Inadequacy, feelings of

I'm feeling a little small for my britches right now. 

In addition to learning my new MFA classmates are all super accomplished (Rolling Stone, The New York Times, Gourmet, entire fucking books), I am also feeling stressed about my wedding anniversary tomorrow.

What were the MFA peeps drinking when they admitted me into this program? I'm like the runt of the super-serious writers. Oh yeah, sure, some of them have blogs. Professionally designed blogs, highlighting their many published pieces of work.

In recent months, my most prestigious blog work has sent me to the confession booth, which in turn sent my priest to the confession booth. Oh! And I draw stick figures and water color impressions of my vajoojy.

Also, I use lots of made-up words, such as vajoojy. Wooooooo!

Maybe I'll be challenge to become better of writing.

Also? I'm the teensiest bit disappointed that none of the mentor writers are humor writers, because I'm afraid I'll be a little sheepish with my essay on how bakeries should deal with racists. I mean, sure, it's political, but is it really nonfiction?

I know, I know. I should grow a pair and stop whining. Argh. You people sound just like PHubby.

That asshole.

He's not an asshole. He's a cock-knocker.

Not really.

That prick gives the best gifts. Thoughtful, beautiful, delicate, treasured.

And I? Well ... I'm not the best gift-giver ever.

Some examples:

 - At least three wedding presents sat in my attic until one broke and two others were dusty and gross enough that I couldn't stand to give them to the recipients.

 - I still regret giving relatives a wedding gift inspired by their love of the hunt club.

I thought they were whimsical at the time, but thinking back on it, what does one do with silver "hunt cups" with stems the shape of hunted animals (deer, rabbit, fox) and a horse? When not in use, the cups can be turned on upside-down to display the heads right-side-up like little head-bells. I'll bet it's fun polishing all the little fur grooves.

Lesson here: stick to the registry.

 - No one ever says "aw" when they open a baby shower gift from me. Why? Because I've had fucking twins, and I know what people really need and that is: a battery charger, rechargeable batteries, little hooks that fit on a stroller handle to hold bags, reusable shopping bags, and hand lotion. Cute? Fuck no. Practical? Yes.

Oh, you say, oh, Sarah P, that is the worst gift ever. And to that, I say, "Fuck you, I used that shit all the time, and I say novenas for the people who gave us practical shit." Go fuck yourself with 27 receiving blankets, hoodie towels, and baby picture frames that will be useless in 12 months.

 - Senior year in high school, the girls all got each other presents for Christmas and graduation. For some reason, I thought to give everyone striped tank-tops for graduation, and for Christmas? Each person got a plain outfit, with one shared sweater. Not one for each. One sweater total. We were supposed to trade it around between us to keep us together.

I was so Sisterhood before the Traveling Pants.

(click to enlarge. twss.)

Did I mention I was wearing the sweater when I delivered them their tights and skirts, and that there were, like, eight or nine of us who were supposed to share it?

Again, I can't believe people hang out with me.

Each year since we've been married, PHubby has thoughtfully presented me with a gift according to the traditional guidelines of anniversaries.

The year it was crystal or leather? I got him a new belt. He got me a crystal jewelry holder for my nightstand.

This is our five-year anniversary, and everything has pretty much been planned for me.

He reserved a hotel room at an old, cozy hotel in a nearby city. The restaurant on the main floor is considered to be the best Irish pub in the city. Oh, that doesn't sound thoughtful, you say?

Maybe that's because you don't know that my grandparents loved being Irish, traveling to Ireland together, were married for a month shy of 68 years, and died just 13 days apart.

So, what are we going to do in this beautiful city? Oh, we're going on a champagne brunch cruise, using a gift certificate that was an anniversary gift from PHubby's parents a few years ago.

So, this leaves me to decide what I'm wearing and to choose a gift for him, which? Is unfair.

I mean, it's so easy for him this year. The traditional 5th anniversary gift is wood, and as Justin Timberlake and Adam Samberg taught us:

Naming a penis or a band?

Do you see how the do-it-yourself blog design thing isn't working for me? I turned myself into a mask and my blog into some sort of emo/goth hybrid.

My blog looks like someone melted the cover of Twilight or, like, took a Polaroid of the cover and then smeared the photo before it fully developed.

Wait. I can do this.

This blog design looks like sex between Jared Leto and Courtney Love, directed by Tim Burton, except Tim Burton was drunk that day and had the flu.

So ... I was going to tell you about the midwife at the OB/Gyn's office, and how she is crunchy in an upper-crust way - you know, wholesome with a gold watch.

And I was going to tell you about how, the year after I got married, I said something to her about maybe trying in the next year or so to produce a child.

She said very plainly, "OK, well, the way to tell if you're ovulating is to get a little discharge on your fingers and then pull your fingers apart. If it's tacky, you're not ovulating. If it sticks together in a long string, kind of like the white part of an egg yolk, you're ripe."

So, right after I vomited, I thanked her, and then she raised her eyebrows and half-smiled and said, "It's fun trying!" I kind of wish she'd had one of those spinning bow ties and a handlebar mustache, and then she could have tapped out of the exam room, pumping her cane up and down.

Anyway, I was trying to find a way to turn that into a story or a picture or something, but the furthest I got was this:

Yeah. Sorry about that.

Mostly, I just have some ho-hum crumbs of blog post ideas. Let's call it a theme, shall we? Cupcake crumbs, or something. I suck dick at transitions sometimes.

Speaking of dick ... for many years, I had heard that men name their penises. I accepted this as a universal truth.

My ideas of truth and gender stereotypes were shattered when I learned that PHubby does not have a name for his penis.

I think, in celebration of our upcoming anniversary, I should get to name it. We've started a list, although - is it just me? - some of them would be awesome band names.

Anyway, let me know what you think:

Dr. Wankenstein
The Hard Bargain
(Dr. Wankenstein and the Hard Bargain)
Snowball
The Nutty Professor (he's a grower)
Vanilla Thunderstick
The Witch's Dorothy
Little Roussimoff (Google is your friend)
PHubby's Magic Wand (Schtoopefy!)
Mr. Delicious
Larry (that's his brother Daryl and his other brother Daryl - they're nuts.)
Dr. Schmekel and Mr. Hide (he gets cold sometimes)

So, I type out the list, and then PHubby goes, "Are you just going to put this up as a poll?"

And then, we both start giggling like idiots because ... pole.

Attack a racist and win!

Here's the thing about Holocaust deniers. (I mean, one thing of many things, but let's put all the obvious stuff aside for a second.)

OK, so can we all agree Holocaust deniers are white supremacists, generalized bigots, or anti-semites?

I mean, besides being numbskull dickheads, obviously?

We can agree? Good.

Given that those groups are all in basic agreement on two points: 1) that they don't like Jewish people,  and 2) that the Holocaust never happened - why are they so hot for Hitler?

Remember that guy a few years ago who tried to get a birthday cake from a ShopRite for his five-year-old son, who is named Adolf Hitler? ShopRite refused to write the kid's name on the cake, which? Seems like the right thing to do, but I think I have a better idea.

If I were the baker, I would have said, "Sure! I'll write 'Adolf Hitler' on it, but we don't carry white icing - because you know how them negros and Mexicans get mad."

Then, I would have rolled my eyes conspiratorially (about them damn sensitive mahnurrities) and fist-bumped with him.

"That will be just a minute, sir," I would have said. "It's hard to tell these damn Vietnamese ladies to write on these cakes in their hooka-booka language, am I right or am I right? *laugh, slap knee, shake head* ... You catch Storm Stories last night? Man, makes ya think."

Then, I would have given him his cake and told him I was throwing in a free cream pie. On the pie, I would have written, "Kill whitey!" and then, as soon as he had a chance to read it, I would have thrown it in his face.

Only then would he have learned it was a chocolate cream pie, and then he would have had to walk around the whole day with a brown face. Totally humiliating for him and also hilarious for me, so I would win. Also? His mullet would give him away as a racist, and it would be a warning to other racists that you just don't fuck with my bakery, man.

The only way to win with racists, see, is to gain their confidence and then use the ol' pie-in-the-face. You have to communicate on their level, you understand.

                          At My Bakery:

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right. Hitler and the Holocaust Deniers, a Love Story. Ooo! Oo! Oo! Let's make it a Christian scream band instead, eh? The Hitler and the Holocaust Deniers Experience. (Have you seen those freaky twin girls who have, like, a whole white supremacist pop career? WTF, man?)

I lost track again. Oh, right. Anyway, it seems to me that if one hates Jews and denies the Holocaust, then Hitler shouldn't seem so lovable.

I mean, the whole reason normal people hate Hitler is because of the Holocaust, right?

If he didn't murder 6 million people, then, theoretically, anti-semites really have no reason to like him much.

And that, dear readers, is the sound of a million white-supremacist hearts breaking. (You didn't hear anything because their hearts are small and black - hahahaha! You see what I did there? I called their hearts "black." Oh, man, do they hate me now. Whew, boy. I just ruined Hitler for everybody. Everybody at the rally, I mean. Sorry, fellas. There's always beer and campfires!)

It's just a number, really. Or, the muses screw with me a lot.

So, I totally wrote out this whole post and I was going to be all, "P.S. This is my 100th post," which is technically true, if you count the 13 draft posts I have saved - and apparently Blogger does count those. So ... I think this means we can fucking throw down for the 87th post, am I right?!

Are you drinking, yet?

Normally, I don't do the awards thing, but I sacrificed myself to the self-promotion gods for Ed. Sure, I have done them, but they make me feel kind of dirty, like the time I walked into my dorm's computer lounge at 10 a.m. and found one of my buds passed out on the old couch, drenched in his own urine, and then left him there without waking him up or saying anything.

Kind of like that. Only different.

In celebration of the completely non-momentus 87th post, I'm going to self-promote and then I might steal material/copy off someone/plagiarize. Copyright, schmopyright. We'll see what happens.

Midwestern Momma Holly gave me a "versatile blogger" award, but I'm pretty sure she was smoking something when she gave it to me. Because, this blog? Not versatile.

Crass? Yes. Bendy? Sure. Versatile? We stick to poop and vaginas here, people. And if you don't like it? Well, poop on you, Vaginaface.

Anyway, she also made me this, which is awesome and totally appropriate after the last post:

*Sigh* I'm going to marry that girl. She even remembered to give me camel-toe.

Moving on from self-promotion that makes me feel kind of dirty in the bad way, I'd like to promote Steam Me Up, Kid, and if you don't read her already, go catch up right now or I will murder you with my melon baller (yes, I have one and will take a picture one day). Not even kidding a little bit - I'll murder you. It's necessary for you to read her stuff, so you can understand what I am about to write.

Recently, Steamy (who doesn't need promotion from me because she is rightly worshiped all over the WWW for more than just her humor - seriously, Google "one blonde, one Nigerian nurse aid, two snowcones") wrote a lovely little piece (vaguely NSFW if your boss is a jerk about art and penis pancakes) in which she explored the history of cock-and-balls art. She used a little doodle I sent her and then made me out to be some sort of dick fiend.

I knew revenge would be necessary, but I just can't find that perfect method, you know?

I thought about sending the ball squarely back to her court by one-upping her chimp post with the funniest chimpanzee story in history.

But, I'm not going to do that for several reasons:

1. It's lame when a blogger sees another blogger's post about a subject and is all like, "OMG!!! That reminds me of my story! I'm totes going to post my awesome story about the same subject on the very same day, and we'll be like blog twins, and we can talk on the phone, and take whacky photo-booth pictures together, and then maybe we'll get some ice cream, and later maybe she will spray some of her pee into my mouth. That would be so awesomeeeeeee!!"

2. It's not really my story.

3. The owner of the story was serving the greater good when the incident occurred, and by "when the incident occurred," I mean, "when my friend who we will call 'Schmill' got a 'schmexually shransmitted shmisease' from a 'shrimpanzee.'" While the story is completely true, he was doing good in the world, and my contribution to the world is a poorly designed blog mostly containing potty humor and stick-figure doodles. So, I'm going to take the high road. (Hahaha! I kill me sometimes.)

4. Another reason I'm not going to tell you this story is that, while I apparently am quite used to public humiliation, sometimes I forget that other people don't like it much. And, I might have already one time casually closed the door to the costume shop in our college theater, locking Schmill on the outside and his clothes on the inside.

I mean, he wasn't naked or anything. I'm not that stupid. It's just that he was wearing a long brown-and-orange dress that kind of looks the pattern of that old velour sofa your granny had in her club basement and you later had in your first apartment until your girlfriend said she wouldn't sleep with you unless you got a real couch and also a diamond ring because *hello* she's not waiting around forever.

Oh - and when I locked him out of the costume shop in a brown-and-orange velour dress, it was prime lunch hour, and no one with a key was around to help. In my memory, I thought he had theater keys, but I think maybe my conscience made that part up to make me feel better. I think maybe I was just an asshole who thought it would be funny if my 6'2" friend had to walk inside our college dining hall dressed like a lady to beg keys off of our other asshole friends who would definitely torture him before relinquishing keys.

I can't believe people hang out with me.

5. OK, so really, the real reason I'm not going to tell you about how my friend "Schmill" got violently ill with monkey pox after he hiked through the jungle to a crazy Frenchman's compound/monkey preservation, and then snuggled a motherless baby chimp ...

Or how the baby chimp promptly freaked out and scratched Schmill's arms before calming down and gaining Schmill's confidence with cute little baby chimp huggle-snuggles. Or how the baby chimp then ruined the moment by popping a baby chimp boner and jizzing all over the open wound on Schmill's arm.

Or how, days later, Schmill was nearly dying and doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with nearly-dying Schmill until a concerned friend googled the fuck out of his symptoms and then asked him in the sweetest southern accent, according to my friend, "I really hate to ask you this, Schmill, but have you recently had sexual relations with a primate?"

And then my nearly-dying friend was all, "What in the SICK fuck?! How could you ask me such a - - Oh. Wait ..."

- the reason I'm not going to tell you about all that is because I wouldn't want to one-up Steamy and her monkey stories.

P.S. I'm also not going to tell you what happened when PHubby, at the tender age of 19 thought no idea would be better than bare-ass farting in his sleeping friend's face. I'll let him tell you that story.

P.P.S. Is it just me, or does everyone, like, NEED to know now what a 'shrimpanzee' would look like? Just me? Oh. Well. Here it is anyway. Good day.

Update: Ells wanted to point out to everyone that humans are primates. While technically true, it ruins the question the girl asked him and also makes Ells a smartypants who deserves at least a locker stuffing, if not a swirly.

Grateful blogs get Cra-zay, elbow-elbow, wink-wink

PHubby said I shouldn't make the title, "I'm a grateful girl" because, he said, it implies I am "a dog" and will therefore "take whatever you can get." Furthermore, he said, grateful girls overcompensate for their unattractiveness by doing crazy illegal stuff in bed or, like, in basically any alley, that probably risks the health of their colons, throats, and ear drums.

My questions are these:
a) How did I end up married to a misogynist?
b) Exactly how much gratitude has he received to make him such an expert?
c) Has he seen my blog design?

Not that I don't love my blog, but I'm not kidding myself either. It is kind of a dog, so I am grateful for everything it gets - comments, links, views, page hits, awards, etc.

My blog is the type of blog that throws on her tank top and wedge sandals and goes to the date rape frat house (lookin' at you, Theta Chis) and deliberately seeks out the drugged Milwaukee's Best, so she at least has an excuse for being so desperate for the cock.

I'm not saying my blog would offer digital stimulation to anyone who leaves a comment, but I'm not not saying it, either.

It's really hard (TWSS) not to feel like an attention whore when I do stuff that's kind of self-promotional.

But, it's also really lame of me not to acknowledge people who go out of their way to do something really nice.

Take Ed, from Ed's Funny Pages, for instance. He spent a ton of time checking out lots of blogs nominated on his site for funniest blogger, and he gave me the award I am now calling the Golden Peen. See?

It was super, awesome nice of him to spend so much time checking out people's blogs and making awards and stuff, so ... Thanks, Ed!

Furthermore, all those people who nominated me (I only know the ones listed in the comments, so if I left you out, you know why), Steam Me Up, Kid, Elly Lou from Buggin Word, and OtherWordlyOne of Calling People Names (who totally would have, and mentioned it in her comment), are all frigging hilarious. Thank you all for being awesome. *virtual blow jobs*

It's a damnhellass travesty two of those bloggers (and many others way funnier than I) weren't nominated, and had I known the contest was even happening, I would have made sure they were on the list. Next year, I'm toast, because I'm nominating a million hilarious bloggers I love.

Anyway, I highly recommend running over to Ed's site (after you check out the three listed above, if you don't already read them, which you probably do because they're all way more popular than I) and checking out all the nominees. His top 10 are great, but so are the other nominees. Completely worth the time.

Indian Jones and the Fire of Truth

This weekend has been a treasure trove of unexpected delight. Really, I need to get out of the house more, so I can witness awesomeness more frequently.

Yesterday, I watched a presentation by a Native American chief, a man who frequently gives talks and demonstrations at schools and camps. He was addressing a mixed audience of adults, children and older adults.

He lives his life as a Native American, which is totally cool and has to be really hard around here because I doubt he has any tribesmen. Also? As a point of interest, he has blue eyes and freckles and could totally be telling the truth about his ancestors, or could totally be making it up. Anyone's guess, really. But who would call him out?

At one point, he was to demonstrate fire-making, using ancient techniques created by Native Americans before Europeans came and introduced the flint-and-steel method still used today in the modern lighter. He said the method he would demonstrate is backed up by archeological evidence, and he would not claim anything to be true if not backed up by anthropologists.

The method, he said, has been used for 1.2 million years by those, if you believe in evolution, who are our ancestors, Homo Erectus. (Which? First of all, hahaha! And, secondly, is not quite accurate.)

Evolution, he continued, is really just a theory, anyway, "a best guess."

"I believe that there was some alien intervention there, kind of like in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, where our ancestors were touched and given that spark, the ability to make tools and other things."

Hand-to-Bible, I thought he was kidding. By the confused look he gave me when I snort-laughed, I realized, nope, he 100 percent believes it. He is an incredibly convincing person. His demonstrations are compelling. He is charismatic and full of interesting information.

And? He believes aliens transformed apes to humans, and he has no qualms about sharing these beliefs with children.

Oh, how I love me some crazies. I certainly will peruse the newspaper calendar for future events held by the chief.

In other awesomeness:

I shit you not, the next two things I will tell you happened to me within an hour on Friday.

1. I went to a work event. The director of a local parks and rec program made a joke about her children, saying one knew how to ask for chocolate by 18 months. She said she had to nip that in the bud, for fear her second child would request marijuana brownies by age 2. #mynewbffandshedoesntevenknowit #thinkingofsendingherahaveanicedaybouquet #ormaybejustathankyounote #nahilljustbeuncomfortablyfriendlywithherfromnowon

2. I was on the phone with my mom, and she told me my much older relative, an adult who is twice divorced and newly single, has a boyfriend.

(Background: this relative had her teeth removed and replaced with dentures because she was genetically missing a bunch of teeth and she wanted a better smile. No, I'm not making it up. No, I had no idea that was the case until she told me she was having all her teeth removed, and I basically blew a gasket and rudely asked why the hell anyone would electively have all her teeth pulled out of her head. But in a totally respectful, non-cursey way that completely belied my horror at both her decision and her really freaky genetic condition that kept me up late inspecting the needlepoint family tree with a magnifying glass, searching for missing branches. She calmly explained nothing was wrong with her teeth. She just didn't think they were pretty.)

So, given the announcement that the cousin has a new boyfriend, I told my mom that I had guessed as much, because I spoke on the phone to said cousin on Easter. She told me she had a "friend" who rides motorcycles who was considering buying her a motorcycle. (I know.)

There was a lull in conversation, so I said what I thought we obviously were both thinking:

Me: I guess if, as a woman, you have all your teeth removed, men will buy you pretty much anything.

Mom: SARAH!


Me: What? You were thinking it.


Mom: *brushing it off lightly, trying to relate to me, thinking of a snappy joke* Well, I suppose women have to do that if they haven't reached my level.


Me: MOM! OMG, why would you say that to your daughter?!


Mom: *confused pause* What?


Me: OMG. I need to wash out my ears! That is so unbelievably gross and way, way worse than what I said.


Mom: I don't understand.


Me: *confused* Wait. What did you mean?


Mom: I was just being silly. I was saying that if a woman doesn't have all my positive qualities, she might need to resort to something like that. I was kidding.


Me: Oh.


Mom: Why? What did you think I meant?


Me: Nevermind.


Mom: What?


Me: Your response implied that you wouldn't need to have your teeth removed because your - um, skills? - are at such a distinctive level.


Mom: Sarah. Middlename. Lastname. You have a very dirty mind.


Me: *shameful* I know.

My poor mother. She's so well educated and sophisticated. She deserves a more wholesome daughter.

You can't spell "WOMBAT" without "WOMB"

Happy Mother's Day!
Or, as we're calling it, A Passed-Out Wife is an Anal Wife Day.

Irish coffee is awesome. You know what your problem is?

I love you.

I was going to tell you the emu story today, but that was at least two coffees ago, and now everything is really funny, so I'm not the best judge of hilarity or sentence structure right now.

Plus, the MSPaint pictures I'm making with my touchpad while drunk are not turning out well. The emu story requires pictures.

What emu story? I'll tell you when you're older. (Fuck you. I'm a mom.)

Heh-heh. "Touchpad."

I don't know.

What I do know is that I did three awesome things today. That's one more awesome thing than children I've had cut unceremoniously from my oversize womb. When I think of my uterus, I think of a large, leather handbag with a big scar for a zipper. Or, like, a big haggis or one of those cow-stomach canteens. In any case, my uterus is bigger than yours.

UPDATE #3**: LOOK HOW DRUNK I AM! I WROTE "WHOLE" INSTEAD OF "HOLE," AND I CAN'T EVEN GO BACK TO EDIT BECAUSE IT WAS IN MSPAINT.

What was I saying?

Oh! Awesome stuff I did. Right.

I registered for a domain name! www.nakedcupcakesblog.com

No, I haven't set it up, yet, but that's not even the awesomest thing I did. Did you see Betty White on SNL last night? If not, go watch it on hulu, right now.

Done?

Good.

I totally registered for www.giantdustymuffin.com and www.dustymuffins.com.

Why did I do that?

Please see above, where I wrote about Irish coffee.

I'm going to do really fun stuff with those sites. I just don't know what, yet, but it will come to me.

This post not sponsored by, but definitely inspired by Bailey's Irish Cream and Betty White. And also Lorne Michaels. I want a job, Lorne. I'm basically Belushi, only older, not funny, and less of a substance abuse problem. But, I'm a  demon  on the casting couch. Call me!

**UPDATE #1: PHubby took issue with the use of "unceremoniously" in relation to the C-section. He claims he lit candles and sacrificed a chicken.

UPDATE #2: Thank you, Spanky, for helping me with the domain registry! You're awesome. Go check her out. She has amazing customer service skills. Just don't complain about free fries.

The Brain on Blog

Once I realized I passed 90 blog posts, I froze. What the hell do I do now? Pretty soon it will be 100. It's like a number is some big deal.

Plus, PHubby has been all, "Um, you might want to think about getting a real blog design." OK. I know he's right, but it doesn't change the fact that I want to retaliate with, "Um, you might want to think about backing up four steps before I slam your peepee in the utensils drawer and gouge your eyes out with the melon baller."

Not that I'm sensitive. It's just this is my hobby, and I would love to have more time to doodle around and learn fun Internet magic, but when would I catch up on the 100+ blogs I follow, and Bones and, OMG, Ruby?

I don't even want to think right now about what grad school will do to me, especially when I'm going to have to write serious shit all the time.

(Side note: I keep trying to think of ideas for the first writing workshop this summer, and, ummmm ... some of them have turned into blog posts. WTF were they thinking, admitting me to this program? In my imagination, the real writers are going to be all, "Well, your water-color vagina-monster is darling, but perhaps we could talk about your personal struggles or some starving people or something - oh, I don't know - say, important? Do try to delve a little deeper."

And then, I think of them saying "delve a little deeper" and I automatically think to say, "Like, my cervix, or, like, your mom's throat?" Not even as a smart-ass response. More because I kind of want it clarified. Then, all the real writers roll their eyes at me and go back to writing about drug addiction and human rights issues. And I'm all, "Stuck-up assholes. I'mma write a C-U-Next-Tuesday post about this, with illustrations."

Anyway. Hi. Welcome to my brain.)

My brain kind of looks like a dialog bubble. Fitting.

I've been very contemplative about my blog lately, partially because of all of the above, and partially because my blogue is rapey lately, right? I feel the need to mix it up a bit. I came up with a list for making a lovely blog experience for readers. Here goes.

Making awesome blog:


1. It's all about the design. Pick colors that are soothing and appeal to many people of all genders and cultures. Include a sophisticated graphic. Hire someone, or have a friend create a professional-looking piece of art. Definitely do not spend less than 45 seconds slapping any ol' thing together in MSPaint.

2. Content matters. Write from the heart. Write about beauty. Write about pain. Write about whatever it is that ignites your passions. People will connect with the inner you.

It's extremely important to keep it clean. An occasional curse word is fine, but people will be turned off by repetitive vulgarity. (Read: Don't be a curse slut, or people will think you're a fucking cunt - and, goddammit, they'd be balls-on.) A good idea is to create something you would not be embarrassed for your mother or children to read.

3. Buy your domain name. Owning your domain helps you to brand your blog. This is good marketing advice.
Unlike the first two rules, which I quite obviously follow (shut the fuck up), I cannot follow this one. NakedCupcakes-dot-everything is taken, and my only other ideas for website names are for fetish websites. They're really good, though. Want to hear them?
   a. Ampu-tease.com: Giving good nubbin.
   b. PostpartumPussy.com: Cum throw your hot dog down our hallways. (Alternatively, "Cum park your Honda in our two-car garages," inspired by BFF's father's own comment. Heart that man 4 reelzies.)

4. Include beautiful photographs, inspirational recipes and quotes from famous thoughtful people. I only show no examples because it's important for you to find what is most dear to you, not because I've never done any of these things on my own blog.

5. Remember "blog" comes from "Web log." It is a way to record lovely memories, kind words, and tender thoughts.

****
Yeah, I don't know, either.

P.S. It's Season 3 of Out of Tune Idol, sponsored by Jules at Mean Girl Garage. I'm a judge this season. Go check out the videos and commentary. The contestants are high-larious, meant with the emphasis as written. Pretty sure they're all on hallucinogenic mushrooms.