South Dakota, Mississippi, & Utah–Who Sucks Worse?

It’s hard for a radical feminist man-hating lesbian–but frigid, because all those lesbians got half their genetic material from their DADS, who are men, which I hate–witch like myself to decide which state legislature sucks the worst when it comes to abortion rights. Is it a tie between South Dakota and Mississippi, which are attempting to outlaw abortions in all cases except when the woman’s life is in danger? Yes, raped women and young victims of incest, tough shit for you.

Or is it Utah, which requires even victims of incest to notify their parents that they are having an abortion? There used to be a judicial exception, so that, if your dad was raping you, the judge could grant you permission to have an abortion without having to notify your father. But no longer.

Let this sink in. Utah legislators are requiring girls who were raped by their fathers to inform their fathers if they are getting an abortion. Even though that was spelled out for them by Salt Lake City Democratic Sen. Scott McCoy , they still went ahead and passed the law.


West Jordan Republican Sen. Chris Buttars says “Abortion isn’t about women’s rights. The rights they had were when they made the decision to have sex,” Buttars said. “This is the consequences. The consequence is they should have to talk to their parents.”

Yes, young girls of Utah, if you make the decision to let your dad rape you, you have to deal with the consequences of having to tell him that his raping you is leading to an abortion.

That will surely teach you to let your dad rape you, you sluts.

God, Utah wins. It sucks the worst.

A Little About the Boob Freckle

Saraclark says that I should promote my boob freckle more now that the readers of the Scene might be stopping by.

I haven’t seen a flood of people from the Scene, but I guess you never know. Plus, who am I to deny you guys anything?

For Saraclark, I will tell you about the boob freckle.

I was walking home today thinking about what I might say about the boob freckle, which was a good thing, actually, because otherwise, I would have had to thought about how I was going to have to cross that god damned bridge, which I hate to cross.

Luckily, by the time I get to the bridge, I’m so tired I just stumble across it without noticing how scared I am. True, today I hoped some car would lightly hit me. You know, hard enough that everyone stops to see if I’m okay and I can cross the bridge without having to worry about traffic but not hard enough to cause me to go careening over the side of the bridge onto 440. But that’s only because it’s been a while since I’ve walked home. I’ll get back in the groove, and it’ll be fine.

But I was thinking on the way home that I am the slowest person in the world. Seriously, if I walked any slower, I think I’d technically be standing still. It takes me about forty-five minutes to walk home and I suspect that it’s just a mile to work. That’s how slow I am.

So, as I was dragging myself up the last little hill before the dead end, of course, I wondered if I benefit at all from walking. Probably I could walk home every day and no one who sees me trudging up the hill at the park will ever write about how I’m “hot as balls.”

I mean, I am usually as hot as balls by that point, but not in a way worth writing home about.

My point…

I have a point, I’ve just lost it for a second because I’m distracted by Mrs. Wigglebottom, who has discovered that we have new neighbors, who have a dog, which has caused Mrs. Wigglebottom to carry around her rope all afternoon. Now, she’s sleeping on it.

Apparently, the new dog looks like the kind of dog that can break into a locked house and steal a girl’s favorite toy.

Yes, my point is that, though I am delightfully cute and charming and funny and only slightly awkward and fucktarded in social situations, I don’t consider myself particularly sexy.

But, I am not an idiot.

The boob freckle? The boob freckle is sexy. The boob freckle sits on my right boob right where the boob starts to get very round and full. It oversees the expanse where my tits come together and, when I’m wearing a button-down shirt, it peeks out occasionally, tempting whoever’s looking to keep looking and to look closer.

The boob freckle has one goal, to lure you to it. Look at it, touch it, run your lips across it–it’s all good to the boob freckle. The rest of me lacks self-confidence, but the boob freckle is unwavering in its sexiness.

It’s just a little speck of brown on a vast expanse of white, but it’s single-mindedly devoted to pleasure in a way I’m constantly amazed by.