Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXXII

No one inspired me to write more bad poetry than my first boyfriend, Satan. This was right after we broke up, when he was trying to convince me to give him another chance, and I was still feeling a little warm and fuzzy toward him. I was 15 at the time, and uh, experimenting with free verse.

We watched the night sky and waited for a star to appear. When it did we each made a wish,

You wished for forever but I knew we'd never have it,

So I wished for the summer, one perfect summer where we could love each other and share our happiness. That's all I asked for.

But my wish never came true.

And now when I gaze at the sky on a hot summer night, I see the stars shining as my star lays shattered on the ground,
along with laughter and tears,
my hopes and my fears,

And memories of our love.

Yeah. I don't know what was going on there with the commas, either. I mean, what? Anyway, if that didn't quench your thirst for bad poetry, take a big sip of Volume XXXI.

Face it

According to My Heritage Face Recognition, which allows you to upload a photo of yourself so you can find out which celebrities you resemble after they do a thorough face scan, and they do other stuff, too, but I don't care about that in the least, I look like the following people, in descending order of matching percentages:

Julianne Moore 72%
Winona Ryder 71%
Jennifer Garner 71%
Evangeline Lilly 70%

Awesome. I'm hot. Well, at least 70 percent hot. I am a little baffled, though, as to why Babydoll, The Original Painslut (Link NSFW) isn't on that list. I actually do look like her. Minus the ball gag, of course.

Via Gawker

It's a guy thing, or is it?

Sean Conrad claims that all men love sundresses. ALL MEN LOVE THEM, he says. After consulting with Bill and Lozo, however, I've determined that SC is wrong. Which is unfortunate, because SC has been my Generic Guy Barometer for a long time now. He's even my Dude Behavioral Consultant for the Cosmo Blog. Basically, my entire world has been turned upside down by the topic of sundresses and now I don't know who to believe.

The good news? While SC, Bill and Lozo were perusing sundresses online, Bill came across this little gem:



Naturally, I bought it. Not sure if it technically falls into the "sundress" category, but we'll see if wearing it requires carrying a stick to beat the guys off with.

I don't want a botfly colony in my vagina

If you're the type of person who digs weird shit on the Internet, you probably saw The Pickle Girl, she of the irrational fear and loathing of pickles. It got me thinking -- do I have any weird phobias?

I have some of the standards -- fear of commitment, fear of heights, hypochondria, but I have something far more strange and sinister, too. Fear of sleeping naked. It's something that, when I've shared a bed with someone who I should have by all accounts been comfortable sleeping naked next to, has been a problem.

Me: I have to put underwear on.

Naked Guy in Bed with Me: Why?

Me: I don't know. I just don't feel comfortable sleeping without something on.

The truth, of course, is that I do know why. I just don't want to tell the truth to guys who think I'm sane enough to sleep with. Obviously, the truth is I'm worried that if I sleep naked, I'm going to end up with an insect colony in my birth canal.

Now, I know you all heard those stories growing up about the woman who had to go to the doctor to have a seemingly-infected spider bite lanced, only to discover that the spider had, in fact, laid eggs in her pores and she was beyond infested. It's not true, of course, but when you think about all of the orifices where an insect could, if they wanted to, climb in and make you their own private nursery, it's cause for concern.

Okay, perhaps not real, legitimate concern. More like irrational, paranoid concern. But all I know is, on the occasions when I've tried to sleep naked, I've thought about pregnant spiders and ants and millipedes making their home in my girl parts while I slumber. And that shit freaks me the fuck out. So there's underwear. Always.

I just remembered that, at my first dot-com, a relatively new employee drew my name from the hat for our politically-correct-version of Secret Santa. (It was called SENDHOGG, and I don't remember what it stood for but it was annoying. Maybe someday I'll tell you about how we were only allowed to hire people who were SPICY.) He bought me the "Pop-Up Book of Phobias." Naturally, I loved it, but I was a little miffed at the time that a perfect stranger would deem that book an appropriate gift for me. Now? Not so much.

That's about the size of it

The main topic at yesterday's brunch, attended by myself, Jean and My Sharona: penis size. I won't go into what sparked the conversation, only to say that it was a small penis, and not this one, either. Here are my favorite quotes from brunch, which was washed down with Bloody Marys and champagne and mimosas and Bellinis and made having to go home afterward and clean my apartment totally awesome:

Jean: Yeah, but isn't average about seven inches?
My Sharona: Sweetie, we're talking about the REAL average, not YOUR average.

Jean: So I was like, "Are you in?" and he was like, "What?!" and I was like, "Oh, nothing. Oooh, baby! Yeah!"

From Behind

The Ubik was in town this week on business, which luckily coincided with one Miss Curly McDimple bringing down the motherfucking house at WYSIWYG's Way Gay Show Tuesday night. (Here's her story) The Ubik sat behind me, and since he's got a thing for both tattoos and backs of necks, there was much touching of mine. After the show let out, he insisted on taking some pics. Here's one of them:



In case you've ever thought to yourself, "Hm, I wonder what the back of Jess' neck looks like," well, now you know.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXXI

Oh, how I loved young Carlos. How he inspired me. I wrote my first poem for him. And my second. And my third. A year later, when he'd no doubt found a new girl at the campground, I was still pining, and expressing my profound sadness through rhyming couplets. It's worth mentioning that we spent all of five days together. What a hopeless romantic the 14-year-old cavefish was.

Memories

I'm still in love with a memory
A memory that will never be
It happened but a year ago
At that place so far away from home*
That special place where you and I met
That summer night, I will never forget**
Our time together came to an end
When I had to leave for home again
Then all the tears poured from my eyes
And I slowly began to realize
That no one could ever take your place
Or erase the memory of your face
A year later now, I'm still crying for you
Reliving each kiss, and the love that we knew

See the pain he put me through? One minute he's writing "I love Jessica" on his sneakers with a sharpie, and the next he's just forgetting I ever existed. 13-year-old boys blow.

Want more bad poetry? Come on, you know you want it. Here's Volume XXX.

* It was an hour drive
** French kiss in the pool

A conversation with Pandora Internet Radio

Pandora: A Poison station? Really?

Me: Don't question me, Pandora. Just get it done.

Pandora: Okay, how about a little "Every Rose Has Its Thorn?"

Me: Not my first choice, but I'll take it.

Pandora: I'm going to follow that up with The Used. How about that?

Me: What I'm really going for is a glam metal station.

Pandora: That's not really what I do. Just try it?

Me: Fine.

Pandora: Well?

Me: I don't like it.

Pandora: Fine. Be that way. How about some Def Leppard?

Me: Perfect, thanks.

Pandora: And we'll follow that up with, let's see… The Frauds!

Me: No, Pandora. No The Frauds.

Pandora: Try it?

Me: Fine.

Pandora: Well?

Me: I don't like it.

Pandora: Fine. Then we'll give you some Dokken followed by Alice Cooper. You happy now?

Me: Very. Thank you.

Pandora: And then… Foo Fighters!

Me: Pandora…

Pandora: Who doesn't like the Foo Fighters?

Me: I like the Foo Fighters just fine, Pandora. But not on this station.

Pandora: You do understand how I work, yes? See? I discovered that you liked the Foo Fighters! I am a genius!

Me: Shut up and play me some Winger.

Pandora: Fine.

H&M, it was nice knowing you

I'm going to be honest. The one time I was in London, two years ago, I didn't love it. Not that there was anything wrong with it, per se. It just reminded me a whole lot of New York City, only I didn't have any emotional attachment to it so the grime and the attitude annoyed me in a way it doesn't here.

One thing I did love, though, was the shopping. I spent a small fortune in London, and when I say "small fortune," remember that I was not living the lavish lifestyle then that I am now, what with all the dive bars I go to and wife beaters I buy at Old Navy. So the small fortune was, indeed, small, but it was large compared to my nearly nonexistent savings account. In fact, I think I'm still paying for that trip now.

Despite the pounds I spent on hats (the cavefish loved her hats), I racked up some serious credit card debt at TOPSHOP. I fell in love with TOPSHOP harder than I did when I was 15 and was moved to create a shrine in my bedroom to Nikki Sixx. I justified all my purchases with this statement, "We don't have TOPSHOP in America. This is my only chance to buy these adorable clothes."

I haven't missed London, but I have missed TOPSHOP. So naturally, I was delighted when Pat Kiernan informed me this morning that the Arcadia Group, which owns TOPSHOP, has been perusing Manhattan for some prime real estate for a 60,000 to 90,000 square feet store. Details from the NY Times here.

Last night, when I had that nervous breakdown and almost ran off with the Hari Krishnas, is but a distant memory in light of this news. I'm already dreaming about the retail therapy opportunities.

And she used to fall down a lot. That girl was always falling again and again.

Anyone who has ever hung out with me for more than five minutes knows that I am a klutz. Actually, klutz is an understatement. I'm a disaster. I fall down, walk into things, drop heavy objects on my feet and spill things like red wine and coffee and tomato sauce -- you know, all the really stain-inducing stuff -- all over me. I have gone through three wife beaters just this season alone, people. And I'm rocking a huge bruise from falling into the shower last week.

Every now and then, I do something so incredibly ridiculous that it surprises even me. Like just now. I went to the kitchen to grab myself a cup of coffee so I could wake up before my 4:30 conference call. I walked back to my desk, sat down, and then realized my long beaded necklace had, in fact, been completely submerged in my cup for the entire walk. When I set the cup down, the necklace sprayed my keyboard with coffee. It sprayed my desk with coffee. It sprayed my phone with coffee, and oh yes, it got my tank top and favorite denim skirt, too.

The best part? I have plans right after work. Luckily, my friends are used to seeing me with stains all over me. Only usually, I acquire them after my arrival, not before.

Making Up

Zach: Maybe we ought to go back to me just asking what type of underwear you have on and forget this whole thing ever happened? Would that be awkward?

Me: I think that's the best idea either one of us has had in a long time.

Zach: Fine. Hey Jess, what kind of underwear are you wearing today? I'm pissed I am being lumped in with a bunch of losers.

Me: Hot pink bikini. And whatever, you suck.

Zach: Not the leopard print? I am better than those fuckers.

Me: Nope, I haven't done laundry. And you're not better. Cuter, probably, but not better.

Me: Oh, and I have a pretty sassy black bra on. Jerk.

Misunderstood

This weekend, I held down the fort at Holly's table at the Renegade Craft Fair. Oh, and guys? If any of you love funky pierced and tattooed girls and didn't make it out to Williamsburg, you missed out on scoping some seriously hot chicks.

There were many highlights, but this one's my favorite. We shared a booth with the very lovely Sue from Giant Dwarf. Sue sells many very cute things, among them vegetable-dyed vintage slips. I got one, in red. Anyway, a hot little Spanish woman came over to inspect them at some point. And that's where the fun began.

This woman spoke very little English. She dismissed the first slip because it was too big. The second slip had not dyed evenly in one place, so that too was dismissed. The third slip, the sheer lacy green one, was just right. She slipped it on over her clothes and declared it a winner. She handed over her $20, and we were all very happy that Sue had made her sale.

Then, the woman moved to the back right corner of our tent and began removing her shirt underneath the slip. There was some nipple slippage. Once the shirt was off, she got to work on the pants. Holly and I looked at each other like, "Is she just going to walk around in a see-through slip?" Turns out, she was. Sue decided to intervene.

"I can see your underwear," she said.

"I no understand."

"I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR," she repeated, motioning to the area where one wears underwear.

Then, the Spanish woman noticed a dye spot near the area where one wears underwear.

"Oh," she said, pointing to it. "You can get out?"

After making a few more attempts to tell this woman that she was about to walk around a craft fair nearly naked, we gave up and let her walk off with everything, and I mean everything, hanging out. Then we laughed.

"What does puta mean?" Sue asked. "Should I have said I can see your puta?"

"I think it means whore," I said.

"Oh, right. I definitely shouldn't have said that."

She walked by again an hour later. She still had her nipples on full display, but at least she'd put a skirt on. It was something, I guess.

Don't mind if I do

This morning, I left DH with a spare set of keys and unlimited use of my apartment and its contents. I just got this email:

Am I free to use your vibrator too? It's so BIG. It scares me. It... intrigues me. You're lucky because I found a Britney CD, blasted it, and ALMOST used the Magic Wand as a mic until I realized what it was.

An open letter to Britney Spears' publicist

Dear Britney Spears' publicist:

So, Dirty Holly is in town for the Renegade Craft Fair, and before she hopped her plane to the Big Apple yesterday, she emailed me, reminding me that Britney Spears, your client, would be on Dateline. We decided that we'd make dinner (vegetarian taco salad), drink a little bit of wine (which turned into a lot of wine) and, thanks to the magic of DVR, watch Britney and then So You Think You Can Dance. This, Britney Spears' publicist, is probably too much information for you. But I digress.

So, Britney Spears' publicist. Let's talk about Dateline, shall we? First of all, you let Britney go ON TELEVISION to complain about MEDIA COVERAGE. Are you kidding me? Do you fail to see the irony in that situation? Because if so, you're the only person who did. Second of all, you let her go on said television show in a see-through shirt that did not cover her pink bra. You let her go on television with smudged eye makeup and too much blush. You didn't make her brush her hair first, and you let her chomp on gum the whole time. This, Britney Spears' publicist, makes me think you might be just dialing it in when it comes to your job.

Look, Britney Spears' publicist. I am fully aware that the ridiculously hot Britney who I wanted to make out with a whole lot is never coming back. I get that. I could never touch a woman who had carried the Federline seed without being really grossed out. That said, please hire her a stylist who will make her hair shiny and not paint her face like a five-dollar whore. Buy her some cute maternity clothes. She can afford them. And please God, either teach the girl the "right" way to use finger quotes, or tell her to STOP USING THEM.

In conclusion, Britney Spears' publicist, I suspect you're either lazy or you hate your client. Kindly start doing your job. I want my Britney back.

Love,
Jess

P.S. How creepy was in when Matt Lauer asked Britney to describe motherhood, because he "loves it when mothers talk about their children." DH and I rewound it like, six times, and laughed a little bit louder each time. I'm pretty sure it killed DH's disturbing crush on him.

Dysfunctional friendship

Jake: My God, you are the world's most stubborn woman.

Me: And you are the world's most stubborn man.

Jake: Wanna get married?

Me: Hell no.

Jake: Me neither. But I love you anyway.

Me: Ditto.

Business casual

Big meeting today. I feel like an imposter in my grown up sweatshop clothes from the Gap.

Patterns

It seems like guys are always telling me what I deserve. I deserve someone who will give me the moon and stars and all the pepperoni pizza I could ever want. Which is nice and all, or rather, it would be if the sentence that came after it wasn't some variation on how they aren't that guy. Because they're in a transition period. Or they're not over their ex. Or the timing is off. Let me state for the record that I think the notion of timing is right up there with closure in terms of the bullshit factor.

Also high on the bullshit scale is the phrase, "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now." Guys, we all read, "He's Just Not That into You." We know what that really means, which is, "I don't want a relationship with you." You'd be doing us a big favor if you'd just be honest with us. It would sting, sure, but we wouldn't waste our time and energy trying to figure out what's really going on with you, which we do, because while you can lavish us with all the compliments you can possibly think of while you're rejecting us, you're not really distracting us from the truth, which is that everything you're spouting is mostly a lie.

I didn't think I'd be so ready to just hang it up and become a crazy cat lady at 31. But then again, I didn't think I'd be so single at 31, either.

I'm lovin' it, mostly

I've come to the conclusion that an extra value meal from McDonald's can cure all emotional ills. Now, if only they could work on that post-lunch physically ill thing, we'd be all set.

Renegade Craft Fair

Hey y'all. If you aren't doing anything this Saturday and/or Sunday, come on down to the Renegade Craft Fair. I'll be there, ogling cute boys that have been dragged there by their girlfriends, spending my life savings and helping Holly, my favorite potty-mouthed Flamingo, run her table of goodies. Click on the cute little banner to get more info, and do come. Stop by and say hi.

Sailing through the fifth grade

This weekend I hopped a train up to Schenectady so Julie, Mrs. F and I could have one last hang before Julie runs off to Ireland to pop out her kid and get married and crap. There were a few tears, but mostly, we laughed until we were in pain.

The thing you have to understand about Julie is that she's ditzy. She's not dumb, it's just her schtick. It's made her the butt of many jokes over the years, though, what with her propensity for misunderstanding song lyrics and such. While we stuffed our faces with the contents of Mrs. F's cupboards, Julie proudly informed us that she had recently become a member of Mensa. Then we played a board game that Mrs. F swiped from her parents called Go to the Head of the Class. The game is from 1957. I quickly sailed up to 8th grade, trouncing Mrs. F and Julie soundly. Julie, incidentally, spent most of the game in kindergarten, while Mrs. F and I taunted her.

"For a Mensa member, you sure do suck at this."

"Hey Mensa! How's kindergarten?"

"I wish we had a video camera so we could tape this game and show the people at Mensa."

We really shouldn't have been poking fun, though, because after none of us could answer any of the questions at the "adult" level right, we unanimously decided to play at the "intermediate," or fifth grade level. Whatever, I still won.

What? Nothing about the uterus?

Me: "When you got white cum on your underwear do that mean your ready for sex? This is a girl"

Curly: Was that a keyword search?

Me: Yes.

Curly: Do people think Google is a person?

Me: HA!

Curly: Hi Google. I'm a 14-year-old female from Metuchen, NJ. Long time listener, first time caller, if you will.

Me: OMG, you are killing me.

What happened last night?

Hell if I know. I was the one who was falling-down drunk. I do remember Lozo saying he wanted to make sweet love to Antonio Banderas, though. And in hindsight, I think Miss Tanya should have offered ME the five bucks.

An open letter to KFC

Dear KFC:

It seems like every time I turn on the TV, I see a commercial for your New KFC Famous Bowls, freshly prepared with layers of my KFC favorites -- a generous serving of your creamy mashed potatoes, sweet kernel corn, bite size pieces of all-white-meat crispy chicken, topped with your homestyle gravy and 3-cheese blend.

Here's the thing, KFC. Your New KFC Famous Bowls sound disgusting. Horrible. And I want to try one so bad I can barely contain myself. I would equate eating one of your New KFC Famous Bowls with having sex with Tommy Lee. I wouldn't be able to say no, but I'd feel dirty, ashamed and probably a little bit nauseous afterward. Why must you do this to me, KFC? Why?

I notice that you haven't updated your nutrition guide with the New KFC Famous Bowls. I'm sure you've been pretty busy, KFC, and like you said, it's new. If I had to wager a guess, though, I'd bet your new KFC Famous Bowl is somewhere in the neighborhood of 6,000 calories. Now, I'm certainly not a girl who starves herself, or a girl who deprives herself when she craves something, but even I know when something's just too much.

I'm not even your target market for this product. Your target market is people who are fighting against healthy eating. The same people who buy that omelet sandwich monstrosity at Burger King. The same people who supersize like it's their job. People who say, "Fuck that tofu shit. I want a REAL MEAL." I like tofu. Really, I do.

I don't eat you very often, KFC. I've had you on a couple of The Roommate's birthdays, and on a drunken night or two out around Union Square. You are by no means a staple in my diet. I can feel myself being pulled by the magnetic force of your New KFC Famous Bowls, though, and I'm afraid of what will happen if I give in. I'm afraid I may like it too much. I'm afraid I may forsake all other meals and eat your New KFC Famous Bowls three times a day until I find myself grafted to my couch waiting for a crane to carry me out of my apartment.

In summary KFC, please take your New KFC Famous Bowls and shove them. Or at least post the nutritional information so I may have a real deterrent from diving into one of those bowls and eating my way out. I shake my fist at your sinister marketing.

Love,
Jess

P.S. You know what's really weird about all this, KFC? I don't even fucking LIKE chicken.

Things that baffled me last night

I watched Last Comic Standing. Technically, I should have been seeing The Omen with Linus and celebrating 06.06.06 in the proper fashion, but I'm still ill. Mom thinks it's an ear infection, because apparently, I'm five. Anyway, they had six billion contestants, so they only showed a select few of the bad and a select few of the good. And then they had suspenseful moments where they announced who had made it through to the next round. And it was… every single one of the select few of the good. Every time. Where's the suspense in that? Also, one of the comics has cerebral palsy and was voted the audience favorite. Which, sure, everyone wants to see the kid with the disability win, but he was absolutely hilarious. At one point he told the audience that they were all going to hell for laughing at him, and I laughed out loud. I'm totally rooting for him. Although, he did say something to the effect that no one with his illness had ever gotten far in the field of comedy, and um, what? Geri Jewell, anyone? Of Facts of Life and stand-up fame and apparently, a really extensive filmography?

Prior to Last Comic Standing, I stopped by the old Duane Reade for some Tylenol PM. When I got up to the checkout counter, I was surprised by two things; there was no line, and there were two open registers. I looked from one to the other and waited for someone to wave me over. Instead, they glared at each other. And then they got into a shouting match about who was going to check me out. From what I gathered, the female cashier believed the male cashier had not been pulling his weight, and had refused to take any more customers. The male cashier clearly thought this was bullshit and wasn't having it. This went on for at least three minutes, while I fantasized about fire and brimstone falling on them. Fucking Duane Reade. When Zach was here Saturday, I was showing him around the neighborhood and he asked where the infamous Duane Reade was. When I showed him, he said he almost wanted to buy something just for the experience.

On to the Tylenol PM, then. I'd never taken it before, so I popped my two tablets early so as not to put myself into a sleep so deep I'd be unable to wake up when my alarm went off in the morning. I feel asleep at 10:30, halfway through Law & Order: SVU, which was so good and I'm bummed that I don't know if they ever found the little girl from Honduras who had been sold to an American man as a sex slave by her parents. Here's the thing about the Tylenol PM. It was vanilla-flavored, which was nice, but I mean, was it necessary? Were there scads of insomniacs shaking their fists at the heavens and saying, "If only someone would make a sleep aid that tasted like candy. Until then, no sleep for me." Like, did the vanilla flavor actually boost sales? I mean, I'd probably shell out for Tylenol PM that tasted like Doritos, but all in all, I think it's pretty silly.

Blind Cavefish Extreme Makeover

So I'm home dying of bird flu or flesh-eating strep today and I can't sleep and I got bored and I decided to give the blog a makeover because I could just sit in bed and fiddle with the laptop only it ended up being much harder than I though it was going to be, because it has to be pink, and that ended up being pretty complicated and I keep fucking it up and now I'm exhausted because one shouldn't try to start big projects when one is dizzy and has a fever and might start throwing up bile any minute. So I'm going to rest now, and work on this when I'm no longer infirm or I get bored again. Stay tuned for the return of links and lists, and lots of pink, because that's how I roll.

You should go

I can't make it to this event, because SOMEONE [*cough* Sean Conrad *cough*] didn't tell me about it until like 30 seconds before the event, but it sounds like a good time and I'm always happy to spread the word. Here's the deets from his site, copied and pasted exactly as is because I am just too lazy to think right now:

Tomorrow is the Search4Yaris scavanger hunt, Kerstin's design class at the Art Institute of New York (once again, she's the teacher, not a student) organized. Ildi and I are headed over. The meeting time is 1:30 at Union Square. We could all do brunch first at Pete's Tavern.

Sign-up here. Now. Seriously, what else are you doing tomorrow?

Full entry here. I left out all the good stuff.

Jess takes the Netherlands by storm

Okay, not by storm, but I've never had my picture in a foreign paper and I'm all geeked right now.

Last month's "Prom Trauma" WYSIWYG was covered by Freek Staps, a reporter for NRC Handelsblad, a newspaper from the Netherlands, who I'm pretty sure was sitting next to me at the show. The story has now been published! Freek's blog post about it is here and a PDF of the article is here, along with a pic of yours truly. You know, I was wondering why I was getting so many visitors from the Netherlands. Anyone want to translate?

The picture's cool, but even cooler? The article taught me how to say masturbate in Dutch. "Masturbeerde." Sweet.

Regarding plastic surgery and reality television

I'm not at all ashamed to admit that I'm watching So You Think You Can Dance, and that I watched it last year, and that it often makes me weep openly. Last night, they brought back Mary Murphy, ballroom choreographer, to judge the competition, and she apparently has gotten herself a new face. Here's Mary Murphy last year:



Here's Mary Murphy now:



I'm not saying I'm ever going to go under the knife, but if I do, I hope I can afford her plastic surgeon.

Zach makes his case

Me: Are you crashing with me Saturday night?

Zach: Wasn't that the plan? Is that a no-go now?

Me: No, that's fine. I was just checking

Zach: Don't you remember the convo like a month ago about this? Where else am I going to sleep Saturday night? If you say Grand Central, you will receive a wedgie.

Me: I vaguely remember the convo. I wasn't taking you seriously.

Zach: Does that mean I am sleeping on the couch?

Me: Well, no. You can sleep in my room. I can take the couch.

Zach: Are you kidding me? Do you have a twin bed or something?

Me: No, I have a Queen.

Zach: For the love of Pete, sleep in the bed. I already told you I am. I'm not going to cop a feel or beg you for a blow job.

Me: I don't think we really need to work all of this out right now.

Zach: Just sleep in the bed with me, I am not going to do anything other than sleep. You are safe. I will, however, lie to anyone who asks and tell them we did it.

Me: Ha!

Zach: See? Good times for everyone. Everyone wins. You get to sleep in your bed, and I get to tell everyone ... well, nothing pretty much. But in the event they ask, I scored. Twice. Honestly, sleep in your own bed, I don't need much room, I'm a side sleeper.

Me: Okay! Fine! Jesus!