6 Reasons You Want to be Single

Ahh, yes.  And so, it happens again.  Another one bites the dust.  I dated a guy for a whole week, but it wasn't meant to be.  I thought I could look past his flaws--his snaggle tooth, his bald spot, and the way he says "I seen"--but alas, I couldn't.

Now I'm back to spending every night with my cat and masturbating so much that one arm is significantly more muscular than the other.  Suddenly, the light bulb went off:

Being single is way better!

Disagree?  You're wrong.  And I will tell you why, for the following reasons:

(1) You don't have to shave--ANYTHING.  Within days, you'll look like Chewbacca, but your boyfriend won't care--because you don't have one!

(2) You can fart and burp as much as you want without having to try and blame it on the cat.  

(3) You don't have to act like a lady when you rip into that bag of Fritos.  You want to be elbow-deep in that bag of Fritos for the next four hours while you watch Jersey Shore on Netflix?  You go, girl.

(4) And what are you going to do with that chip bag once it's empty?  If Snooki and JWoww are beating the shit out of Angelina and you don't want to miss it, go ahead and throw that chip bag on the floor while you continue your JS marathon.  That chip bag can stay there all damn night.  What's your boyfriend going to do about it, besides NOT EXIST?

(5) You can sleep with whoever you want, and no one can say a damn thing.  Go ahead and fuck the Atlanta Falcons' entire defensive line.  Use a condom, and God speed to you.      

(6) You still have some of his shirts in your apartment, right?  How lucky are you?  There are multiple uses for those shirts.  Didn't you say you ran out of toilet paper?

You're welcome.

Love,

Cori

xoxo

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.

An Update on Our Endeavors...

Hey friends,

First off, thank you again for continuing to encourage us and show your support.  These two politically incorrect, incredibly inappropriate, and oftentimes unladylike writers are very grateful for all of you.

We aim to stay active on our networking pages and keep you all up to date.  As you have read in our recent posts, the book is (and has been) done and we've been querying agents.  Not everyone is familiar with the process, so we just wanted to briefly explain what we're doing.

Most of the time, this is done electronically.  Sometimes, it's snail mail.  Agents ask for a query letter, and sometimes--albeit very infrequently--a sample.  Each time we contact an agent, we adjust our query letter, since it's supposed to be personalized for that specific agent.  We do our research on who we're writing to, find the agents that we think might be the most interested in our genre and topic, and spend a great deal of time begging them to represent us telling them why we're qualified, what our book is about, and why we're a good addition to their agency.

Then, we wait approximately 400 years a couple weeks (sometimes less, sometimes more) to hear from these agencies.  This is an INCREDIBLY competitive business, so even though we're hilarious, innovative, and disgustingly witty very hard workers, we haven't found the agent yet.  However, as our query letters improve, the responses from these agents are actually getting noticeably better.  They're a lot more willing to talk to us, and have even provided some very promising feedback.

This business is very subjective, so while part of the battle is convincing a literary agent that you're not a complete asshole a strong and marketable writer, another part of it is getting them to love your story and stand behind your characters.

SO, you can probably see that it's a rather lengthy process, a great deal of which is spent querying and then waiting, and while you wait, you query again, and then wait again, but keep querying, and while you're waiting for the response to the last query, query again.***

It's super important for us to keep up this great momentum.  So keep reading, sharing, commenting, and telling us how much you love us.  Mention our book to your friends and direct them to our Facebook/Twitter/blog.  We'll always keep you in the loop, and we're so thrilled for the day when we can finally share the news that we've taken the next huge step and gotten an amazing literary agent!

And it WILL happen.  Megan has already picked out her dress for the book launch party.

Just kidding.

But not really.

Much love,
Megan and Dani

***Stab yourself in the eyeballs

I Fell In Love with My Fuck Buddy-Part DUECES!

So here I am, lying next to this gorgeous, smart, gorgeous, exotic looking, sweet talking, gorgeous man. I've been SURE for at least a week that I'm madly in love with him even though I know I shouldn't be. Even though he's stated that this is all he wants and all we'll ever be, even though I loved another man just two weeks ago....

As I look lovingly into his eyes, pretty positive that he felt the same way. I knew I had to say something. We couldn't go on like this. Pretending to not feel the way we feel (IN LOVE). I didn't want to jinx anything this time so I only told five or six or ten of my closest girlfriends. Ok, 12. And my mother..Anyway, they all thought the same thing. He was definitely in love with me, too.
But every time I tried to say something words would escape me or he'd have this look on his face like he was constipated or trying to figure out if the color of my thong was black or navy blue-that's really a crap shoot for guys, they're all color blind. You can't tell a guy you love him when he looks constipated. Not sexy.

I decided I would start seeing him more; I would make myself more available. If three-seven nights a week wasn't enough, surely....well, whatever more than seven nights a week was, that's what I would be! Morning, noon and night baby, all yours! I texted him after I left that night and said we should spend a night in cooking together, watching movies, making LOVE...the thought gave me tingles already! He said he was in, obvi.!

I hadn't heard from him the rest of the week. I figured he was obviously playing hard-to-get and why would he be as eager as I was? He didn't know I was in love with him, yet. So Saturday night rolls around, I call. No answer. No text. Nothing. Sad, depressed and thirsty, my girlfriend Susan and I went to a bar downtown to get a drink. And by 'a drink' I mean get wasted, then get high on our way to Denny's at 2am.

Even though I was feeling depressed I knew I at least looked hott so off we went into the night! Two drinks in and I spotted him. Not my fuck buddy. Someone better. Someone hotter. Someone more exotic looking than ever! Ok, he was a hipster just like all the other guys in the bar but he made his Flannel look like Channel diamonds and his scruffy face and long, tangled hair looked like the hipster version of James fucking Dean.

Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe I was in heat. Whatever it was, we locked eyes and I couldn't remember whats-his-fuck for the life of me. We got lost in each other and once I heard his accent it was like I was making out with Javier Bardem's younger, hotter, brother. YUM!
Needless to say, my fuck buddy can go fuck himself. I'm NOT in love with him....anymore. It's so weird how good sex can cloud a woman's thinking. Whoopsie!

I Fell in Love with My Fuck Buddy

He was intimidating from the very beginning.  He was the kind of guy who gave you the tinglies in your silly place just by looking at you.  He gave you goose pimples, sent your heart racing, and you knew immediately:

Ya had to bone him.

There was more than that, though.  It was his personality, his intelligence, his ambition and motivation and goals.  You were caught between two places: One where you were in love with his mind, and another where you couldn't stop imagining him nekkid.

On that first date, the jaws of life couldn't pry your legs apart.  You wold NOT sleep with him.  You wouldn't.  No matter how much he protested--which he did.  But you had standards.  You had morals.

You would not sleep with him until the SECOND date, and no sooner, damnit.

You were laying in bed side by side that night, and you both talked about what it would mean.  Neither one of you was in the position for a relationship.  You were friends...good friends...wonderful friends.  But if you had sex, you would merely be good friends...wonderful friends...who had sex.  It would not be a relationship.

You decided you were okay with this, because you knew you couldn't resist him any longer--no matter how hard you tried.

And that night, you banged like Kenyan gorillas.

Afterward, you both lay there a sweaty mess, and you realized just how fucked you actually were:

You were in love with him.

Ruh roh.

He was absolutely perfect in every way: smart and funny and aggressive and holy hell balls did he know how to kiss.  He looked at the world from a different perspective and had a beautiful way with words that no one could keep up with.

But as quickly as he had ripped your g-string off, it was over.  He put his pants on and went home.  And that would be it, until the next time you did the dirty dance.

Each time, you grew to love him a little more, never letting on just how not-fuck buddyish the whole situation was for you.  You could never tell him just how much you cared, so spreading your legs would need to come in a close second.

It would come to an end, though; this, you knew for sure.  No friends-with-benefits situation lasts forever.  Someone would find themselves in a relationship with another person or you would end up hating each other or both.

Regardless, you know you'll never forget the night you fell in love with your fuck buddy.

I can't think of any more ways to cleverly insert the word "penis" into these blog titles...

We're almost there, folks.

It's been a long road, but one we were happy to take.  With your encouragement and support, The Penis Chronicles of Corrine Miles is near completion.  

That was one hell of a journey.  We can remember the very birth of this book, the photo shoots, and how the title was originally, The Shriveled, Lost, and Lonely Penis Chronicles.  (Yeah right.)  We've already planned our four book release parties (LA, Vegas, Michigan, and NY) and how the instant we're published, we'll be promptly sitting down, as Danielle once said, to "garnish a few very expensive drinks and toast to the little bitches who served as inspiration."

We can remember talking about covers, deciding how we wanted the story to end, and sometimes writing until the wee hours of the morning because nothing sounded more appealing than finishing the damn thing--not even sleep.

With a couple chapters left to reread, our query letter (almost) done, and one incredible list of agencies to contact, we want to reiterate how grateful we are for your words of encouragement, for continuing to read our blogs, and for all your wonderful feedback.  To say we're excited for all of this would be a massive understatement.

Lots of love,

Dani and Megan

Me and My Thighs Had Sex Last Night

So I had a booty call come over last night. He's a regular, so I don't feel slutty about it...even though I had just gone to dinner with another guy.  There was a scare where he was taking so long to pay for the check that I thought I was going to have to.

No worries. He FINALLY shut his yap and paid so we could skedaddle and I could have Brad come over.(Brad's the recycled booty call.) I digress. So Brad came over and I already looked hot because of the date I had just been on; and when he got to my place, we didn't waste any time--which was good because it was late, I was tired, and I had to work the next day.

Brad is beautiful. He's a much older man but age is only a number; and he still had a great head of hair with just the right amount of tiny grays poking through. The hair on his chest left my hands in good company and he was tall, tanned, and a successful businessman who owned a chain of restaurants in sunny Las Vegas. He was the definition of H.O.T.T. which would explain why I couldn't stop letting him stick it to me.

So he comes over, we get in bed, start making out, dim the lights (I already lit the candles, obvi), and shut the door. It wasn't long before we were naked. God, he looked good...If he were "boyfriend material," I would have gone rogue and dated the shit out of him. But for now, I would just stick to his face making out with my lady parts. Too much?

Anyway, I was looking and feeling particularly good since I had gotten a sunburn a week ago and it had now turned into a nice golden bronze (aside from my gross tan lines that made my boobs, etc. look albino compared to the rest of me). Things were getting steamy. Finally he got to the good stuff, flipped my hot little ass over, and decided he wanted to go doggie-style...alright.

I'm feelin' good, he's feelin' good, and I know it 'cause he's telling me so. Then I look down and what's this?!? What are these dimples on the FRONT of my thighs??? Did I eat cottage cheese and drip some on my leg and now it's stuck and crusty?!? That MUST be the result of what my eyes are seeing in the now not-dim-enough light.

I can deal with a little cellulite due to the chocolate cake I had decided on a regular basis for dessert...or for dinner--whatever! But now it's on the FRONT of my thighs too?!? This is def con one in the LEAST. I have to distract him. All of a sudden, I'm not sexy. I'm fat and frumpy and all I can see are my cottage cheesy thighs jiggling around as if in slow motion.

I can't feel his glorious penis inside me anymore. I can only feel the fat on my back moving around...clapping into his waistline. Oh, the horror! I have to distract him! He canNOT see the cavernous mountains that have formed under my glorious looking stomach.

I arch my back--that'll be sexy. I moan loudly. I whip my hair back and forth like that little Smith girl told me to. I turn my head as much as I can and make that sexy "O" face. I put my fingers in my mouth. I put my fingers in his mouth. I whip my hair some more. I'm basically screaming, "LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT THE WALL! LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL SHOULDERS THAT GRAVITY HASN'T CURSED YET! LOOK ANYWHERE BUT MY FUCKING THIGHS!!"

I think it worked. He came. I pretended to come. And I quickly pretended that there was no sweat dripping from my upper lip and behind my knees and put as many clothes on as quickly as I possibly could because I was "cold." We snuggled, he left, and today....I only ate grapes and hot cheetos and now.....I have to go to the gym.