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Three Hundred Sixty Six.

I know what you’re thinking.

Nope. I still don’t have any answers. And I still don’t feel like a grown up. Maybe slightly closer, but I still don’t even want to have to take care of a houseplant.

SIDENOTE: Somehow I manage to keep my dogs alive and happy. I don’t know how that works. Life Math is weird.

…Maybe I’m just not a green thumb.

Anyway.

My BFF Jo texted me yesterday and said, “It’s your last day as a 26 year old.”

At first I kind of panicked. Holy shitballs. 26. It’s over. I feel like it just started. I know it sounds like a super cliche, but in some ways, it really was like the blink of an eye.

I started this blog a year ago as a challenge to myself as a writer. Early in 2012, I kind of lost faith in myself. I hit a major rough patch and thought wow, maybe I’m actually a terrible writer. Maybe I have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe I don’t want to ever write again. Of course, I eventually came around and realized that writing is the thing I love the most. And in the same vein, I knew that if I wanted to be a writer, I’d have to write.

But I was kind of scared.

So I promised myself I would write something every day.

I wasn’t really expecting that forcing myself to write a blog post every day – a story that somehow led to me learning a life lesson, no matter how small – would help me be happy. I saw it as much more of an exercise than anything else. And an opportunity to maybe be funny. But I have to say, writing this blog has given me a completely different outlook on my entire life. It’s helped me understand how my past has made me who I am. It’s helped me work through a lot of difficult times and put a positive spin on things I would have never otherwise laughed at. It’s helped me approach life in a much more open, accepting way.

Like, happen to me, life: I’m ready to learn from you.

That was a disaster. Oh well, next time will be better!

I can’t believe that just happened. I am mortified. Also, that was hilarious. I can’t wait to tell people.

I did it! Someone pat me on the fucking back!

I hate everything right now. Surely someone will understand.

I am hurting. I need to know it’s going to be okay.

This is weird. Does everyone feel this way?

Did that just happen? SRSLY?!

At the same time, I had come to a bit of a crossroads with myself. I had hit a self-love low. I was feeling depressed, defeated, discouraged, you name it. I decided enough was enough: it was time to make the active decision to be happy.

I also discovered that Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks. And my world was turned upside down. In a good way.

To quote myself (is that totally pretentious? I’m trying to recap, shut up.):

Jayne Mansfield, the American actress, singer, Playboy playmate, and all around drop-dead gorgeous bombshell, was flawed in a way that has been the root of much of my self-consciousness for all of my teenage and adult life.

So…all of that got me here.

SIDENOTE: It’s really hard writing the last post of a 365-day blog.

It’s going to be difficult to let this blog go. I know I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and my first thought is going to be, “What can I write about today?” or, “Oh shit! I still have to blog today!”

But I’m looking forward to channelling my creative energy into a number of other projects that I’ve already either started or am about to. So I guess what I’m saying is I’m not going anywhere. Maybe there will be another blog. Maybe not. But I promise there will be something.

I was trying to think of a fun way to commemorate the end of this blog.

Here’s what I came up with.

Jayne Mansfield had stretchmarks.

jayne

And so do I.

Image2

xA

P.S. It’s hilariously ironic that in the majority of the pin-up photos I took, my stretchmarks aren’t that visible. Because they’re everywhere.

But I guess there’s a life lesson in that, isn’t there?

I’m probably the only one who really notices them.

Image7_2

P.P.S. Things I meant to write but forgot: Happy Birthday to me! Also, here’s to 27! I’m crazy excited for it!

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Three Hundred Sixty Five.

I know this is a 365-day blog, but this is technically the penultimate post, because it’s a birthday to birthday thing. And tomorrow’s my birthday!

600px-US_27.svg

SIDENOTE: Have you bought me a birthday present yet? We can’t be friends if you didn’t because all I care about is material possessions.

Anyway, I thought what better way to spend the second-last day of my crazy year-long blog than looking back on some of its best moments?

SIDENOTE: Maybe that should say best/”best”…

Think of this, if you will, as a flashback episode of your favourite TV sitcom. With the help of a couple friends, I’ve compiled some categories I think you’ll enjoy.

Without further ado…

Top 5 Stupid Kid Moments

photo(1)

Oh boy. Where to even start with this one?! Well, okay…

1. Pressing buttons was (OKAY, STILL IS) a thing I loved doing. See examples A and B.

2. Of course, there was the time I electrocuted myself

3. The day I put scissors through my finger

4. Setting fire to things is never a good idea.

5. Neither is writing a hate letter to your childhood friend.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give honourable mention to the day I learned that “bastard” is a bad word. Oh, and also to the combination of shaving off my eyebrows and getting hair extensions.

And guess what?! It’s your lucky day. I found a photo of teenage Andrea with hair extensions and no eyebrows. And apparently I have no shame because I’m gonna post it on the Internet.

Extensions

Boy oh boy oh boy.

Moving on!

Top 5 Most Awkward Moments

If you haven’t deduced by now, I am the QUEEN OF AWKWARD. This is quite the random assortment, but I feel it encompasses who I am pretty well…

1. The day a goat ate my t-shirt. (Enough said.) (Stupid goats.) (Seriously, why would she do that to me?!) (Ugh.) (I fucking loved that t-shirt.) (SOB.)

2. The day I learned about orgasms in sex ed. (Is anyone else craving cake?!)

3. Barrel-chested. That is all.

4. The day the National Poet of Scotland called me stupid. Which I really should add to my resume.

5. My elementary school “boobies” moment.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

There are so, so many, but I feel like my Pilates FAIL and my Zumba BARF moments were pretty grand.

Top 5 “SRSLY?!” Moments

You know those moments. The ones that make you go, “what the fucking?!”

1. People and my tattoos. Why are people so weird about my tattoos?

2. That time a guy threw a book at my face. No big deal.

3. NO I DON’T WANT TO TAN.

4. Nothing says “what the fuck?” like getting pepper sprayed!

5. Also charming: when people tell you how to pronounce your own name

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

I have to give myself a shout out for fucking up my neck by making fun of someone on a Zumba DVD. Because who the fuck does that? This girl, right here.

But the greatest honourable mention in this category goes to Glasgow, Scotland, where I experienced so many WTF things, including…

Finding a tooth in an ATM.

Finding a used tampon on a bus.

And buses in general.

Among so many others. I fucking love you, Glasgow. I really do.

Top 5 Workplace Blunders

It’s a wonder I still have my job. It really is. It’s also a wonder I still have any self-confidence after all of the stupid humbling things that have happened to me at work…

1. My friends still bring up the day I parked on the sidewalk.

2. Also charming: locking yourself in a stairwell on your first day of work.

3. Or, you know, getting caught dancing in the bathroom.

4. Similarly, walking in on your coworkers in the bathroom.

5. Or traumatizing them with your hair colour.

BONUS PHOTO:

Getting caught taking a selfie at work.

Work selfie

At least I know my office mate loves me and doesn’t judge me.

Top 5 Relationship/Sex Fails

Look. I’d prefer we don’t dwell on how much I suck at relationships, okay? OKAY?!

1. I have been known to throw myself at guys I like.

2. I’ve learned the hard way that spin the bottle will only break your heart.

3. So will going after guys who don’t care that you exist. (But you can keep trying to shout “LOVE ME! LOOOOOVE MEEEE!” at them. Trust me. Guys SUPER love that.)

4. I’m good at ending up in awkward sex situations.

5. And awkward kissing situations, sometimes.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS AND A BONUS PHOTO:

Okay, well, first of all, heartbreak, right?

I think I also screwed it up with this guy, because he was clearly paying me a compliment.

Let’s not forget all of my failed marriages. Sigh.

And the time a MONSTER RASH ruined my potential Scottish boyfriend.

And hey, since I’ve already shown you how great I looked with hair extensions as an eyebrowless wonder, here’s a photo of me in the midst of the MONSTER RASH attack. This was after I managed to get my eyes open, because they were swollen shut.

Photo 130

Good lord…

Top 5 Accomplishments

I didn’t screw up everything, though. I’ve done some stuff. Yeah. I do things! I TCB every once in a while!

1. I’ve gotten over a lot of fear to become a Zumba instructor.

2. Then I stuck with it for a year and changed my life.

3. I grew back my eyebrows, guys. I fucking did it!

4. I got over some serious “I can’t!” bullshit and also tried wall climbing.

5. Oh, hey, I also learned how to embrace myself sometimes. I think that’s pretty huge.

HONOURABLE MENTION:

I BLOGGED EVERY SINGLE DAY FOR 365 FUCKING DAYS.

A year, guys. A YEAR.

I’m excited to celebrate my birthday with you all tomorrow.

xA

P.S. I know what you’re thinking. There totally should have been some sort of crazy travel category. But I just couldn’t narrow that shit down. So you’ll just have to re-read my entire blog to enjoy.

Three Hundred Sixty One.

Every once in a while, I get a strong jonesin’ for a good ol’ trashy magazine.

You may remember that trashy mags were part of my weekly routine when I lived in Glasgow. I’m not too proud to admit it. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re enraging.

Sometimes they’re terrifyingly strange.

So the other night when I was buying nail glue to apply the Talons of Death to my hands, I bought an issue of Cosmo.

cosmocover

There were actually two different issues to choose from. Why are there multiple versions of Cosmo? Whatever. I bought that one that said more about sex on the cover. Because I’m a human being, that’s why.

SIDENOTE: Don’t you dare judge me.

Now, of course I was going into this expecting to be somewhat nonplussed. I always am when I read these types of women’s magazines. But when I came across this little sex tip, I was about as nonplussed as I’ve ever been:

paninisex

……….

no

……

Is it just me?

tumblr_m353onppk11r445uuo1_500

It can’t be just me.

Who the fuck wants to lie “limp” on top of their partner, naked?

Better yet, who wants to be the person on the bottom, potentially being suffocated to death by the dead weight of their partner.

“Isn’t this so comfy, baby?”

“Mmmmfffffffffuuggghhh…*dead*”

I’m all for cuddling, but I think I’m going to stick to un-limp cuddles. And maybe not cuddling in a…pile? No, a pile type situation can be fun. But not a stack.

That’s it. I’m speechless. And I’m putting the “Panini” on my “no” list.

Lesson learned: Oh, Cosmo. You’ve done it again.

xA

P.S. Cosmo also says don’t eat sushi because it seems healthy, but has a ton of “hidden” calories. But fuck that shit, right? I love me some cucumber maki.

Three Hundred One.

One thing I have been asked a lot over the last year or so is why I don’t talk about my weight loss.

“You’re totally inspirational,” I’ve had people say, “You should promote yourself more and help other people!”

First of all, the fact that someone may see me as an inspiration is incredibly kind, and I appreciate the sentiment like crazy, I really do.

But there are so many reasons I don’t talk about weight loss, I’ve lost count.

Here are a few.

SIDENOTE: Have you ever noticed how the universe seems to line shit up so that everything sort of happens to you at the same time? It’s like the universe wants you to learn something or something. Weird, that.

Last month, I hit my goal size.

It’s totally none of your business, but that’s a size 10.

Or as I like to joke, “Fashion Fat.”

I feel like this goal shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who knows me at all or has read my blog given the types of women I think are extremely sexy (Jayne Mansfield, Christina Hendricks, Penelope Cruz, etc.). I tend to lean toward the more curvaceous ladies.

SIDENOTE: Maybe it’s because my mom used to take me to the library when I was little and flip through books of classic paintings of fat, gorgeous women and tell me that those painters knew round women were beautiful to make me feel better about being chubby.

renoir-seated-bather-1906

SIDENOTE TO THE SIDENOTE: I fucking love my mom.

ANOTHER SIDENOTE: Let’s not even get into a debate about whether slim women can be sexy. OF COURSE THEY CAN. I’m not even going to go there. This blog post would never end if I tried to entertain all the sides of this argument/world/issue/whatever the fuck. Okay?

Sometime around last month, I also started hearing a lot of this. (A LOT.)

“Oh my God! You look amazing! What a great start!”

“You look smaller every time I see you – keep going!”

“You’re just gonna keep getting smaller and smaller and looking better and better!”

And then there’s also all the times I’ve been to visit my grandparents in the last few months and they’ve told me how happy they are that I’m beautiful now. “You’ve always had a pretty face,” my grandma said to me, “Thank goodness now your body matches it.”

I also had this wonderful conversation with the greatest* doctor in Edmonton, regarding my damaged knee:

DR: …And the more weight you gain, the worse it’s going to get. (ANDREA’S INTERJECTION: This comment came out of nowhere.)

ME: I’m not gaining weight.

DR: As time goes on and you do…

ME: I’ve lost 110 pounds in the last 18 months. I think if anything, I’ve done a lot of good for my knees.

DR: (Looking me up and down) Well, you’re gonna have to lose A LOT more.

I read this article yesterday, which left me feeling nauseated. In reading it a second time, the part about women perpetuating the social expectation for women to be thinner to be beautiful struck a chord with me because I’ve also had women get upset with me for losing weight. Like my weight loss means I disapprove of anyone bigger than me. Nope, once again, my weight loss is none of your business and it’s not about you.

I recently got called out and reamed out for encouraging a plus-sized girl to wear whatever she wanted because I wasn’t fat enough so I guess that meant I was being condescending?

What the fuck? I spent my entire life being plus-sized and now that I’m not, I can’t think you’re sexy and fashionable?

SIDENOTE: To a great, GREAT percentage of the world, I’m still totally fat, y’all. (See my conversation with the doctor above. Or turn on your TV. Or open a magazine. Or Google “Lena Dunham” or “Mindy Kaling” or “Christina Hendricks” or any other famous woman with hips.)

I was just texting with my BFF about this blog post. Sometimes, I want to write about stuff that feels too big to write about. This is one of those things. Because being plus-sized for 20+ years shaped my life. Being harassed daily for my size shaped my life. But in some ways, losing weight and trying to figure shit out in the last 18 months has been even harder. I could probably write for days and never feel like I’m saying the right thing, saying enough, properly expressing how I feel.

For today, I’ll say this: I’m happy where I am. That doesn’t mean I don’t have further goals. But I love my size. I love my body – flaws, stretchmarks, issues, and spots that trigger massive self-consciousness and all. And I just want you to be happy, too. If you want to lose weight, I will cheer you on. (Unless you think you HAVE TO lose weight because you won’t be beautiful until you’re a size 0 – then we need to chat.) If you want to gain weight (Yeah, guess what, world? A lot of people struggle to gain weight!), I will cheer you on. If you don’t want to change at all, I will cheer you on.

Basically, can we all just do our thing and let other people do theirs?

Lesson learned: Weight. I don’t talk about it because it’s personal.

And I just talked about it. And I’m gonna feel weird about this for THE REST OF TIME.

Bonus Lesson: I’ve also learned that I’m a very “live and let live” person. Writing this kept making me think of when people ask me if I’d only date/marry a gluten-free vegan, which seems preposterous to me. Nope. As long as he doesn’t think what I eat is stupid and he’s respectful of me, he can eat whatever he wants. And no, I’m not judging you when you order meat when we go to dinner together, friends. Do your thing. I like you for you. Not what you eat. Not what you wear. For who you are.

xA

*See: NOT.

P.S. Endless thank yous to the wonderful people in my life who encourage me – and have always encouraged me – no matter what. To the friends who don’t care about numbers or anything else but me. To the friends who say “congrats!” rather than “…really?” about my goals. To the guy who told me I have an amazing body. Oh, and to one of my favourite Zumba students ever, who last week told me I’d better start eating more because she doesn’t want me to vanish. Best. Ever.

Two Hundred Ninety Nine.

I worked a casino last night.

Funnily enough, I have never actually been to a casino except to work at them as a volunteer for various theatres in town.

They’re usually kind of boring. Sometimes exciting. Always strange.

I guess I was really asking for it when I tweeted this at the beginning of the night:

Tw1

At first, my entertainment was mostly fashion-based:

Tw2

And BFF-based:

Tw3

But then the men at the casino caught on that I was in the cash cage.

Tw4This guy – let’s call him Goddess Worshipper, or GW for short – was pretty hilarious. It all started when he was at the ATM right outside my cash window. He started glancing over at me, then began to motion at my hair and giving me the thumbs up.

“I like your hair!” he yelled at me.

“Thanks!” I yelled back.

(How awkward.)

He stared at me some more.

“You’re perfect!”

“Wow! Thanks!”

(What was I supposed to say? Nothing like having a yelling conversation with a tipsy GW through soundproof glass, am I right?)

“Everything about you – your style – like, everything from your hair, your tattoos, your outfit – mmm – everything. It’s just 100% you. You are who you are, you know?”

“I…appreciate it!” I laughed.

I thought he was going to get his money and go. But instead he came right up to my cash counter.

“You’re teaching people things just by existing,” he said to me very seriously, “You are a perfect goddess. You’re teaching people how to be themselves. Just by being. Gorgeous. You’re a goddess. A goddess.”

“Okay! Thanks so much!”

(I’m way too nice.)

GW then sat at the blackjack table just a few feet away from the cash cage with his back to me. Throughout the night, he kept turning back to me and yelling “Perfect!” over and over again. After a couple hours, we apparently had inside jokes. He’d turn, point at his friend’s back and laugh, shrugging and shaking his head and motioning to me like, “Can you believe this guy?”

I, of course, would shrug, laugh, shake my head, and motion back to him like, “What a card!”

SIDENOTE: Yes, I just used the expression “What a card!” In a blog post about a casino. THANK YOU I’M HERE ALL WEEK.

Then the night was super quiet for like five hours.

And then there was this guy:

Tw5

His story begins with another guy – a really young guy we’re going to call Young Guy, or YG. Let’s call the guy the story is actually about Forty Five, or FF.

(It’ll make sense in a second.)

It was the very end of the night and YG came up to me to cash in his chips. I had seen him earlier and noted how young he looked. He looked 12, but I’m sure he was 19 or something. Anyway, his cash out was $45.

He stared at me in horror as I handed him the money. He was obviously smashed.

“I got slaughtered tonight.” he said, looking like he was about to cry.

“That’s too bad.” I replied.

(What do you say to that, right?)

FF, who was organizing his chips just slightly behind YG came up to the counter.

“What did you lose, man?”

“Oh, dude,” YG turned to FF, “I got slaughtered. Slaughtered.”

“What’d you lose?”

“$800, man. $800.”

“We can fix that, bro. We can fix that. I lost $4500 last week in Vegas. No big deal.”

“Shit, man.”

“What’s $800?” FF continued, “You can’t do anything with $800. You can buy a hooker and have some fun. That’s it. $800’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Young Guy’s face lit up.

“Let’s go out, man. Have some fun.”

“Bro, any other night and I would, man.” FF threw his chips at me, looking me up and down, “Tonight’s the one night I can’t.”

“Why not, man? Let’s go. Come on. Get a girl, get some stuff…”

“It’s the one night I can’t, man. I’m back on site in Fort Mac. Drug testing Monday, man. I can’t. Shit, any other night, bro. Any other night.”

At this point, I had laid out FF’s chips and counted out his money – a couple hundred dollars – but he wasn’t paying attention to me. I had to wait until he took his money to put his chips away, so I stood there, just listening.

“Fuck, man. Fuck. What a night.”

“Any other night, bro. I swear.”

Then Forty Five turned to me, in all his expensive jeans, tight t-shirt, bald head, look-at-me-I’m-hot-shit* attitude. He looked at my tits. Then at my face.

“Look at you in there.”

I looked at him, expressionless.

“Look at this chick,” FF turned to YG, “With her neck tattoo.”

Great, I thought, here we go.

FF turned back to me, leaning in really close to the glass between us. He bit his lip.

“You with your neck tattoo and your shaved head. I bet you’d be really up for it.”

And I was like, “WOW.”

I said it out loud. Too loud. It sort of fell out of my mouth. Sheer shock.

It wasn’t “WOW” as in “YAY.” It was “WOW” as in:

KWFKM“You’d take it.” he said.

He grabbed his money and paraded himself away, giving Fort McMurray a horrible name with every step.

Lesson learned: I’m definitely not going to meet my dream guy at a casino.

xA

*See: NOT.

P.S. I totally forgot to tweet about the classiest part of the night. On my walk from the casino to my car – which was less than 250 feet – I saw not one, but two penises. Apparently, dudes just pee on cars at 2am at West Edmonton Mall. Fucking wonderful.

Two Hundred Ninety Five.

Halloween…….2005?

I think so.

I was going out with my friend Karly (the cat) to see another friend perform in a burlesque show at a goth nightclub.

I think I was dressed up as Liza Minnelli. (I wasn’t.) I was wearing a corset, a skirt, a top hat, and A LOT of makeup.

I’d dig out a photo for you, but my eyebrows are fucking crazy in it and I’m feeling vain today and I don’t actually know where the photo is anyway.

Everything was going totally fine. Until I tried to get anywhere.

Picture this: I approach Karly’s car, go to bend down to get in and realize that won’t work. I turn around and attempt a bum-first entry to no avail. Because OH YEAH, I can’t bend!

Finally, I decide I am going to have to FALL INTO the vehicle, while somehow keeping my body straight.

SIDENOTE: I promise  that if you put me in a corset today, I’d have more of a clue. I was young.

NOTE TO SELF: Get a corset.

I don’t know what to tell you, aside from I did, in fact, FALL INTO the vehicle. And then I pretty much slid down off the passenger seat until Karly was able to jump in on her side and recline the shit out out of my seat so that I was horizontal. I’m fairly certain I was yelling “Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!” on a loop.

I buckled myself in and we drove to the night club, me looking like I was either too high or too drunk to sit up straight in the car like a normal person. By the time we got there, I was probably high on a lack of oxygen.

Once we parked and I ROLLED OUT OF the vehicle Tobias Fünke style, I was golden.

And everyone complimented my corset.

Lesson learned: Corsets are tricky, but sexy. Totally worth it.

corset1

I mean SHUT UP, right?

xA

Two Hundred Seventy Three.

Two nights ago, I was at the movies with a friend and decided to flip through one of those magazines they have at the cinema.

I got to a page of upcoming movie previews and stopped on one called The To Do List.

Here’s the blurb from IMDB:

“Feeling pressured to become more sexually experienced before she goes to college, Brandy Clark makes a list of things to accomplish before hitting campus in the fall.”

The blurb in the magazine shocked me, I’m not going to lie. Because it drew repeated attention to the fact that this is a movie about a high school senior trying to get more sexual experience before college.

When I started university, I was 17.

I’m not saying there’s a right or wrong age to become sexually experienced, okay? But should we really have movies written all about it? IMDB states that all of the actors selected for the movie were specifically chosen because they’re older than real high school students…but does that make it better? Maybe in the context of the movie itself, it won’t seem so bad, but based on the blurb alone, I wouldn’t want my teens watching it.

photo

I just hate to think of all the high school girls seeing the movie and thinking there’s a list of things they should know how to do. It scares me. Guys, I’m old.

Lessons learned:

(A) I may be a prude in this specific context (but I don’t really care).
(B) I should probably not have children until this sexy teen thing chills the fuck out.

Remember in the 90s when holding hands or making out was a big deal on TV shows? Oi vey.

xA

Two Hundred Fourteen.

A couple months ago, I was out to dinner with my BFF Louise and I was telling her about a fling I had. Up until this point, she didn’t have any details about the guy, aside from the fact that he was quite a bit older than I.

“All right, spill it.”

“Okay – ”

“Wait, can I just say, that up until this point, every time you’ve talked about this guy, I have pictured you with Anthony Bourdain?”

“…Really?”

“Yeah, totally. Older sexy guy. In my mind, you’ve been hooking up with Anthony Bourdain. 100%.”

“Wow.”

bourdain_01

And I have to say, with that 20-second conversation, I learned something. I’ve gotta stop selling myself short.

Because in my mind, I was like, “As if he would!” but I could score Anthony Bourdain, right?

MLD47150_21

Right!

xA

P.S. One of those photos is called “Tony_Bourdain_horizontal.jpg.” My first thought was, “Yeah, totally.”

One Hundred Eighty Nine.

Grade six.

Sex Ed.

The question box.

ballot_box-1

You know the one. Where you can write down anything you want because it’s anonymous and only the teacher is gonna see it?

I have no memory whatsoever of my question, if I even asked one. I’m more the type to sit back and hope that someone else will ask the question I’m too chicken shit to ask in situations like that. Although now that I think about it, I don’t remember any of the questions, except for one.

“What does having an orgasm feel like?”

My teacher, Ms. Olesen, read it aloud, and then thought about it a moment, her glance moving up toward the ceiling.

“Well,” she began, “having an orgasm feels like…well, imagine a giant piece of your favourite chocolate cake…”

CAKE1

(Mmmm, chocolate cake.)

“Having an orgasm is a lot like eating a piece of delicious chocolate cake.”

It was difficult to tell where Ms. Olesen was going with this.

“It feels really good, and it’s like – mmm – like the feeling of the yummy-ness of eating chocolate cake, because it tastes so good it almost feels good…”

She started to writhe a little, trying to communicate something that seemed really confusing and borderline scary.

CAKE2

(Mmmm, chocolate cake.)

“And it’s sort of like an all-over feeling of…deliciousness.”

The class stared blankly. You could practically hear the blinking. There were a few hushed giggles somewhere in the back corner of the classroom.

“Just imagine really enjoying something you really like to eat. Having an orgasm feels a lot like that.”

The lesson I learned back then: Why even bother having sex when you could just eat cake?

Cake, people. CAKE.

The lesson I learned at 26, looking back at that moment: I could NEVER teach Sex Ed. Teachers who do deserve mad respect.

Also, there’s no need to separate sex and cake.

CAKE3

xA

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