Love Ya, Mean It

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Who love me? My pussies. My pussies looooooove me.

The day of love so many tend to loathe while others welcome the warm fuzzies with gigantic appetites that rival my admiration for wine and Skinny Pirates.

The feel of Love Day for certain peeps.

As a kid, I carefully crafted a Valentine’s Day mailbox for school every year (you know, back when you could celebrate shit in school without the worry of the teeniest tiniest chance of offending someone). Students weren’t required to participate but I can’t remember when a kid didn’t. Everyone in class gave everyone a Valentine. If a kid didn’t have a box my teacher (shout out to my first grade teacher, Mrs. Shawler who reads this blog!) had an extra shoebox or two wrapped in red paper. No one was left out.

Will you be mine?

I was always lucky that I had a family who liked to celebrate everything, so no holiday was ignored. Not even one that I now often hear claims that it’s “made up” for people to get gifts. (Well peeps, if you treated your loved ones “special” all the time, grand gesture days wouldn’t be needed, now would they? You could simply just get a well-meaning card or write a note from the heart any day of the year but I digress). My sister and I’d wake up at home to little Valentines on our chairs at the kitchen table, maybe along with a small box of chocolates. We were always excited for the party to take place that day at school.

Fast forward to high school when the day of admiration became a sport of sorts.

If this high school Glamour Shot doesn’t make you want to be mine, I don’t know what fucking will.

The Honor Society sold carnations to fellow students for a dollar every Valentine’s week and the members would drop the flower off to your designated recipient anonymously. Some peeps had armloads. Some had none. I just wanted a pink one.

Some girls got called to the office and paraded delivered – delivered in a vase and everything – flowers around school. It didn’t matter if it was from their dad, grandparents or boyfriend. I was one jealous bitch. Then, in an instant, that all changed.

Because I became that girl one year.

Oh hi. I got the flowers…and then some.

The Honor Society members delivered carnations during first period. I was in concert band every morning with my sweet silver Doc Severinsen trumpet at my side. My sophomore year, the doors flung open and the band instructor stopped our warm-up. A group of kids came in hauling carnations in large buckets for their soon-to-be owners. While I was hoping to get a flower or two, my eyes laid sight on the mother of all Valentine’s day hauls. A gigantic, white stuffed teddy bear with a red bow around its neck, holding a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. So enormous, you couldn’t see the person transporting it.

About as big as this dog I gifted Princess B a few years back.

I think I literally turned green with envy at whoever was going to be the recipient of this stuffed animal. I mean, I thought I would get a flower or two because my girlfriends and I always sent them back and forth. But this, this shit was different. This was the stuff that warm and fuzzy, cheesy as fuck Valentine’s memories were crafted.

Being in the brass of the band, I sat in the last row of the room. And I’ll be damned if that fucking bear didn’t inch its way closer and closer. I kept thinking…which girl had a boyfriend that sat near me? I couldn’t wait to see who was going to get the pristine bear.

As the hidden stuffed animal transporter walked behind me, I almost gave myself whiplash looking to my left. But to my unabashed chagrin, that motherfucker was lifted over my head and sat into my lap. Hershey’s fucking kisses and all. To this day, that is one of my best Valentine’s Days (which may seem a little sad since my day of love peaked in high school but I mean, it’s true).

This moment of sweetness it didn’t come from a love interest. It came from a friend. From a best friend who (although didn’t take me to his senior prom and I will never, ever let him forget it) remains a bestie to this day.

Oh the bangs. On both of us.

The teddy bear came from Scooby.

We share a love of stuffed animals. Obvies.

Relationship game still on point today.

This gesture seemed like the grandest of all gestures in the universe at the time. All of these years later, it still does. My gay best friend delivered my grandest Valentine’s Day memory. Why was this so significant? Because he didn’t have to do anything. But he loved me and wanted me to know. Isn’t that just a simple thing to do?

Scooby was celebrating Galentine’s Day with me before Galentine’s Day was a thing.

Galentine’s Day started about a decade ago on the TV show, Parks and Recreation by Amy Poehler’s character to celebrate “ovaries before brovaries”. It was about women celebrating female friendship.

Now, Galentine’s is a nonofficial holiday celebrating all things love without romance.

Grand gestures aren’t needed (but if any of you have a Louis Vuitton en route for delivery today, professing your love for me, I am not going to turn it down). A single flower is nice. A card will do. A simple text message. A smile, a hug, a thank you. Whether it’s love or like in today’s climate, bringing happiness to any and all of those around us isn’t really that hard. We just have to be kind to let one another know that we like – or even love – them.

Finding yourself in a non-traditional Valentine’s day sitch? You aren’t alone. You do have love in your life.

Maybe we are madly in love with our offspring and the kids around us…

Maybe we are in love with our partner who we married on Valentine’s Day…

Maybe we are madly in love with our careers, jobs, work pals….

Maybe we are madly in love with our parents and write them letters to them when they’re away…

Maybe we are madly in love with extended family…

Maybe we are madly in love with our fur babies (which you all know I’m bat shit about mine and is honestly the greatest love in the entire universe)…

Maybe we are madly in love with thoughts of yesteryear…

Maybe we are madly in love with our sibling…

Maybe we are madly in love with our friends…

Regardless of what it is in your life that you love, be madly in love with your own authentic self first.

Yep. This about sums it up for me.

If you don’t love (let alone like) yourself as your own #1, no one will love the true you who is meant to be loved.

Be your own damn Valentine. Because whether you realize it or not, there is some sort of love in your life worth celebrating (even if that deep, deep love is for binge watching Netflix).

Make some snacks.

Toast to yourself.

Johnny always shows his love.

Whatever it may be, treat yourself to your version of my stuffed teddy bear this Valentine’s Day.

Heart heels – my updated stuffed animal.

After spreading some love around the office today, I’m mauling my fur babies and then taking myself out with First Mate. The same as we did last Galentine’s Day and the year prior- to not only toast to our love of one another but also to how badass we both are in our own right.

Last day of love we went to Sperry’s – an old school steak house where the same patrons have been visiting during the restaurant’s 45-year existence. First Mate and I felt like runway supermodels surrounded by folks in their eighth decade of life and said yes to the complimentary dessert and adult beverages that headed our way.

So fancy in 2019.

Now go be the love of your own damn life. If you need inspiration, please think of me.

Love ya, mean it.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

May the Force be With You…

The force is strong in our furry family,

give in to the power of the sparkly dark side,

PastedGraphic-1

or risk a pissy Princess Pussy’s anger that would reach worldwide.

(insert heavy breathing here)

Happy Halloween!

CBXB and Ted

CBXB!

How to Almost Give a Gay Guy a Heart Attack

And no, the answer is not me naked.

Surprise party of one.

The answer is a surprise party of one stuffed into a car trunk.

This past weekend I was beckoned to Des Moines by my bestie Scooby to supply his husband with a good old fashioned make your heart stop birthday surprise.  Brainstorming on how I would be presented as a grand gift we landed on the idea of shoving me into the trunk for an ambush on Mr. Scooby.

Naturally, we pulled over in a church parking lot to get the deed done.

Good idea. God won't care.

Nothing strange about this scene.

A quick prayer was said in the hopes that no one would suffocate to death, all other vehicles on the road would avoid rear ending us and I prayed Scooby wouldn’t forget about me as soon as he went into the house to fetch his hubs.

Are you there God? It's me, Scooby.

Are you there God?
It’s me, Scooby.

With the surprise package in compact place, we were off.

Alive and kickin' but feeling very sorry for all of the damsels in acting TV  distress. This trunk shit is hard work. Especially the not laughing part.

Big ass, tiny space.

In case you were wondering what your trunk look like from the inside...

In case you were wondering, here’s what you’ll see if you’re ever thrown in a trunk.

As the car reached its destination, I heard voices approaching the vehicle to take a gander at what gift awaited while I almost pissed my pants from trying to keep my not so quiet laugh subdued. Mr. Scooby said, “is there a puppy in there?”

S.U.P.R.I.S.E. it's not a puppy!

S.U.P.R.I.S.E. it’s not a puppy!

It’s CBXB!

Happy or sad?

Bewildered birthday boy.

While the surprise was a success, I had a grand entrance fail.

Graceful exit. Easy in, hard out. Grand entrance fail.

Does anyone have a crane?

Once able to hoist my fat ass out of the trunk (a true junk in the trunk story here folks) it was birthday hugs for everyone.

Hieee!

It’s me!  In the flesh!

It's for reals.

For reals.

The only thing left to do was get the party started.

Let's party!

What’s a soiree without jazz hands?

And party we did.

Happiest of birthdays Mr. Scooby!

Happiest of birthdays Mr. Scooby!

Now how in the hell am I going to top this next year?

CBXB

CBXB!

 

How to be a Bad Best Friend (and Husband)

Ah, best friends.

Always around, never letting you keep anything bad down.

Ah....besties.

I’d just eaten rotten buffet shrimp. I swear.

Besties are always there to help you with bad hair.

Nice 'do.

Stick to your day job Scooby.

My mean gay bestie delights in bringing up just how far we go back.

We've known each other HOW long?

Memories painful due to time passed.

But I draw the line when a best friend doesn’t know how to properly spell my birth name.

There's NO MOTHERFUCKING H.

There’s NO MOTHERFUCKING H in my Megan.

So when it came time to paybacks going out when my gay bestie was in town, I made sure Scooby was primed and ready with wine…

Day drink.

Day drink #1.

And then beer….

And drink.

Day drink #2.

Topped with flavored moonshine.

And drink more...

Day drink #3.

By the time we got to the bar, Scooby’s world was spinning faster than a tilt-a-whirl and I kindly offered to take the lightweight back home.

This is your body on wine, beer and moonshine.

This is your body on wine, beer and moonshine.

But never fear! Gay best friend’s husband was near!

Hotter than a speeding bullet,

Hotter than a speeding bullet, Mr. Scooby zoomed in knowing just what to do.

Mr. Scooby directed his husband out the front door and into my parked vehicle, where he secured drunky into the front passenger side seat as he pretended to drive by moving his hands back and forth on the steering wheel, knowing Scooby would fall fast asleep.

No one will notice, right?

No one will notice a passed out gay guy, right?

Right.

Right.

Turns out Mr. Scooby and I are such extremely caring, thoughtful, kind souls that not only did we partake in martinis galore…

Cheers!

Don’t worry. We locked Scooby in.

… we decided to take the party four blocks down the road to a dance floor.

Scooby who?

Scooby who?

The club got so hot, I made Mr. Scooby take his shirt off and then I made an impromptu push up bra to compete with his pecks.

I got so hot, I made Kevin

Even if you’re straight, you can’t hep but appreciate!

And when my feet hurt enough to take my heels off, we went to check on our sleeping beauty who had moved down the seat about four feet.

Safely strapped in.

Safely strapped in.

Makes you think twice about misspelling my name doesn’t it?

Best. Friend. Ever.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

For the Love of a Scrunchie

Yes, that kind of scrunchie.

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade  = dream girl.  Not to mention I own two cats....

Glasses + retainer from 9th grade + scrunchie from 4th grade = dream girl.
Not to mention I own two cats….

Being that I consider myself somewhat fashionable, it may surprise you to know that I still have two scrunchies from my elementary years.

For real.

I still own the black one pictured above in the tangled mess of fuchsia and sorta blonde hair and the purple one below that I bean walked my ass off on my aunt Marilyn’s farm to purchase (now, I got more than a scrunchie with my loads of money from walking bean fields….I also got a tie dyed shirt. Obviously I put my money to expert use).

Hard earned hair acccessory.

Hard earned hair accessory.

Although I hoard scrunchies from decades ago, this does not mean that I condone wearing anything of the sort in public. I feel so strongly about this, I have risked jobs and friendships, saving folks from public embarrassment.

A few years ago while at an extremely new place of employment, I spotted my boss sitting at her desk with a white scrunchie in her gorgeous hair. And while I hadn’t quite figured out our working relationship boundaries yet (being that I was her assistant) I felt it my womanly duty to rip it out of her hair.

Well, actually I walked up behind her and as I slid it off of her hair I leaned in and whispered, “We don’t wear these in public. Trust me.”

Um, no.

About to be unemployed but I don’t care.

Horrified at my casual approach and sure as shit I was about to be fired, she laughed and said thank you. We’re still gal pals to this day thanks to my brazen move in the name of fashion.

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie

Fuck that noise. No boss of mine will sport a scrunchie even though I wear tiny sombreros and t-shirts announcing my crazy cat lady status.

And then there’s my old band manager I ran into at the mall one afternoon.

I expected so much more than….

Manager fail.

THIS.

While I can’t agree with his white socks and black sneaker approach, it was the teeny, tiny piece of material stuck in the layers of curls that made my skin crawl.

NOT blending in.

Scrunchie not blending in Dude.

Being that I didn’t work for my buddy, I could be a little more blunt in expressing how insane it was to see a grown man wearing a scrunchie.

Someone actually procreated with you?! TWICE?!

Someone actually procreated with you?!
TWICE?!

A mere two seconds later, the scrunchie was mine and my buddy was back to being, well, my buddy.

Yep. Back to being a bonafide '80s rocker

Yep. A bona fide ’80s rocker.

So it may surprise you that I actually do wear a scrunchie.

CBXB shocker!

CBXB shocker!

But I only sport these little pieces of fashion fails on two occasions.

I wear one to keep myself cool when I sleep within the confines of bedroom walls.

Night sweat no more.

Night sweats no more thanks to my ancient accessory.

Even love it when it gets stuck in my mane.

I still even love this piece of shit when it gets stuck in my mane every morning.

The other occasion in which I wear something so taboo is a deep, dark scrunchie secret.

I wear it to perfect my bun.

Which means I technically wear a scrunchie in public.

THE HORROR!

Bun magic

Magic mane compliments of my scrunchie.

Nice, plump, round.

Scrunchilicious bun secret.

Hey-oh. But why would I ever let anyone in on my bun magic?

But you can bet your ass I ever let anyone in on my bun magic…except all of you.

So there I am, going along happily in life with my stealthy scrunchie use until…

I LOST THE BLACK ONE.

Visiting Iowa, I was certain that I left it in my sister’s guest bedroom. And quickly resigned to the fact that I’d never see this beloved piece of my hair history again due to the fact that she has 18 month old twins and a dog that likes to eat everything.

Noooooooooooooo!

Goodbye my love.

What will keep me cool at night?!

How will a bun ever be the same?!

But then I remembered I still had a purple scrunchie from 4th grade.

I think I found it in my Caboodle.

Be still my beating heart.

Be still my beating heart.

As I went to sleep that evening, reaching for the limp pile of aged elastic and who-knows-how-many-germs-its infested-with-material, I heard a snap.

S-N-A-P.

Noooooooo!

Noooooooo!

My purple piece of shit went to scrunchie heaven, as the decades old elastic finally died (most likely committing suicide).

Finding myself empty-handed, I did the only thing I could think of to console myself.

I headed to Claire’s Boutique – a store I haven’t stepped foot in since I was a gal on the hunt for prom accessories in high school.  Upon entering the overstuffed store, a sweet girl who was maybe fifteen greeted me and instantly looked baffled when I told her I was in dire need of a scrunchie.

“A what?” she asked.

“A scrunchie. You know, a hair tie with material around it,” I exasperatingly explained as I felt a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek.

Feeling 101 years old (and thinking the music was blaring too loudly, further solidifying my oldness), I followed her to the back of the store to the clearance section where she announced…

“This stuff has been here since before I started working here two years ago. Maybe you’ll find something to help you out.”

Um, what the fuck 14-year-old?!

Um, what the fuck 15-year-old?!

The new take on scrunchies are pieces of fake fur wrapped around elastic that are about as durable as an earthworm on a dry day, which would be why they were on clearance for 99 cents.

I mean, seriously?

I mean, seriously?

Giving up on Claire’s, I headed to the mall where my fashion world was rocked so hard, my head still hurts. While perusing the endless goodness at Nordstrom, I saw a rack of scrunchies in the accessory department.

Fucking scrunchies.

At Nordstrom.

Fucking silk scrunchies at Nordstrom.

What has this world come to?

Search to replace. Nordstrom FAIL. FAIL. FAIL! Especially with silk scrunchies. Old people lunch tables in nursing homes is hte only place this is acceptable.

These are only acceptable on white hair around a nursing home lunch table, mmmkay?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both.

Still crying tears of scrunchie sadness.

Scrunchie sadness combined with the hilarity of an upscale department store selling them in silk.

Knowing that I would never again sleep at night without waking up to a crease in my typically straight ‘do and also knowing my bun days were over, I started to try and begin mending my broken haired heart.

But then…

Mama CBXB returned from another trip to Iowa and had a surprise for me.

Miracles.Do.Happen.

BUT WAIT! My sister found it. And is my hero.

My antique hairpiece is back!

All of this agony over the love of a scrunchie.

Stop judging me.

CBXB

CBXB!

My Very Own Dick Pic

 

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

Do not, I REPEAT DO NOT ever send a dick pic. Ever.

________________________________________________

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

This not-in-the-slightest fairytale post contains a blurred out dick pic I received as a love note.

________________________________________________

It all started with an innocent girl’s night out. My friends and I rarely get together, as everyone is busy with work, husbands and offspring (I of course, am extremely busy with my two pussies).

Ladies lovin' life!

Lovin’ life with ALee and G.

I’d recently found myself single and when our gaggle of gals ran into a group of Ohio guys at a honky tonk, my bestie G (you know, the one who almost got in a fist fight to defend my honor against an 80-year-old man) chatted up a nice fellow who had recently moved to Music City. At the end of their 82 second conversation, she turned to me giddily exclaimed, “I gave him your number!”

New Cat, New Cat your order is ready.

You bitch!

OK, so maybe I was overreacting a tad. I looked at the dude who was obviously an old frat guy (you know the look “fancy” leather flip flops, khaki shorts, golf shirt tucked in with a belt typically accompanied by swoopy bangs on foreheads – at least in the South anyway – but this guy had a shaved head) I thought it wouldn’t kill me to put my toe back in the dating pond, as dude looked normal.

And being that I’m from Iowa, I assumed we could bond over Big 10 football (even though I loathe THE Ohio State Buckeyes).  So I talked to the guy for about four entire minutes, he asked if I’d like to go to happy hour the following week and I accepted.

And soon after wished I hadn’t.

The following day I received no less than 23 texts and tried to be a good sport before turning into an extremely annoyed lady –

Nice meeting you last night! You too.

What’s for breakfast? I don’t cook.

Send me a pic! You know what I look like, I just met you last night.

What’s your last name? No Googling before our date.

Are you on Facebook? Isn’t everyone?

And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on until I finally said (at 7:30pm) that I was going to bed.

Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, I reached out to G and my sister who both thought maybe this guy was simply nervous and overly anxious for our date in a few days.

OK, OK maybe I wouldn’t write him off – yet.

But then, I received this the following morning…

Thought you might like this.

Um...creepy?!

Um…creepy?!

I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what the hell to say. Who sends half naked pictures to a chick when she’s already said yes to a date?

My silence seemed to only pique his interests more.

Do you like piercings on guys?

Do you want me to pick you up at 7:30 or 8pm? (we said happy hour you stupid fuck and I might as well put my photo on a milk carton if I give you my address)

Do you have any tattoos I’ll be surprised to find?

And after forwarding everything to my sister and G, I got two similar responses:

CRAIGSLIST KILLER CANCEL DATE IMMEDIATELY

Of course I was already in the process of excusing myself from hanging with this psycho because I was sure to be hog tied and either end up at the bottom of the Cumberland River or in one of his apartment rooms for 3.4 years before eventually gnawing through my own arm to escape.

Either way, no thanks.

Here’s how it went as I tenderly tried to turn him down…

The Break Up

Now I’m sure you’re thinking that I went easy on him as I used the word “reschedule” which I’d soon regret. But I didn’t know how much this D-Bag knew about me, having my phone number, so I went for the easing out of it approach.

Which didn’t seem to work well because this kept happening (I’ve blurred out anything associated with my job)…

photo 2

D-Bag kept sending me pictures of himself sitting at his desk, “funny” memes he’d found online and asking how I was doing. My silence was turning out not to be so golden.

The photo below came the evening that we were supposed to be meeting for drinks and I suppose it was allowing me to see just what I was missing out on.

I must say, a step up from his khaki shorts.

Oh gee, you look like 574,912 men that reside in Nashville.

photo 3

At my usual Friday night happy hour, I was laughing and showing friends what D-Bag had been sending over and over with no response from me and another photo popped up.

photo 4

THOUGHT U MAY LIKE THIS?!?!

He thought I might like this?!

photo 3

My initial reaction:

MY EYES!

MY EYES!

As the entire bar turned to look at our table because yours truly couldn’t stop screaming, “DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT? DID HE REALLY JUST SEND THAT??”

I happened to be sitting next to First Mate at the time – much to her arm’s dismay as I almost ripped it off upon seeing the penis of a complete stranger with whom I’d had a four (FOUR!) minute conversation.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

Hold me. Hold me with your good arm.

I’m pretty sure I single-handedly polished off a bottle of Jager before stumbling home to pass out in the comforting paws of Ted.

Down the hatch

Please be a mind eraser. Please.

When someone doesn’t respond to your naked picture you’d think that would be the biggest hint of all time, like a neon sign blinking “STOP TEXTING ME YOU CRAZY ASS CLOWN” but it turns out this douche really wanted to get together.

photo 5

When he didn’t stop, I was going insane trying not to respond. Naturally, I was discussing this with everyone from work friends to girlfriends to my family. We couldn’t decide if going to the police would make him angry (or crazier) and if I responded, it would most likely egg him on.

He didn't stop.

Stop the madness!

I thought of sending a pic of me with runaway bride eyes (remember that Georgia lady and her eyes?!) and one of Camo’s menacing guns, D-Bag might piss himself and leave me alone.

Crazy bitch with a gun.

Crazy bitch with a gun. Look out.

But I refrained. I sat on my hands and D-Bag’s messages kept coming with no replies from this chick.

photo

By this point, he’d been texting to no one for over a month and I was beyond pissed off.

Furious.

You don’t fuck with an Iowa girl.

Don't mess with a girl who's been corn fed.

Nope. Don’t do it.

You don’t fuck with a crazy cat lady.

Image 6

Seriously. Don’t even think about it.

And you most certainly don’t fuck with a picture happy blogger who will be sure everyone knows that you, a gigantic D-Bag, work at the new downtown Nashville Omni hotel where you started as a Project Manager from Ohio but are now permanently residing in Music City.

There also may or may not be flyers up of him in all of his glory at the hotel.

Image 3

Bloggers mean business.

Sorry you if you can’t erase the images above from your mind.

But I just had to share because as D-Bag said…

I thought you might like it.

CBXB

CBXB!

 

 

 

 

Celebrate Two Years, C’mon!

Woohoo!

This is a CBXB celebration!

Ole!

Cel-e-brate good times, come on! Let’s celebrate.

Image 18

There’s a party goin’ on right here,

Cowboys and Crossbones has been blogging for two fabulous years.

C'mon!

 So bring your good times, and your laughter too,

Who me, loud?

I’m gonna celebrate and take Jell-O shots with you.

Whipped Cream

Come on now…

Cel-e-bra-tion

Let’s all celebrate and dance for good times.

 Good Time

Cel-e-bra-tion

We gonna celebrate and be fed food all night long.

 Feed Me

It’s time to come together

It’s up to you, what’s your dancin’ pleasure?

 Dancin'

Everyone around the world

Come on!

 DANCIN'

Cel-e-brate good times, come on!

This calls for cake, it’s all right.

 Want Some?

Cel-e-brate good times come on!

Skinny Pirates for everyone!

CBXB as Captain.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Let’s double fist, it’s all right.

 Bottomless...

We’re gonna have a good time tonight

Dress Teddy up,

Mr. Ted E. Bear with his Christmas flair.

Then get him drunk.

Winos

Oh Baby…

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Lose a shoe, it’s all right.

Red Solo Cups are so chic - only in Miami.

We’re gonna have a good time tonight (Cel-e-bra-tion)
Drink all this,

oh boy

Look like shit.

Look Like Shit

Woohoo!

Two whole years of good times, come on! (Let’s celebrate)

Bend it like Beckham a crazy dame.

Writing this blog is so damn fun, come on, stay tuned for more!
It’s a celebration!

Automatic dance party.

Celebrate with me and the pussies for another year strong! (Let’s celebrate)

Happy?

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, all of my readers, you’re outta sight!

Ted loving Ted

We’re gonna have a good time tonight, cheers to this year, it’s been dynamite!

Kiss my ass 2013!

See you all here again next year, we’ll celebrate, my blogging year three.

Insist

Everyone around the world, come on!

WOOHOO!

CBXB

CBXB!