Dreams really do come true. Not just at Disney...sometimes at The Roxbury too.

Tonight I performed for the first time on stage! It was by far the greatest feeling! Having people actually laugh at your material is so incredible. I can't even describe how I felt when I looked into the audience and saw this lady laughing super hard at my bent penis joke! I feel like when you are a beginner in comedy and people laugh at your stuff, you realize you are actually being successful at what you are trying to do. I guess that's how a prostitute feels after she realizes she gives a great blow job, her talents won't be wasted! It's so sappy to say that tonight one of my biggest dreams came true, I've always wanted to perform and make people laugh, it was unbelievable actually doing that. My uterus is making my super emotional today and I wish I could shrug it off and say 'it ain't no thang', but this right hurrr, this is a thang, a sweet thang! Comedians never know if they will make it, and if their names will become well known, and I have no idea how far I will go with this, but it really doesn't fucking matter, because I can say that I did it to some extent! A massive thank you to everyone who made it out to see me perform! And a bigger thank you to The Offenders of Comedy for giving me the chance to be onstage! My fear about doing comedy is that people will say 'she's a funny female comedian' fuck that noise, I just want to be a funny comedian! Ya dig!? So once again, thanks to everyone who is always insanely supportive of me, and I promise to do some blog posts ASAP to keep you entertained! Nearly 8000 views by the way, dang son.

The shit my friends and family say...featuring guest writer, the best video hoe trick I know, who rocks bangs like no other bitch can, the amazing Ana!

As a university-educated, semi-attractive (who are we kidding, I’m gorgeous), gainfully employed, white woman in her late twenties, I have a lot of problems. And, if the internet taught me anything, it’s that my problems are important and unique. Like a snowflake! Also, that people need to hear about them in great detail. My number one problem is that I am as awkward as a middle-school dance; at least as awkward as they were back in my day. Today’s kids just skip the awkward adolescence and go straight to drug use and casual sex the moment they turn 12. So their middle-school dances are pretty sweet. On an unrelated note, they are also a great place to sore some bomb E and to pick up younger, but physically mature dudes. My number two problem is that I can’t deal with any inconveniences. If I have to stand in line for longer than five minutes, I lose my shit. I begin to believe that the world is a horrible, unfair place and asking why all the bad things happen to me and me alone. If I buy something online and it takes more than five days to get to me, I feel like I have been wronged by the universe. I get cranky and depressed. If I’m sitting next to a crying baby, I really start believing that its parents decided to procreate just to piss me off. But I think everyone feels that way. I mean, scroll through your Facebook newsfeed and try to tell me that given half a chance you wouldn’t forcibly sterilize half of your so-called friends and co-workers. That’s what I thought. Anyway, a while ago my two problems (awkwardness and general inability to handle small inconveniences) were weighing heavy on my mind. So one day after a particularly trying commute from work, where I was surrounded by people and essentially assaulted by a 90 year-old woman (seriously, she hit me with the strength of ten thousand men, pulled my hair and pinched me), I realized that I just couldn’t go on. It was time to consult a professional. Like all white women with problems, I knew that my only answer was to see a psychiatrist. So, I made an appointment. At first, I was hesitant. Did I really need to see a psychiatrist just because some old woman violated my body and soul? Was I being dramatic? But then, I realized that it was going to be fucking awesome. Best case scenario: I moonwalk out of there with some sweet, sweet prescription meds. Worst case: I sit around for an hour and talk about how everything in my life is the fault of others while the kind doctor validates my totally awesome, unique feelings. I was so excited! Finally, the day of my appointment came. I had to sit around and fill out a bunch of forms before the doctor would see me. Mainly questions about my childhood, my relationships and feelings. After carefully answering the questions in a way that showed that I’m smart, misunderstood and unhinged just enough to get a prescription, I was led into a room. Finally, I would have a psychiatrist of my very own. I felt so grown up. I just knew that within days I would totally be one of those sophisticated women who wash their Xanax down with white wine spritzers and pass out face-first on their silk sheets. I even made a mental note to stop by Wal-Mart and buy a set of their finest polyester blend. For that brief five-minute wait, I really felt like I was on my way to being somebody. Finally the doctor came in. He looked a little disinterested. But, that’s totally okay, I mean he doesn’t even know me yet, I rationalized. He started reading my forms, the same way I read back of shampoo bottle while sitting on the can. All of a sudden he looked up at me. This is my chance, I thought, to say something witty and cement myself as his favourite patient. I opened my mouth and the first thing that I said (loudly) was, “So, give it straight to me, doc. Do I have Down syndrome?” “I beg your pardon?” said the doctor, clearly confused. “Do I have… down syndrome?” I asked, much quieter this time. Clearly, he wasn’t getting the joke. He stared at me, with a slightly perplexed and worried look. “No,” said the doctor. He was completely serious. “Do you think that you do?” Seriously? What can someone say to that? If I was feeling like a sophisticated patient of a real-life psychiatrist minutes ago, that feeling was now gone. “Oh, I don’t actually think I have it, I just thought it would be funny to say, like a joke, you know?” He looked at me, for what felt like an eternity. “Oh,” He didn’t even smile. “You don’t. You don’t have Down syndrome.” I’m not going to go into the rest of our appointment, because I don’t remember what we talked about. I just kept thinking about what I said. Did he think I was serious? Was there a chance that I may have it? Was my joke so inappropriate that he refused to acknowledge it? Did I accidentally commit a hate crime? Should I just stop interacting with people? I walked out feeling defeated, and like a bad, awkward person. I needed to talk to someone, so called a few friends. They laughed and agreed that I was in fact a bad, awkward person. Whatever, my friends are assholes anyway. Like they would even know what a good person looks like. At home, my boyfriend rolled his eyes at me and called me an idiot. He also said that I was a bad, awkward person. The next day, I consulted my co-workers, who sort of laughed and looked uncomfortable. Now that I think about it, they were probably just being polite. I told the story to my boss, who pretended to not hear me, both times I brought it up! In retrospect, it wasn’t the kind of story you tell your boss. I see that now. I know this has been a very drawn out story. You may ask what the point was. Well, there is no point. Except for the next time you are feeling a little maladjusted; ask yourself “Have I ever asked a mental- health professional if I have Down syndrome?” Chances are, the answer is no, so good for you.

Cashew dick

A couple of months ago I was minding my business, getting a grande crackacinno from Starbucks when this guy approaches me and gives me some stupid pickup line and asks if we could exchange numbers and meet up for drinks or food sometime. I wasn't really interested but I figure I will get two things out of this, 1) free food or drinks and 2) something funny to write about. Sure enough, here I am writing about this, and I got a few free meals seeing as we went on a few dates. Our first time out was nice, he was a decent enough guy and had a foul potty mouth, and I like it when people swear like a sailor, makes me feel like I'm at home. But my gut instinct was telling me to run (realistically I would just walk briskly, my fat ass isn't running anywhere, let's be honest) . But this guy and I stayed in touch and went out a few times despite what my instinct was telling me. Over the last couple of months I found it odd that he only really called or texted during the day. Usually between the hours of 9 to 5...the hours he worked. And our dates usually took place during lunch hour. Now, I don't know what gave this man the impression that I'm a moron. Everything about this situation screamed that he had a girlfriend or wife. So I bluntly asked him, and I haven't heard back from him since. And I know you read this blog fucker, so when you read this, I hope you realized you're an asshole. And you have TERRIBLE game, even Stevie Wonder could see this shit. I also hope you realize you're not good looking enough to get away with that shit, if you die, come back looking like Channing Tatum, then maybe I would be blinded by your good looks and have questionable judgement. Nothing about me screams that I have low self confidence, low morals or daddy issues, so go try your busted up playa playa moves on someone else you turd. And as well, find a more flattering penis pic if you're going to insist on sending them to women, that angle was not your friend. Cashew dick mother fucker.

My name is Leanne, I am 27, a single white female, a Virgo and I like longs walks on the beach....

People always seem to be curious as to what kind of man is my 'type'. It is a well known factoid that I am single. Along with being single, everyone always tries to hook you up with someone they know. Believe it or not, I don't really have a specific type that gets the kitty purring if you know what I mean. I've dated all different types of men, computer nerds, thugs, body builder steroid freaks, young guys who's balls just dropped, business men, students, and the list could go on. They all have one key factor in common....a penis. If you have a penis, you stand a chance. And a trait that goes well with having a penis is if no one else is claiming that penis. I'm not a fan of men who are married or in a relationship that try to be sneaky, you will get caught, and us bitches be cray cray , so you don't need that in your life. When you are in a relationship it's not acceptable to act as if pussy is an all you can eat Buffett and try to taste all the tacos you can from all different taco stands, eat at home homie, if you have a good, hearty meal at home, why go out to eat?! So if you are a cheater, you likely aren't my type. People always question what type of ethnic background I fancy in a man, and to be completely honest, if you lined up all the dick I've had in my life, it would look like a United Nations meeting. My vagina does not discriminate. She is an equal opportunist. If a guy comes up to me and makes me laugh right off the start it's a good sign, and if he can tell me a funny joke and has facial hair of some sort, chances are, he will be seeing my vagina sooner rather than later. I also need a guy to be slightly immature, immature enough to laugh at the word 'hyman', but mature enough to have a conversation and debates about important, more serious topics like, why did Doritos make 3D chips?! The age of a guy doesn't really matter, preferably young enough that you don't wear pastel coloured golf shirts and have a retirement villa in Florida, and you don't have grandchildren who are the same age as I am, but not so young that the only way I can calm you down during a fight is with a juice box and a cookie and an afternoon nap, and you're too young if the only reason you are dating me is so you have an adult to help you get in to watch rated R movies at the movie theatre. I like independent guys who aren't needy or clingy, I like when a guy understands I need my space and is okay with times where I want to be alone and read or write (aka watch Pornhub with no sound on and do comical voice overs to make the scenes way funnier) in another room while he watches tv or something, if I wanted someone to be around me all the time and never be able to get rid of you, I'd just get herpes. A man should be like a well trained erection...knows when to go away when you want him to, but is always there when you need him to be. I'm not really into guys with weird fetishes, to each their own, but somethings I'm just not into. Such as super intense foot fetishes, I'm sure it's great, the guy loves feet and would likely rub your feet all the time, but if he's always trying to rub your feet with his dick it's little weird, but I guess a foot massage is a foot massage regardless of what he uses to massage it?! There ya have it, that's what I'm looking/not looking for in a guy. All men who qualify to fill this position, please line up, single file, in alphabetical order, please bring 3 references, and proof of employment, and the position I'm looking to fill is...my vagina.