Parents: we all want to protect our children. Some of you are just focusing on the wrong goals. Fathers, you need to stop obsessing over your daughter’s vaginas. It’s just fucking weird. Realize that your daughters are autonomous human beings, capable of independent thought and, with the right support guidance, reasonable and responsible decision-making. They’re going to make mistakes. It has nothing to do with their vaginas, it has to do with their status as fallible human beings. If you want to help your daughters, empower them. I don’t mean with pink legos. Really empower her. Teach her that her body is hers. She owns it, she governs it. If someone or something makes her uncomfortable, she is not obligated to be polite. Teach her that words like “crazy” and “emotional” or “dramatic” are tools of manipulation and that if anyone responds to her boundaries with those words, it should only serve to prove those instincts rights.  Teach her that she has sexual agency. Steer away from shaming female sexuality so that she will believe herself that “no means no”, instead of question what she did, said, or wore to make that boy think her “no” meant “yes”, staying silent out of shame and fear of judgement. Don’t tell her that her vagina is the greatest thing she has to offer to a relationship. Stop teaching her that she can be spoiled, soiled, damaged, or rendered “impure” by demonstrating any degree of sexuality or agency.

One man in a room full of women would be, worst case scenario, annoyed, or thrilled, best case. One woman in a room full of men would be anxious; borderline terrified, best case scenario.

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Instead of teaching our daughters to beware, let’s teach our sons to be respectful.

It's Too Pretty To Hit


If you haven’t seen this video, take a minute to watch it. Go ahead, we’ll wait.



So, my social media feeds were inundated with this video the last couple of days and it was accompanied with unmitigated adulation. After scrolling past it when the first few friends shared it, curiosity finally got the better of me and I had to see what all the fuss was about. Not feeling the enthusiastic warm fuzzies everyone else seemed to experience at the end, I watched it again. Yeah, it didn’t get better. When I watched the video, I was overcome with a feeling of unease, not adoration.

I want to make it clear, right out of the gate, that my frustration with the video is not directed at the children involved. I place the blame for that which I consider problematic squarely on the shoulders of the adults overseeing this “project”. So, with that said, where do I begin?


The video begins with each boy, one by one, being asked their name, their age, what they want to be when they grow up and why. A girl is brought in, and we, along with the boys, learn her name, “Martina”. The boys are asked, “What do you like about her”. The answers include, “her hair”, “her eyes”, “you’re a pretty girl”, and “I’d like to be your boyfriend”. The first instruction they are given is to caress her. The initial look that passed over Martina’s face when the request was spoken looked, to me, at minimum, uncomfortable. One by one, the boys are shown, caught somewhere between apprehension and excitement, running a hand down her arm, or caressing her face. The boys are then instructed to make a funny face for Martina, to which they each oblige and, yet, Martina’s reactions aren’t shown any more than in passing. Then—BUM BUM BUUUUM–we hear the director demand that they slap the girl. “Slap her hard”. The boys react like they’ve just heard the DJ scratch the record to total silence.  This face sums it up. slap


All of the boys refuse to hit Martina. They are then asked why they refuse. They say, “you don’t hit girls”, “I don’t want to hurt her”, “I can’t hit her because she is pretty and she is a girl”, “girls shouldn’t be hit with a flower”, and (my favorite answer), “I’m against violence”, but the closing quote, the answer that tied the ribbon on this adorable little package is, “because I’m a man”. The closing quote on the screen is, “In a kids world, women don’t get hit”.

Are the kids adorable? Absofuckinglutely. I watch it and I know the boys names, ages, future goals and their reasons for that goal. I can say from what we see and hear from them, that these boys seem sweet, precocious, happy, and intelligent. I know Martina’s name. That is all. She isn’t asked any questions and if she ever uttered a word in this process, it wasn’t deemed worthy of inclusion. It’s hard not to notice that, as far as the video’s producers were concerned, Martina’s worth begins and ends with her appearance. Her name is Martina and she is pretty. That’s all we need to know. The boys are asked what they like about her, as if she is a new toy. They all respond only with comments about her physical appearance. Martina still isn’t invited to speak, to reciprocate, or respond. Then comes the one part that really made me double take, when they are asked to caress her. Now, let me preface this by saying, I am not insinuating or accusing these children of any acts of impropriety. I think their response/interactions were completely innocent. What I do take issue with, however, is the adults involved that seemed to treat Martina with the same amount of regard one would a cardboard cutout and encouraged the other children to do the same.

It could be assumed, I suppose, that Martina did consent to being touched, even though she looked as surprised as the boys, if not more, when the instruction,”caress her”, was stated. Some may say it is nitpicking, but, in my opinion, teaching our children about bodily autonomy, their own and others, and consent is of paramount importance. For me, consent is a concept, the importance of which, I cannot stress enough. Our daughters shouldn’t accept being treated as pretty objects that should accept uninvited, unwelcome, and/or unwanted touching. I want my sons to respect the bodily autonomy of females, the way they would their male peers. Simply put, the adult urging the boys to touch Martina, in the absence of any input or permission from Martina rubbed me the wrong way.

When they are asked to make funny faces, we see Martina’s response as barely more than a passing glance in each shot. It gets to the BIG FINISH, when the boys are told to slap her, we get a quick glimpse of her balking, standing next to one of the boys, then it is mostly full shots of the boys reacting and responding, in refusal, though there are momentary glances of her in a few shots.

The takeaway from this video is the same old tired bullshit, that girls and women aren’t worthy of respect and freedom from violence because of our humanity, but because our bodies are made of whispers and butterfly wings that should not be mishandled, unless, maybe, you don’t meet the minimum conventional standard of beauty. Let me reiterate, I don’t think the message perpetuated here is the fault of the children. They just showed up for a casting, answered questions, and followed cues. The message is the vision and intent of the adults behind the scenes. Sure, we could  say “don’t hit women” is a good message. I mean, you can’t say it’s bad. I’d just prefer that there be some context other than, “women are pretty and shouldn’t be hit”. I rather liked the answer, “I don’t believe in violence”. I don’t know why that didn’t make it as the moral of the story, since hitting should be a no-no, regardless of gender. I also don’t like the way the video reduces Martina to a glorified prop. The point the video attempted to make would have seemed more authentic if we, the audience, were given an opportunity to know Martina the way we were introduced to the boys. There was no attempt, whatsoever, to humanize her for us or for the boys being instructed to interact with her. The direction given to the boys, to say what they like about her, to touch her, to slap her, didn’t treat Martina as a person. She wasn’t invited to engage. She was dehumanized, if anything. She was only a prop. A pretty prop.

Look, gender politics be damned. Just teach children not to hit, period. Don’t teach girls that they are delicate flowers that need protecting. Give them a voice. Tell them they don’t have to accept being touched. Hell, they don’t even have to oblige strangers who will demands that they smile. Teach children about respect for autonomy, their own and others. and about consent.

Don’t even get me started on the video  closing with the boys being told, “kiss her”, and the child asking the adult, not Martina, where he could kiss her.

So Much To Blog, So Little Time

It seems not a day has passed for the past week or so that hasn’t made me say, “That calls for a blog”. I had a giveaway planned with the awesome ladies at, but had to push that back because the universe had other plans for me, but I will get back to setting that up as soon as I get all this out. bs324

First order of business: Several celebrity women were the victims of a hacker, who stole and shared photos of them in various states of undress. Presumably, because, as an Academy Award winner, she is arguably the most famous of the victims, Jennifer Lawrence has become the unwitting forefront of this violation, though the victims include multiple women, including Victoria Justice, Kirsten Dunst, Ariana Grande, to name a few.

The story broke, being called a “SCANDAL”. What should be disturbing is, this label wasn’t referencing the theft and distribution of these picture. The SCANDAL being cited was that these pictures existed, in the private possession of these women. Rather than admonish the person(s) whom, without the knowledge or consent of these women, obtained and distributed their personal, private, intimate photos, the resounding response was to blame the victims. Evidently, if these women want to know where to point the finger of blame, they need to turn it at themselves for choosing to create the pictures. Since these women all possess some degree of celebrity status, there seems to be little consideration of even an eligibility for an expectation of respect, much less privacy. It seems that many people think that, if you are a public figure, you belong to the public and nothing is off-limits. This was nothing short of a cold serving of justice for women who would do the unthinkable by being human, with actual personal lives and sexual relationships and thinking they were entitled to privacy. twi

These women are public figures and, more importantly, they are attractive. What did they expect to happen when they took photographs in various states of undress with no mention of or intention of sharing them with the public? It’s like women think that they have the right to decide if, when, and with whom they share their bodies. When will we learn that, as women, we don’t belong to ourselves. If you have the audacity to demonstrate any ounce of sexuality, much less sexual agency, you have no one to blame but yourself. Just like, if you don’t want to get raped, don’t get drunk in tight clothes; if you don’t want people stealing your nude photos, don’t take nude pictures in complete privacy or protect them with logins and passwords. You’re just asking for it. Would you store your banking information online? Ha! I think not!

Another response that the invasion has sparked comes from those who, though they aren’t blaming the women, they think, since Jennifer Lawrence meets or exceeds the accepted standard of beauty, her response should be something like, “Fuck yeah, that’s me! Don’t hate me cuz you ain’t me, haterz”.

Other responses have included, “why isn’t there outrage when the woman down the street or the girl at school has her pictures stolen and passed around”, or “OMG! People are up in arms about stolen naked pictures and don’t give a shit about ISIS killing people!!!!”. To the first point, if you or I or any Janey Doe Public wants women, famous or not, to have legal recourse against these violations, it shouldn’t matter, nor be a surprise, if it comes from an event involving, not just one, but multiple women with the status, money, and influence to effect change. To the second point: I fucking hate the people who say this kind of shit. This is most likely the person that has, in the past, inundated your Facebook feed with Phil Robertson support memes, having made it clear with every defense of his, as well as, Chick-Fil-A and Paula Deen’s FREEDOM OF SPEECH, that they haven’t the foggiest understanding of what constitutes a violation of free speech. Today, though, they’ve decided any issue not involving human suffering or corrupt politics or anything else that the self-appointed “Matter-Meters” isn’t worthy of concern and, therefore, far too vapid a topic for Facebook. They are going to take the opportunity to mount their very high horse, named “Sanctimonious Dick Nipple”, and update their status to admonish all who have not mentioned civil unrest and political corruption, either in the US or abroad. You see, being concerned and outraged about crimes against women being perpetuated and excused and being aware of and concerned with incidents of violence, illness and corruption, here and abroad are mutually exclusive. Impossible. Like walking and chewing gum, I tell ya.


Stop blaming the women whose privacy was violated, whose property was stolen, who continue to be violated every time their pictures are sought out and viewed and shared. Those of you who seek out and distribute these pictures are no better than the person before you. You share in the culpability. These women are human beings. Their sexuality belongs to them. Their bodies belong to them. It is their choice, as it is any woman’s, when, how, and with whom they share their body, physically or otherwise.

Rules for Landing and Keeping a Man-FINALLY!

I saw THIS LIST and, thought, “FINALLY”! Rules! It’s been so hard to know the rules of being a lady and worrying if I’m doing a good enough job to keep my man. This is a relief that a man has finally taken the time to mansplain this for us women. When I read it, though, it was hard to understand, so I asked my husband to come explain the hard parts and big words for me and I’m bringing you the Cliff’s Notes.

Also, I know the by-line says “John Smith”, but am I the only one that thinks that Romeo, aka “Sleepless in Austin” has resurfaced? I can hardly contain my excitement!


So, there are 13 rules:


Ask yourself: When you get naked, does blood flow rush to or retreat from his penis? If you argue the validity of the BMI scale, you’ve probably got an ass made of excuses and cellulite. Don’t get me wrong, we men don’t want a bag of bones! We want you to have fat tits! I’d go for a couple of hours of cardio but don’t do many chest presses because boobs. As far as diet goes, don’t starve yourself but just don’t enjoy anything you eat. Your man can describe the taste of food for you.


Men don’t want you to change your hair color. We also prefer women without tattoos, only exceptions are dainty tattoos that can be hidden. Also, no piercings, unless it is something sexy like the belly button or tongue, one which will help our dicks pop from our pants when you are naked and the latter with which will help you get it back to normal.


We men understand that women are different from men, and lack any natural inclination towards ambitions like success or financial independence. We just want you to do the bare minimum here, so that you don’t have to depend on us financially. If you aren’t holding up that end, we men will make sure that you know that you are a financial drain and how much money we make compared to you, with diagrams and such to demonstrate the inequity of your income and your contributions. With that said, we do have egos that you need to coddle, so, if you happen to be in a higher income bracket, we don’t need you making a big deal about it and rubbing it in our face. That is a real boner killer. Nobody likes a boner killer.


Men don’t want to fuck manginas. We like lady vaginas.


This is part of acting like a lady. I don’t know where the whole idea of women submitting to men got such a bad rap. It doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion or a voice. It just means we don’t want to hear about your opinion. I mean, is it asking too much that you women bend over backwards and sacrifice a little bit of yourself and your dignity if it means you keep a man? This feminism bullshit has resulted in a lot of women thinking that men have any fucks to give about her needs or thoughts or opinions. What do you like to eat? What he likes to eat. What is your favorite type of music? Whatever type is his favorite. What do you want to watch on TV? Whatever he wants to watch on TV. Shut the fuck up, unless you are asking which clipper guard he wants you to use on his back before his 6pm blowie. A good man will sometimes even let you watch a show you like; at least until you’re done sucking him off, then we want the controller back.



Imagine you’re locked in a room with a group of people and you’re all starving. Someone in the group finds a peppermint in their pocket that they forgot about and says he’ll suck on it for a second and pass it on, as will the next person and so on. You love peppermints. They are your favorite, but you are pretty far down the line and by the time the peppermint gets to you, it is pretty used up and even dirty and all you wished is that you could have been second, because he got it when the flavor was perfect but before it was possibly ruined by everyone else’s hands and teeth and spit. See, you are like that peppermint, ladies. We men know that you women like to think that you have sexual agency, like men, but that is just something sluts say to rationalize slutting around. You want to be able to have indiscriminate sex, with multiple partners, and not be judged? Cry about that to the big man in the sky and pray you sprout a dick, princess. Dicks are keys, pussies are locks and what good is a lock that works with any key? Also, just because women are taught, practically from birth, that sex is their primary source of power and control, don’t you wield it just because I’m reiterating that lesson.



Men want women that are smart. Not smarter than us, though. Which is impossible anyways, so I don’t even know why I said that. LOL


This is the unspoken-spoken rule. Men don’t want women that have live in cock blockers. That goes double if you have multiple children and, if you have bi-racial children, don’t even breathe my oxygen. To think, you can just walk around with proof that you were penetrated by someone with dark skin—I shudder just thinking about it. I don’t care if the child’s father beat you, abandoned you, was good to you, or suffered a violent death. Everyone knows that when a man ends a relationship with the mother of his children, it also means he no longer wants to be a father. Men know that single women with children are only out there looking for replacement daddies for their children and want to trick you into taking responsibility.

FUN FACT: I’m an idiot that probably frequent a lot of MRA sites, since I think that simply forming a relationship with a child is grounds for legal enforcement of parental responsibility. I won’t explain or I’m ignorant to the significant details and extenuating circumstances involved in cases in which such precedent was set but what’s important is that you know, like I know, that women are all evil and only want your baby batter and/or your money to support their vagina shredders.


I don’t know why women’s progress has made domestic excellence so insignificant. I want a woman who will cook for her man! f I wanted a microwave meal or takeout, I’d ask you to take care of that for me. Oh, like I can just feed myself? Yeah, okay. I’m a man, man!


Men understand that you like to look pretty and want everyone to tell you how pretty you are via “likes” on social media. Some may argue that seeking such validation on a regular basis would indicate that you aren’t receiving it enough from us, but that is ridiculous. It’s your job to boost your man’s confidence, not the other way around. If you put your phone down, you might notice that there is a hard, throbbing, knob right by your face, longing for your attention. When my friends and I go out, we stack all of our phones in the center of the table, so we can be with the friends that ARE there. I saw it on Pinterest. Now, we are engaged with each other, rather than our electronics and can get to the important stuff like getting fucked and sucked.



I realize that some of this may sound demeaning, so I thought of something that sounds empowering and sensitive to women. You don’t need all that makeup, girl. Don’t support an industry that makes billions telling you that you aren’t good enough. Leave that to us men. You’re beautiful! It’s only unattractive when you wear too much makeup, or your bodies don’t look airbrushed, you have children, do black guys, don’t cook, or don’t want to have sex when your man wants to have sex. As long as all that and your vagina is copacetic, you’re perfect the way you are!


Since I was a sailor, I know how sailor’s curse, and nobody likes a lady that cusses like one, even a lady sailor. If you want to be treated like a fucking lady, you better goddamn act like one, bitch. I don’t respect women at all, but I have no tolerance for vaginas with potty mouthed heads.

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Men aren’t capable of a platonic relationship with women. At all. If a man forms a friendship with you, it is all a rouse to get into your pants. First of all, women are incapable of possessing or developing any traits, interests, skills or wisdom that would be of any interest to a man. He wants to pet your squish mitten. That’s all. I’ve had several relationships end because one of my girlfriend’s “guy friends” told her things like, “he doesn’t seem to respect you”, “if he cursed you out for cursing, that’s insane”, or “you’re a person and you should be treated with dignity”. These assholes filled these girls’ heads with this kind of bullshit, making them think they were worthy of more, and they left me. They think that they gave them this advice because they cared about them as a person, rather than their vaginas. It’s not about having trust issues. It’s about not wanting other people to provide any insight or encouragement to independent thought that might come between my relationship with your vagina.


I speak for all men. Any argument against any of these rules is void. If you have a man, in spite of straying from this formula, it’s because he is settling, even though, deep down, he is miserable.






Can You Put Your Tits Away? I’m Trying To Be Married, Here.


(UPDATE: Since this blog was taken down, rendering the link useless, I’ve found the full text of the original blog, which this was a response to and wanted to include it for context:


I can’t believe I’m writing this. I can’t believe I’m writing this. I can’t believe I used the word boobs in the title of this post.

I got enough purity lessons in high school to invoke a gag reflex any time I heard the word modesty. I remember wanting to crawl out of my skin when my Bible school teachers discussed appropriate *touching*. Ugh, that still makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little.

Growing up, my father carefully examined everything I wore out of the house. There was a stack of clothes in his closet that I was never allowed to wear, even if I had just ripped the $54.99 tag off. If it was too short, too tight, too low-cut, or too anything, it went in the pile in his closet.

Once I came home with this beautiful pair of khaki-colored stretch pants. The making of such a thing should be a sin to begin with, but I loved them all the same. I wore them out of the house one time, felt super hott {yes, with two ts} and into Dad’s closet they went.

Being the insightful teenager I was, I decided my father clearly didn’t want me to be happy. So I snuck into his closet, grabbed the pants, and double layered them with jeans on top. Once at school, I went into the bathroom and shed the outer layer, leaving my khaki stretch pants and all my glory to be seen.

On the way to my first class, after three Dang, girl! comments from {ahem} fine, upstanding young men, I realized why Dad had hidden those suckers away.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever confessed this to him. Hey, Daddy—ummm, sorry.

I’m not writing to tell all the teenage girls to respect their bodies. It’s a must, but plenty of people are saying that.

I’m not writing to chastise you for posting your bikini pics from your lake outing. I suppose we all have enough criticism via blog spaces.

But I am writing to share the perspective of a woman who is fighting for her marriage. And for that reason, I want to tell you that I don’t need my husband to see your boobs.

If I was skinny with rock-hard abs and legs from here to Mexico, I’d want to take lots of pictures of myself. Mostly naked. I would want to post them with a nice filter on Instagram, and share them with whoever might see.

By the grace of God I’m forever bound to the granny tankini with a built-in skirt. File that away with #thingsIneverthoughtI’dsay.

Anyways, what I’m saying is I don’t fault you. I don’t blame you for being confident enough to let the world see how good you look in front of the waves with your coozie and ballcap and barely anything else.

But I want to tell you that it’s a stumbling block in our marriage.

When I scroll through my news feed, my thumb moves in a continuous circular motion until something catches my eye and I want to look closer. And then I tap on the picture and make that little swipe with my thumb and pointer finger so I can zoom in just as close as I can to capture all the details.

I’m especially bad about this when there is a line of bathing suits in the pic. AND I’M A GIRL.

Mostly I’m looking at your legs asking myself, How are there seriously people without cellulite????

And then I continue scrolling through my feed until something else seems interesting.

I doubt my husband is so lucky. Actually, I know it’s next to impossible to take in images like those and erase them from his mind. Because our men are much less emotional and are much more visual. And as quickly as I can forget your picture, it is filed away in his mind, ready to be pulled back out whenever he so chooses.

Again, I am not faulting you. And by no means am I faulting him. This man of mine diverts his eyes from whatever questionable images flash on the screen before him. But sometimes the temptation is too much.

After Memorial Day, I noticed so much skin on social media that I half-yelled a warning to him as I ran out the door one morning. It’s summertime, honey! Beware the beach pics and half nude girls on Instagram! And like that, he was in solitary confinement from all virtual community for the next two days.

Protecting his eyes, protecting his heart.

I know you don’t mean anything by it. But I need to share one more thing with you.

When your bare shoulders and stretchmark-less bellies and tanned legs pop up, I not only worry if my husband will linger over your picture. I worry how he will compare me to you.

As I wrap myself into his arms at night, I wonder if he is seeing you there instead of my mess of a body left over from pregnancy. I wonder if he thinks I’m lazy and that I don’t take good care of myself. I wonder if he wishes I looked more like you than who I really am.

And then the insecurity monster comes back to bite at our relationship again…me, begging for affirmation, and him tiring from saying the same thing over and over.

So, I get it. You’re on vacation and you want people to know. You’re hanging out with your girlfriends and want to remember the moment. You had so much fun at the lake and you love your new *modest* bathing suit.

Can I say it one more time? I’m not judging you.

But would you, could you, keep your boobs out of my marriage? You can have your memories, and we can have our sacred hearts. And we can all get along in beautiful harmony.

Thanks, love. I think we’ll all be better for it



I’M BACK! Excited? I’ve been on hiatus and just waiting for inspiration and then today I read  THIS . I decided to do a rewrite.


Ohmygosh! I said that?! I typed the word “tits”! I can’t even say that word, y’all! When I tell people the title, I whisper “the t-word” as I discreetly point to my sin pillows. Then I feel awful when I suddenly remember that drawing any attention to my body, especially parts like my devil lumps, has the potential to destroy lives!

I think back to my Bible school days, when I learned to be ashamed of my body, like a proper lady. They would teach us about “inappropriate” touching, which was any touch not intended as discipline, even with my own hands! That lesson led to years of turmoil and guilt with regards to things like using toilet paper.

My Dad was such a square. He wouldn’t let me wear anything that was too short, or too tight, or too long, or too loose. I even went to doctor after doctor, hoping someone, anyone would be able to diagnose the cause of the heaving in my bosom. Daddy was always so worried about it, but, sadly, there is little known about this condition, other than it affects near 100% of women with breasts, and there is no treatment or cure, but I digress. Like I was saying, Daddy would veto everything I wore, even if it was brand new, telling me I looked too sexy, and to change. Then that was too sexy and so on and so forth. He would take all my sexy clothes away and keep them in his secret hiding spot in his room. One time I got a pair of stretchy khaki pants. I know! Khaki?! SLUT ALERT! AMIRITE?! Anyways, my Dad took them away immediately. He didn’t even see them on; he just saw khaki and called me harlot and snatched them away. I snuck in his room and stole them back and wore them to school the next day. After walking to class and having three (cough) gentlemen whistle at me and say perverse things like, “Daaaaaaaaamn girl”,  I realized that I had caused those young men, my peers, to have impure, lustful thoughts. That’s when I realized that my daddy had good reason for taking those pants. I mean, what if one of those boys, incited with lust because of my tight, camel colored pants, had lost control and raped me? That would have been my fault! What was I thinking? I knew I was lucky. What’s worse, is one of those boys, a freshman, had a girlfriend. They broke up our junior year and I’ve never gotten over the guilt that my khaki audacity was the ultimate cause of that relationship’s demise.

My point is, I’m not writing this to tell teenage girls to respect themselves and their bodies. I mean, everybody is spreading that message, and it’s important and all, but no one is actually talking about HOW to instill this in our girls. I think it is obvious that, if we want to teach young girls and women self-respect and dignity, we need to start with instilling shame. If you start early, girls will internalize these values, learning to hate and fear their bodies, which will soon translate into them shaming and judging their peers, which is sure to continue on into adulthood and beyond.

I’m getting off track. What I’m saying is, I’m not writing to say you shouldn’t post pics of you in a bikini at the beach, even though there are plenty of modest options for a self-respecting lady spending a day at the beach, like sweat pants and a nice oversized vacation Bible school t-shirt.

All I’m saying  is, I am married. When we stood before  God, my husband and I cemented our commitment. We took vows, for Pete’s sake. Yet here we are today, and I am fighting for our marriage, fighting for our family, fighting for our lives! This isn’t because we can’t keep our vows, it’s because all of you are disregarding them! So, if you don’t mind, STOP SHOWING MY HUSBAND YOUR TITS!

If I was thin, with a flat stomach and perky ta-tas, I’d totally be taking pics of myself in every state of undress, practically NAKED even, and showing them to everyone with a set of eyes or internet access. But I’m NOT, so I CAN’T! I have to wear a bathing suit/dress combination and there is no instagram filter that will make me not hate my body, okay?!

So, what I’m saying is, I don’t blame you for having the confidence to wear that string bikini. I think it is great that you are so self-assured that you even posted a picture so we can all see your perfectly toned body, clad only in a bikini. You are rocking that bikini too, girl! You look amazing! If I had your body, I’d live in a bikini all day, errrrday! It would be my Christmas card!  If I could make one request, though, I’d appreciate it if you could take a cue from me and find a way to replace a heaping helping of your confidence with some normal, healthy, crippling insecurity, which would prevent you from, at minimum, sharing your bikini pictures on social media, if not keep you from ever being seen in public in one ever again. See? I’m not unreasonable!

I am not judging! Not at all. I just want you to stop trying to destroy my marriage and break up my family.

When I log onto social media, I just scroll through and scroll through, until something catches my attention. Most times, it is one of you in a bikini or skimpy clothes, so I zoom in and zoom in and zoom in and–damn–that is as far as my zoom works? I thought the Ipad was supposed to be top of the line, but I don’t see how they got that reputation when the zoom capabilities could only be rivaled by an etch a sketch.

Mostly, I’m just examining your picture from every angle, at full zoom, piece by piece, praying, “please, God, I just need to find a stretch mark or a dimple to validate my hangups and insecurities. Amen” . Then I just scroll on and–you know–lather, rinse, repeat.

So, as you can see, I’m cool. Your pictures don’t hurt me. Want to know who you’re hurting? My husband. That’s who. You see, he is just a man. Like all men, he lacks the emotional capacity that is required for certain abilities, like exercising self-control or recognizing women as human beings. For men, the information processes do not continue past visualization. I read somewhere that the gravitational pull on the peen and balls is what is responsible for this significant difference between men and women, but I’m sure they teach that in biology or something.   So, with that knowledge, you should know that when my husband sees those images of you, with your long, tan legs and flat, toned stomach, it is etched in his memory indefinitely. I can forget your picture and move on. He doesn’t have that luxury. His eyes see it and, if his eyes like it, those eyes will store it in a spank bank (whatever that is–some medical term, I guess, but it sounds horrible) and will show it to him again and again.

Obviously, I’m not saying this is your fault! It absolutely isn’t. It’s also not my husband’s fault, though. My man diverts his eyes at ninja speed when he sees such images appear on his social media feed, posted by those that he voluntarily follows. I know some of you will say, “why doesn’t he just unfollow or hide people he doesn’t want on his feed”, but obviously those that would ask that question forget that he is a MAN. Tell that to his EYES! Okay? Think of it this way. My husband does not want to see your taut body and your full perky breasts, contained only by a minuscule piece of fabric and string. He turns away. You post another one. He tries not to see it but you keep giving him more to see, which he’ll never unsee! You’ve caused him, against his will and amid his protest, to SIN! You caused him to sin in his mind, in his heart, and, probably, in his hand. I’ll be glad when the day comes when I can call to report my husband being EYE RAPED again and they don’t laugh, hang up on me, fine me, or, especially, take me for another 72 hour hold. I hate those. This is serious and all of you are just getting away with it!
I remember Memorial Day, my feeds were inundated with barely covered, perfect breasts and dimple-less ass cheeks. I vaguely remember giving him a subtle heads up as I hurried out the door. It’s summertime! Beware of  Satan’s whores that rely on Instagram to tempt you to sin. They are blowing it up with their half-naked pictures with different filters. That was all it took. From that point on, for a couple of weeks or so, he isolated himself in the bathroom or the bedroom. Protecting his heart. Protecting his eyes. Evidently, he replaced that time which he’d have spent on social media with a new-found attention to skin care, because he was using so much lotion during that time.
I know you’re not destroying my life on purpose. Of course! I know that! COME ON! I’m not crazy! You’re misunderstanding me! So, if you don’t mind staying in my share circle a little longer, there is one more thing.

I don’t have any noticeable amount of self-esteem. Since my puritanical upbringing meant that I was objectified from an early age, resulting in me objectifying myself,  I was firmly instilled with the understanding that my body was not really mine. My body was for men, and my choices concerning it were two-fold: conceal it, covered away, as a gift for my future husband, or flaunt it, as a weapon, causing men to lust, and hope I’m lucky enough to avoid being raped. Since “love”, for men, has no emotional basis, only visual, the very site of your newest photo upload could be grounds for divorce. I’ve carried and birthed our child, so I have some stretch marks and jiggly parts and if my husband notices the difference, it’s curtains because sex is all I can bring to the table! Oh, I know! He’ll just love me for who I am as a person. SNORT! Yeah! Sure! Okay!

When he gets in our bed and he wraps his arms around me and says he loves me, I know what is really going on! I’m not stupid! I saw your picture with your bare shoulders and legs that go all the way up to your vagina. I know he couldn’t possibly love me after seeing that, and comparing it with my flappy arms, and stretch marks or my new-found ability to hold 3 pencils under my breast! I know his eyes saw your picture and he is just trying to stifle his gag reflex long enough to gain access into my penis cozy.

That point in the day inevitably arrives, where we end up having the same conversation every other married couple eventually has, I assume. I’m screaming, crying and telling him, “I’m ugly and you hate me, don’t you! You’re in love with Carol, aren’t you? Just say it! I saw you liked her pool picture on Instagram. DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND OUT? Why don’t you love your family?”, and he’s looking all innocent and confused, denying it, trying to hug me and say he loves me and he’d never leave me and lots of other bullshit to try to appease me, probably just hoping to buy time until he can  hide money in a Swiss account and buy Carol and him a new house.

So, look. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: I’m NOT judging you! That should be obvious! I get it! You just want to share your life through words and pictures with friends and family. You want to take that group picture that includes you, wearing your new *modest* triangle string bikini at the lake to share now and, also, have to look back at, years down the road.

Read my lips: NO JUDGEMENT HERE!

But, if you have a shred of decency, you will get your tits out of my marriage! All I’m asking is that you respect that we are unwilling to modify, limit or eliminate our social media interactions or access based on what is in the best interest of my mental health or our marriage. That is selfish and unreasonable for you to suggest such a thing. The problem is all of you, shoving your teardrop shaped  titskis all up in my poor husband’s face, which, might I add, has been occurring ever since we chose to follow you! Coincidence? I think not. We just want to keep our hearts and minds pure and live happily ever after, but how are we supposed to do that if  you won’t stop being thinner or fitter, with better, perkier boobs than me all while having a social media life? IT’S MY MARRIAGE AT STAKE, DICK! You are trying to take my husband away. You are taking a father from his daughter! Think about me!

Look in the mirror. Look at your social media posts. Ask yourself: Are you an eye rapist?

No judgment. Blessings and love. You whores probably just need to know someone cares. I’ll ask around.

Motivational Speakers, Not Teachers, are True Educators

This week, a high school in Texas, Richardson High School, finally took the bull by the horns and decided to take a break from worthless bullshit like English and Math and focus on teaching a lesson with some actual value, courtesy of a man by the name of Justin Lookadoo. 1B_300x300Many may call him just a motivational speaker, but one look at his hair and you can just tell he is selling himself short, and once you hear his message to today’s youth, you know that he is so much more.  Justin Lookadoo has the answers to the problems that plague our society. If you’ve ever looked around and thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket and asked yourself, “why”, look no further. Justin here knows that if there is going to be any change in the world, you gotta start with the kids and that is where he has, smartly, chosen to focus his energy and his wisdom.  I’m so tired of everyone asking my kids about how they like school or their favorite subject. I don’t want my kids concerning themselves with trivial horseshit like grammar or scientific theory; intellectual pursuits are just pretentious. There I said it. When all is said and done and the shit really hits the fan, fuck intelligence. What really matters is their relationship potential. I want them to ask themselves Justin’s question, “Are you DATEABLE“. Thankfully for our kids, especially our daughters, Justin has outlined some basic rules in his books and WEBSITE, which explain how “dateable” girls and boys act and interact.


Accept your girly-ness. You’re a girl. Be proud of all that means. You are soft, you are gentle, you are a woman. Don’t try to be a guy. Guys like you because you are different from them. So let your girly-ness soar.

I’m just glad someone finally said it. I, for one, am sick and fucking tired of girls trying  to be guys by doing shit like wearing blue or pants or using hammers and screwdrivers, changing tires and excelling at math and science. When a girl doesn’t like pink or wants to talk about politics, rather than how she likes to wear her hair, I want to reach down and do a dick check. Start making a list of names for your future cats.

Girls don’t fight girls, ever. Revenge belongs to God. Dateable girls know that when they fight other girls they look stupid and catty, and guys don’t like it any more than God does.

It’s seems more and more that girls are less and less concerned about what everyone else thinks, and, especially, how guys are perceiving their behavior. It’s appalling. I have even heard parents telling their daughters the reasons to avoid fights is shit like, “there are better ways to solve a problem” or “it could lead to some pretty major, long-term, consequences like suspension or even jail” but, WHO THE FUCK CARES?!? If the possibility of fucking up their dateablility won’t keep them on the straight and narrow, you might as well let go of any hope for future grandchildren right now.

Be mysterious. Dateable girls know how to shut up. They don’t monopolize the conversation. They don’t tell everyone everything about themselves. They save some for later. They listen more than they gab.

I’d just like to know when girls started thinking that boys wanted them to participate in a conversation? Who started this rumor? It’s almost like girls these days view themselves as persons and think that an interested boy will find any intrinsic value in intelligence or personality, as if they believe they hold any personal value, much less have anything relevant she could possibly have to contribute within a conversation with one equipped with a penis. It’s just ree-fucking-diculous that this even has to be explained. You’ve got a vagina and a mouth. The boys are interested in one of your holes, but it won’t last long if you can’t keep the other hole closed, Chatty Cathy.

Let him lead. God made guys as leaders. Dateable girls get that and let him do guy things, get a door, open a ketchup bottle. They relax and let guys be guys. Which means they don’t ask him out!!!

God MADE guys leaders. Leadership is divinely built into them.  Women are not. We weren’t provided the characteristics of leadership. God wanted men to lead and women to follow. Which is why girls must learn to ALLOW guys to do all the important, leadery things. Dateable girls don’t try to do manly, leader things like opening doors or condiments. Oh, you can open your own ketchup? So, are you just a regular bitch or a lesbian bitch? Either way, you are undateable but if you are the latter, Justin has some summer camp suggestions for your parents to look into.
I admit, I ‘ve faltered on this one. I have a jar opener thingamajiggy doohickey mounted under one of my cabinets but I am uninstalling it immediately after this reminder. I’m riddled with guilt just thinking of all these years that I’ve inadvertently emasculated my husband one screw lid at a time. I only hope he can find it in his heart to forgive me.

Obviously, it goes without saying that only sluts and whores ask a guy out. First, it involves talking and second it is acting like a leader and if don’t have a hog in your pants, you can’t lead. Stand back and look like a quiet, weak girl who hates homosexuals and ketchup and loves Jesus and fornication.

Need him. Dateable girls know that guys need to be needed. A Dateable girl isn’t Miss Independent. She knows we are made for community. Needing each other is part of faith. She allows him to be needed at times, knowing he was called to serve just as much as she was.

I can only hope that my daughter is lucky enough to attract the attention of boys that are insecure, weak, and self-centered, requiring her to stifle her own personality,  silence her voice, allowing herself to be subjugated to appease and coddle his fragile ego.



Being a guy is good. Dateable guys know they aren’t as sensitive as girls and that’s okay. They know they are stronger, more dangerous, and more adventurous and that’s okay. Dateable guys are real men who aren’t afraid to be guys.

Dateable guys are manly men. They don’t do girly things like giving a fuck about shit, except danger and adventure or dangerous adventures. They’re only good at two things: fucking bitches and fucking shit up.

Control your mind. Dateable guys know that God demands self-control. They learn ways to control their minds so they can control their bodies.

In other words, don’t masturbate. Dateable guys don’t have vaginas, and that includes hand-ginas.

Don’t just want a win, want an adventure. Dateable guys know life is about danger. You might not win, but that’s not the point, doing it is. Dateable guys risk failure to live the adventure of life.

Dateable guys know that dateable girls love, love, love guys that are unpredictable, reckless, irresponsible, fly by the seat of the pants, kind of guys. Live on the edge. Jump out of planes, play Russian roulette and don’t balance your checkbook. Bitches will be lining up.

Men of God are wild, not domesticated. Dateable guys aren’t tamed. They don’t live by the rules of the opposite sex. They fight battles, conquer lands, and stand up for the oppressed.

Real men don’t follow rules. As a matter of fact, any guy that even bothers to read his list of rules should turn off the Cher album and just go sign themselves up for straight camp because you just failed the REAL MAN test you didn’t even know you were taking.

Keep it covered up. Dateable guys know that porn is bad for the spirit and the mind. They keep women covered up.

If a girl won’t cover up, dateable guys call her a “slut” or “whore”, in hopes of shaming her into their standard of modesty. It’s important for girls to know that they are responsible for keeping guys’ thoughts and acts pure and to ensure that they do nothing that could cause a guy to give her a starring role in a mental porn scene.

If you want to find out about your own dateability, boys and girls, Justin has provided a quiz:  untitledSPOILER ALERT, LADIES: If you answer “yes” to any of your questions, you can start your cat collection now. ansNow, for those of you looking at the guys’ quiz, you might think those last few questions would be correctly answered by saying you HAVE both agreed to physical limits and that he DOESN’T push the physical boundaries and absolve himself of responsibility or self-control, and disagreed with the “if she loved me, she will” ideology, but you’d be wrong. The only people who wouldn’t get that are whiny, weak, ketchup craving lady babies. Guys have dicks, man. That is what makes guys better. We girls are made to be like an otterbox for a dick. A cock cozy, essentially. Dudes are always down to fuck. They want to—nay, NEED to dip their wicks. Luckily, girls don’t have any sexual urges or desires, so it is up to us to try to keep ourselves and boys virtuous, both in thought and action, but also remain dateable by letting them do stuff like rub your boobs or, if you really love him or he is super popular or really hot, at least finger bang you. Guys won’t go to hell for fornicating, only masturbating, so they can get in where they fit in and be fine.

Girls need guys and guys want girls, but not for conversation or companionship. Mostly for a place to stick their dicks.  It just is what it is, so accept it. Be girly and stop trying to be guys by opening shit. You stand at the door and wait for a man to come open it. You eat your goddamn burger dry or wait for a fucking guy to come open that bottle. Put on some lip gloss and shut your fucking mouth. Your interests, your opinions, even any life threatening allergy is of no interest to real men.  At least none that you should be willing to date. When you can make a helicopter with your lady clam, maybe then you’ll understand the special level of wisdom and strength exclusive to guys.

Guys, be strong and tell her whose boss. Girls love it when you tell them to “shut the fuck up” or cancel plans at the last-minute or hit on other girls when you are out with them. It shows you are a dangerous, desirable man and drives girls wild. If a girl won’t put out, tell her that if she loves you, she would and make her realize how lucky she is to have you by cheating on her, so she knows that if she won’t give it up, you’ll find a girl who will. And, of course, first and foremost, treat girls with respect. sexist