Posted By startswithanx on November 13, 2009

I burned myself with the curling iron — again. Except the lovely brick red burn isn’t on my neck this time so, rather than look like I’ve been spending too much time under the bleachers, instead I look like I should be singing “My Name is Luca.”

Awesome.  I love, too, that no one bothers to ask. They just glance at the exclamation point on my cheekbone and then politely resume the conversation. And, I go on letting them think Jake craves chicken pot pies and shines his bowling ball with the grease from under his nails.

Cuz those are the only kind of guys that batter bitches.

Yes, I just used “bitches” in place of women. Maybe I’m the woman beater. Maybe I punched MYSELF in the face. Dot, dot, dot.

Whenever I’m watching “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” or flipping through a gossip rag and see Kim K posing on the red carpet with her head turned over her shoulder so we can all wonder when JLo got so frail, I find myself fantasizing.

I seriously think if I was granted 20 wishes, one of them would involve the middle Kardashian sister.

Not what you think. (That is, if you know me, it’s not what you think.) Rather, I just want to squeeze ‘em.

I imagine myself squatting down behind her and kneading the dough. Chopping it like a Japanese masseuse. Slapping it like a scandalous telanovela star. Motorboating it like … a motorboat.

I just wanna know what it feels like. Is it squishy? Jiggly? Firm? Cheesy? Is there some kind of prize in there, like a yo-yo or ring pop? If you bite it, does it not bleed?

Why should only Reggie Bush and the guy who proves douche bags come in all colors — Ray J — get to have this knowledge?

Categories: pop culture, random thoughts, this happened, women