Bad Girlfriend, BAD!

I have a confession to make. ..

I recently, have been self-diagnosed with BGS (Bad Girlfriend Syndrome), also known as WTF.G (what the fuck, girlfriend? ) You see, for years and years, I have always known something was wrong with me. For the longest time, I always thought it was because my left breast hangs slightly lower than my right or that when my man comes home I will wag my imaginary tail with excitement. It turns out, not the case.

After a weekend of drugs, alcohol and yoga I have been able to self-reflect on my relationship with my man. Come July 6th, it will be our 5 year anniversary and honestly, I love the man, but I don’t know why the fuck he is still with me.


  • Pickle likes to talk, like a lot. He can hold a conversation between him and someone else without that other person saying a word. I feel terrible because I’ve learned to tune him out since the word Hi came out of his precious lil’ lips. The problem with this is now he knows when I’m tuning out. To top that off, he will quiz me later in the day to see if I was listening to a previous conversation we supposedly had. What the fuck is that? Who does that? I was told then that is the girlfriend’s role in the relationship. I should be the quiz master testing Pickle to see if he remembers my birthday, what I said earlier in the day and so on. The problem with that is, I’m too lazy and quite frankly don’t give a damn.
  • I prefer receiving more than giving, at least when it comes to massages. Pickle, is great with his hands, like wonderfully great. I can practically orgasm just after a foot rub. I would say 1-2 times a week he massages me and every time he asks for one in return and well… let’s just say he has a lot of IOU’s to cash in on. Now, out right, I’m a terribly massager, I don’t care for it, and I don’t need to learn how to do it. Yet, Pickle still insists on me learning the way of the masseuse. I say FUCK THAT, if I was meant to be a massager, I would already be stroking cocks (afterall, that is where the big bucks are made.)
  • Although I don’t like giving massages, I do enjoy the art of gift giving. I put a lot of thought and money into my gifts. This sometimes makes Pickle feel inadequate, and ‘not up to par’ when it is his turn to give me a gift. I feel bad because he feels this way, but I can’t help buying him things I know he will love and appreciate. It just so happens he has expensive taste and hey, what my baby wants, my baby gets. After countless times of telling him I don’t need expensive gifts and I’m just happy with MacDonald’s coupons and an oral surprise, he still persists for me not to buy him such lavish things. Instead of shopping for him at Value Village I’ve instead given up comforting him over the topic.
  • I haven’t been able to figure out if he has more ovaries than I do, or my penis is bigger than his. Either I have more testosterone than he does or he has more estrogen than I do. It seems the stereotypical role of boyfriend and girlfriend is reversed with us. I can see it bothers Pickle tremendously and instead of easing off the ‘roids I bust his balls about it. I think it’s hilarious, yet Pickle is deeply unimpressed with my enthusiasm of joking about the situation. I can’t help myself. If I was a good girlfriend I would act more lady like, the problem is I need Pickle to teach me how to be so.
  • Pickle dislocates his shoulder quite often. It’s something that happens spontaneously from him doing simple tasks; washing dishes, folding laundry, mopping the floors. When I am present and this happens I am well aware he is in a great deal of pain and it kills me to see him in such pain. However, in the exact moment this happens and his vocal chords hit falsetto and beyond I cannot hold back a short shot of laughter. I don’t mean too, it’s like a fart, sometimes I don’t even know it’s coming but it does and it stinks.
  • I naturally prefer men over women, any day. I was raised in a family filled with women and I think I served my time and deserve to be with sausage from now on. To add to my preference towards men, I’m more friendlier and flirtier with them blokes, harmless I assure you, but to Pickle or anybody else it may not look so.  You see, if I really was a good girlfriend I would cling to Pickle’s arm, smile and look pretty. But I want his friends to know I’m a real person, just so happens I’m a flirty person.
  • I’m also inconsiderate. Inconsiderate in that I would leave him a post it note if I went away for the weekend instead of telling him. Hell, if I got preggerz I probably wouldn’t tell him until 8 months in or I would tell him in a non-nonchalant way.Image
  • He’s way too good for me. He’s sweet and handsome. We ain’t no Brangelina, he’s more Obi-wan Kenobi and I’m more Ethel Merman. Our looks are on a different scale. I love it when girls are checking my man out, it makes me feel good, but it means I have to work harder at the gym just so I can measure up to this man.
  • He’s a bit of a drama queen, but I am the button pusher. I know what sets him off and instead of being wise and kind and avoiding those triggers I take a shot at him from time to time. I simply, should not do this.
  • I’m terrible at advice, well actually I think I am great at giving advice just everyone else thinks it’s terrible advice. So when Pickles asks for my advice it almost always ends in a fight. And the thing is I’m trying here, like really trying to help him out. I’m fed up because when I tell him I don’t have advice for him he gets upset and thinks I don’t care, and then when I give the man advice he says he never should have asked me. WTF!
  • I’m at a constant crossroads between my career and him. Ever since I have been pushing my acting and modeling career forward it seems as though he’s trying to hold me back. He doesn’t do this purposely, but it really makes me question whether I want a man for the rest of my life or the career I’ve been working hard for. Ideally, both, but for me to get the ball rolling I choose career. (This bothers me).
  • For all of Pickle’s life he has always been the butt of the joke. Some people just exude this aura and he’s one of them. Everybody cracks wise about him from; his family, my family, his friends, coworkers, his best friend and myself. Again, I say I can’t help myself, but I know that is no excuse. What’s worse is he has expressed how upsetting and hurtful it is for him to have to man up and take the shit that is flying at him and instead of me digging him out or sitting in the shit with him I fling my poop too.
  • I always make him my Robin to my Batman. That’s just bad juju right there.

Folks! What can I say, I am not girlfriend material.  I definitely have BGS/WTF.G syndrome. This man, is amazing and he tolerates so much shit from m. He deserves an honorary medal, preferably in the form of a blow job. Regardless of how bad of a girlfriend I feel to him sometime, I’m glad he hasn’t left me, I’m glad he’s mine and BITCHES HANDS OFF! If you are going to touch my Pickle, Ima gonna dumbfuck you up!


Sandy Sweet Dreams

A couple weeks ago I had the worst nightmare in the ENTIRE WORLD! Please let me exaggerate on this one.

In my dream, WAIT! HOLD ON! I got a beef to pick with Mr. Sandman here. Sandman or Sandy (as I call him), is supposed to make you fall into your sweet, sweet Slumber Land, giving you happy dreams of unicorns and Obi-wan Kenobi’s slaying Care Bears with his giant Jedi lightsaber. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED SANDY! Apparently, he decided to take a night off…meh who can blame the lazy fucker anyways

So with Sandy pushing my needs aside, my subconscious took over. (By the way subconscious-Fuck you, your drunk)

My Dream:

ImageThere is me, with a big belly. Like big enough to knock a mother fucker out. I’m wearing no make up. I’m in a hospital. My boyfriend is there. He tells me I am pregnant. I freak out, because I didn’t even know I was knocked up.Plus I’ve been killing it at the gym and now all those ass-kicking moments of me staring into the mirror while I lift my 2lbs of weights is wasted. Now,I got a big ass belly and an alien is just about to burst through my loins. (fuck you loins, fuck you baby alien).  I’m determined to go natural (fml). Nothing is making sense. Swiftly and without much pain, I release the beast from my gaping vagina. Pick up this kid which squirts blood all over my face. SHIT JUST GOT REAL! Then…..

I wake the fuck up!

No, shitheads, I’m not pregnant and I don’t plan on shitting out kids anytime in the near Imagefuture. But this so-called dream freaked me the fuck out. I wish I was officially afraid of the cock. I don’t need no seed implanting itself into my watering hole. However, I realize this cannot be so, as I need my daily dosage of my man’s cum gun. (Yasmin you’ve been good to me so far, don’t let there be a Mr. 1%).

I know I’m dramatic. But I’m an actor, what do you expect.

Anyways, whenever I have a dream and/or nightmare that sticks out in my mind, I have a tendency to dwell on the nightly visions until I look them up, either that or speak to my psychic Ima FulloShyt. So since it has been a couple weeks since this dream and Ima FulloShyt is out of town, I pulled out the old dream dictionary, (by pulled out, I mean I Googled)


Here are my findings:

If you dream you are pregnant it symbolizes:

You’re growing and developing. (Um no shit Sherlock, I’m on my way to menopausal.)

The birth of a new idea. (Yeah, I got some ideas, but I’m too retro for new ideas.)

If you dream of giving birth it symbolizes:

Fresh beginnings. (No matter how fresh beginnings are, they will never be as fresh as my farts or my vagina.)

Anticipation or anxiety when thinking about birth. (No really? I always thought giving birth would feel like 10 Asian oiling up my body for a shiatsu massage, plus the possibility of finally having a wide set vagina really makes me want to baby make like Easy Bake)

If you see a baby in your dream it symbolizes:

The pure, vulnerable and non-corrupt side of yourself. (Could I really be a virgin?)


ALRIGHT! Enough of this Dreamology crap.  From now on, I’ll be sleeping with a dream catcher under my pillow, blankets between my legs, and I’ll make sure to take a shot of some illegal knockyouthefuckout through a tranquilizer dart to fill my head with happy thoughts before I hit the bed. Either that or masturbate (nothing like a good workout before bed).