I Haven't Been Laid in Eight Months

I can't believe it.  I can't believe it's over.  I was serious about him.  I loved him.  I wanted to marry him.  I dated him for two whole weeks.  But then I realized he was dumber than a tack hammer and pulled the plug.  I can't stand the sight of him naked anymore and I keep forgetting to replace the batteries in my vibrator.  Before I know it, eight months have passed, and I've almost forgotten what a dick even looks like.

Eight months is a long time to go without sex.  Too long.  I start to fantasize about everything.  Inanimate objects make my vagina squeal.  I want to hump the mailman, the creepy neighbor that never puts a shirt on, the Asian chick doing my nails.  Oh yes.  Women start to look delicious.  Everything starts to look delicious.  The couch looks humpable, the chair, the edge of the bed.  Dogs that still have their balls make me blush.  I'm taking three showers a day just so that I can be close to a naked body--even if it's only my own.

I walk into Walmart and I'm immediately turned on by the plethora of shoppers with missing teeth, unibrows, and back boobs.  I start to imagine how sexy it could be to play with the rolls on their stomachs while they seductively lick the sauce off their lips from the family-size tray of lasagna they just bought for $2.

A man that smells nice and looks groomed bumps into me at the grocery store, and I cum in the produce aisle.  I practically have to handcuff myself to a watermelon so that I don't tackle the poor guy as he approaches the pretty blonde.  She's probably a slut in the sack.

Lucky bitch.

I'm walking through the park one day and spot a guy itching his balls.  I'm immediately turned on.  Five minutes later, I'm stopped by a cop.  I worry that maybe I parked in a handicap spot by accident, until I realize that I'm humping a bench.

Maybe I can get some strange through online dating.  ChristianMingle.com is starting to sound like a miracle; or I could always join Plenty of Fish, where all of the fish have 13 kids with five different women and have to use coupons at Taco Bell.

I'd totes sleep with my boss, who I definitely caught looking down my shirt.  People say you shouldn't shit where you eat, but I don't care anymore.  I'll shit where I please, and I'll like it.

Except he's actually gay.

....But I still tried anyway.......






                                                                                                                                  He said no.

NINE MONTHS, holy hell.

I'm foaming at the mouth.  I know that if I don't get some ass soon, I'm going to do something horrible--start drinking too much, pop some pills, add Rebecca Black to my YouTube playlist.

My ex isn't sounding so bad after all.  Sure, I caught him spelling his own name wrong.  Sure, he drives with the parking brake on.  Sure, he tried to pay for my dinner with Monopoly money.  But if I put a paper bag over his head while we do it...

Maybe I'll commit myself to a nunnery instead.

It's too much.  I can't handle it.  I could hump a tree.  I'm so horny that even TV Guide is masturbating material.  My legs are about to permanently seal shut, condemning me to a lonely, boner-less life.

And that's when my phone vibrates.

I immediately stick it down my pants, then decide that I might actually care about who's calling.  It's him.  It's the ex.  He wants to watch a movie.

We all know what that means.

I shave my legs for the first time in weeks, stun myself senseless with Xanax and half a bottle of Boone's Farm, and 20 minutes later, he's standing at my front door.

Slump's over!  God speed.