I want to be a nude model

As some of you know, I recently started a new job. This past week was my first with the new company, and HO.LY. SHIT. The amount of information I have absorbed, and the fast-pace of this work environment, has me seriously contemplating if I have gotten in over my head.

Just to indicate how dire the situation is - I don't even know what this company does. Are you computing that? I was hired to help them compete in their industry and keep the company functioning at peak performance, and I don't even know what they do!!!! I'm learning the ropes, the terminology and jargon is slightly less greek to me than it was five days ago, but after waking up at 6:30 am, working for 12 hours straight, then stumbling back home around 9 pm, I'm barely able to digest and organize all the information that was thrown at me.

And it's even more than not thinking I can do the job - I don't know as if I want to do the job. Or any job that requires me to stay on top of 20 things at once, work 60+ hours a week, then feel like a zombie when I finally plop my ass on my couch.

This is why nude modeling has all of a sudden become an ideal profession to me.

My body isn't bad. I don't think it's Playboy ready, but I have the goods so that if I wanted to pose for Playboy, all I'd need to do is work out and tone up for a few months, and then Mr. Hefner might seriously consider putting me in his magazine. My boobs are already Playboy ready, not to sound like a raging narcissist, but every guy or girl who ever had the privilege of laying eyes on them has confessed that my breasts are beautiful. And on top of how gorgeous they are, they're natural. The genes I inherited made me struggle with acne (which has cleared up fairly well, BTW), but hey, I got a nice rack. Genes are very give and take.

Nude modeling - or any profession that required one to use their body as an object - always seemed below me. I eschewed the premise of not using my mind to earn a living because being intelligent and knowledgeable is the highest achievement anyone could pursue. Not to mention, intelligence is sustainable, whereas looks are not. It takes a lot of plastic surgery to nude model when you're 40.

But now I feel like a massive moron for not using what God gave me to bank some buck when my body was at the zenith of its suppleness. I have finally come to the conclusion that nude models are the most intelligent people in the world - they are hot AND they are geniuses. They realize that money means the difference between a good life and a bad life, and if you want a good life, why be proud? Why spout off about the integrity of intelligence and the goodness in bettering your mind, why bother to be an intellectual when it doesn't matter AT ALL how smart you are if you're living under an overpass and eating out of dumpsters?

And even beyond being smart - why force yourself to work 60+ hours a week for the good life when all you need do is take your clothes off and earn the same amount?

Well, most nude models probably don't make the same amount of money as say my boss, but they can earn enough to at least live comfortably - and all they have to do is stretch out on crushed velor blankets while naked! Jesus, I'd love to lay naked on crushed velor, but I can't afford crushed velor, and I don't have the time to lay naked on crushed velor! So to imagine doing so while getting paid for it - now that is the good life.

I used to think nude models, porn stars, and strippers were deluded and sad when they'd say things like, "I LOVE what I do for a living. It's the best job in the world!" But now I can see that I always thought like that so I could feel better about the path I chose, the path to be an intellectual instead of an object.

There's gotta be some downsides to earning a living as a sex symbol - I better see some in the comments before I decide to move to Cali and get a job as Maggie Gyllenhaal's titty double.

UPDATE: It is Sunday, and I have spent the past 7.5 hours working on this huge proposal my company has due tomorrow afternoon. And it's my first week. KILL ME PLEASE.

Life update: Everything has changed!

ONCE AGAIN, I have been severely delinquent on my blogging. In the almost two weeks since my last post, a lot has changed, and my time has been monopolized with composing the new life on which I'm about to embark.

Previously I lamented the fact that my employer was going to cut back my hours to part-time, and since I could not survive working part-time, I had to find a new job. I was scared, folks, and worried out of my fucking skull. Given today's job market, and the fact that thousands in the NYC metro area are getting laid off (or about to be laid off), it seemed that finding other means of employment would be nil for a girl with less than two years of professional experience under her belt. And without a trust fund to fall back on, a month of no work would prove to be disastrous.

But I found a job, and though it's a corporate gig (therefore Satan incarnate, or so I've been told), it pays way better than my previous employer ever could have, plus I get health benefits, and the option to partake in the company's profit-sharing. How I found the job and procured it is amazing, because it really does have a lot to do with time and place and circumstance (and NOTHING to do with who I knew). In his essay Here is New York, E.B White confides to the reader that New York can be a dubious place to live and that "no one should come to New York to live unless they are willing to be lucky." That line resonates much more now after analyzing the way in which I found my new employer.

That's not to say that it was all dependent on luck; I had to go on three separate interviews for this gig! It is was gut-wrenching waiting to hear back from them, and every day without an answer was making me sick.

But now that weight is off - whew!

When I wasn't tearing my hair out and puking from anxiety, I was in the midst of moving into a new apartment! The bf and I found a great space with a backyard and jacuzzi bathtub, and it's actually cheaper than the apartment that I just moved out of. I'm not completely moved in yet, but it's getting there. Can I get the readers' opinions on this wallpaper sample - it might be a little too retro for the funk I'm going for in the living room (it'll go on just one wall, mind you!)

SO that is the life update - I now promise to get back to blogging about weird, over-sharey and inappropriate things on a regular basis.

Why I've been MIA

In case you were all too busy mourning at the feet of the Pieta in light of the massive downturn our economy has taken, let me inform you that I haven't blogged for a week. A week!!!! That's kind of unlike me. Oddly, I feel some sense of duty to the handful of friends, acquaintances and strangers who read this blog, and a week of absence is like a tender promise being broken. I have failed you sorely.

Oh but then again, I found out last week that my hours are being cut back, and it sent me into a job-searching frenzy. So I guess I had the right to not give a shit about this blog OR the pseudo promise I was breaking. The readers are on the low end of the totem pole when it comes to my priorities (unless you can get me a job, and in that case, when can I start blowing you or painting your garage?)

With regards to the job front: It's not ALL that bad. Yet. My hours are only being cutback, so it's not like I'm going to be destitute. I've got a job interview on Tuesday, and I have a couple good leads, one of which I will be eating dinner with on Wednesday night. Also, there's the boyfriend, and the boyfriend knows I don't like to have sex when I'm hungry. So be assured that I'll stay well-fed.

But these are tough times, and it's an especially tough time to find a job in New York. Too easily this job hunt could turn into a futile, aggravating journey, a journey where the only thing I discover about myself is that I hate everyone and everything and have a penchant for drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag while standing next to a burning oil drum.

Or maybe I'll find a SWEET job, one that pays better than my current employer ever did, and I'll make more money than I ever imagined, AND THEN this employer will open the door to the industry that I really want to work in, and because I didn't have any money in the stock market, I'll end up coming out better from this economic disaster than anyone else. Do you think? Could it be? Believe it and be it, believe it and be it! Ok, I believe; in order to prove to myself how much I believe, I'm going to rack up my credit card with a bunch of debt since surely I'll be a rich woman in 3 months time.

Sidenote: I realize that once before on this blog, I spelled Valium (as in the pills) like volume, as in how loud or soft you play your music. I just wanted to clarify that I am not a full-on idiot, I just have spurts of retardation where I misspell simple, everyday words. Don't even get me started on how often I misspell the word suttle.

A tale of an annoying one-night stand

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.

An achievement better than earning a college degree, or losing your v-card

Triumph!

Tonight marks the best accomplishment I have achieved in my adult life thus far. Though it has nothing to do with my career aspirations, money, or romantic life, it is a prime example of the rewards given when you are inexorably diligent.

About a week ago, my computer stopped connecting to the wireless network in my apartment. I waited it out, thinking that the networking problems were a glitch that would fix themselves. Wednesday and Thursday came, and still no ability for my computer to connect to the internet, even after I pulled every connection trick I knew out of my back pocket. My adapter showed signs of connecting on Friday, but my ability to access the internet was intermittent. The weekend arrived, and I left my computer alone, hoping that the router's signal would improve by Sunday night.

That never happened, and tonight it became apparent that the router was dead. And there was no fucking way I was going to endure another www-less night.

Purchasing a new router was the first inclination, but after scoping out prices on my roommate's computer (he still had internet access, since his computer is wired into the internet connection), I decided that wasn't happening - there are more colorful and majestic ways to spend $70, like on the rent, or dinner.

An ethernet cord lay in the spare room. Rather than go out and buy more junky computer equipment, I decided to make lemonade with my means; my "means" also included a ladies hammer and a chisel, as well as little care to what damage I did to my bedroom wall.

I endeavored a la Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption - hammer in the right hand, chisel in the left, I pummeled the plaster around the small hole my cable cord was threaded through. After about 20 minutes with little plaster eroded, I ran to a friend's and borrowed her power drill. The drill worked better, but in a strange twist, it turned out the wall wasn't made of just plaster - seemed there was some kind of wood holding the wall up, and this wood had hulk-like strength.

I persisted. I jabbed and sawed away at the wood, which for all I knew was actually copper plumbing or a beam that was supporting the entire apartment building. But none of that mattered; seriously, I was so obsessed with getting a connection to the internet that I would have taken a sledgehammer to the wall. Sweat dripped from my pits and forehead; my legs cramped from sitting on them for so long; my joints screamed at me as I forced my limbs into twisted positions, crouched behind my and my roommate's desks.

An hour of amateur millwork later, the hole seemed big enough from both sides. It took another hour to thread the damn ethernet cord through it, a job that made me feel very MacGuyver like - I actually used manipulated paper clips to hook the cord and pull it through the wall. But finally, after roughly 2.5 hours of drilling and peering through a dusty, jagged hole in the wall, the cord was swiftly plugged into my computer and the router, and after some minor configuring....TA-MOTHERFUCKING-DA! I sit here detailing my experience for you fine folks via the internet.

In a way, connecting to the internet is just icing on the cake. I'm oddly proud of myself for meeting this obstacle with ingenuity and an unwillingness to give up. I could have thrown my hands up at any moment, traipsed up to Circuit City and slammed $70 on the counter for a new router, and lived on Ramen for the next two weeks. I've never been especially proficient at handywork or using powertools, and the notion that I was effectively costing us our security deposit was always in the back of my mind. But lookee here! There are few times in life when you take on a project you are ill-equipped to accomplish, yet your sojourn proves fruitful - as far as I'm concerned, this is one of those times. Will I ever feel this glorious again? All I gotta say is that my firstborn better be pritty special if he/she ever wants to live up to my most awesomest accomplishment yet.

In my absence, I charge you with a task

I'll be MIA for maybe this entire week - I'm on vacation, hence the boyfriend is taking me camping. But don't worry! I like camping. Then a little Six Flags action on Thursday, and on the 4th I'm heading to the Hamptons with my roomie to take advantage of his mother's summer home (I guess there are upsides to sharing an apartment with him, specifically his mother's wealth).

Even though I'll be on vacay, that doesn't mean you guys should slack off - here's your task: I've recently started working with a producer, and currently we're developing a show for A&E based on hypnotherapy. But he's always open to other documentary ideas, and he's always prodding me for my opinion about what I think should be developed.

Aside from the fact that it's fucking weird that anyone would take me seriously, I'm really trying to provide him with the "young" and "hip" material that would be a ratings hit. Not as easy as it may sound. So! Do you have an idea for a reality series or a documentary that you think is original and interesting? Something fresh, something weird? If so, send the idea my way. If your idea gets developed you will be handsomely rewarded (and no, Vern, I will not dole out blow jobs).

I personally think a doc on people with Morgellons would be fascinating - ugh, or vomit-inducing. I haven't thought it through yet.

The boss-lady has a complaint

I found this NY Times Social Q's column via Jezebel, and if it weren't for all the circumstantial differences, this article would be about me.

In fact, I'm half-convinced it is about me.

But that doesn't make sense. The sender is from Milwaukee; I live in New York (hence, so does my boss). But what if my boss used a fake city just to throw me off?

I am not completing my MBA (um, ever), but what if my boss said that to throw me off too? Because I am looking to expand my horizons, and it explicitly said in the question, "she wants to move out into the business world." My boss knows I'm looking for another job, ergo...

Why does EVERYTHING have to revolve around me? I am getting really sick and tired of being the anonymous feature in advice columns. First my bf asks Eye Weekly about his bukkake fetish, and now this.

The assistant described in the query is me, verbatim (except for all the crazy business aspirations). My office is laid-back - no fancy clothing necessary, so I usually wear jeans, tennis shoes or sandals, no make-up, and 90% of the time my hair is pulled in a loose knot on the back of my head. Though I shower every morning, sometimes I won't wash my hair, and it can get greasy, I guess...and I've been lazy and haven't painted my nails or toenails. Ugh, I'm disgusting, no wonder my boss wrote in asking about my appearance! I don't know how I can expect her to work when my cracked, brittle feet are in her sightline.

Ok, so maybe it wasn't my boss who sent in this question. Nonethless, I've started straightening my hair every night to ensure it is straight and luxurious for work. And I'm only wearing tennies until my toenails grow out and I paint them a bright summery color. And I'm eating Altoids three at a time in case my breath smells, and wearing 8 different types of perfume, and douching with candy-cane flavored Summer's Eve to cure all those "down there" smells.

But no way am I wearing make-up everyday. That only comes out on special occasions, like for job interviews, or Jim Morrison's birthday.

Update on my play

My play, When Turtles Fly, opens in about a week. IF anyone reading this is interested, it's playing June 11 and 12 at the 78th St Theatre Lab (236 West 78th St, NYC). The festival starts at 8 pm, and you can get tickets at http://www.theatervision-playtime.com/



I went to a rehearsal for the play this past Sunday, and I was thrilled at what I saw - it's really something to see a piece of work you penned brought to life - like, actors were speaking and living the dialogue I wrote. Not to be too sentimental, but my heart swelled when I saw this. It's just a small form of validation, I guess.



The play will be great when the actors get completely off-book....yeah. I now know how every director I ever had must have felt when his/her actors were struggling with lines. Like, it's so close, it could be so good if these motherfucking actors would get their heads out of the clouds and remember this goddamn stuff. As a former actor, I can empathize, but I also know from experience that memorizing 20 pages worth of dialogue in two hours is entirely possible.



After the rehearsal, the director and I met and cut some more of the play. Here's the sitch: When I originally sent my play to TheaterVision, the company that is putting my play on, they intimated that they were looking for one-act scripts between 30 min and an hour long. I knew mine fell just short of 60 minutes in length, so I sent it to them.



They are now telling the director that my play, which at it's very shortest and speediest can only be performed within 45 minutes, that it can go no longer than 30 minutes. Not to mention, the director has had to eat a lot of the costs for the rehearsal space fees, and is constantly bothered by TheaterVision seeking updates on the day-to-day minutia of the play's production. At $20 a pop for tickets, TheaterVision is reaping a tidy sum on the performance of the three one-acts together (my play is part of a festival - two other one-acts will be performed the same nights).

Apart from pairing the writers with the directors, covering the fee of the spaces on the nights of the performance, and some minor publicity, I really don't know what role TheaterVision is playing, but whatever. Oh yeah, I almost forgot: I got invites printed up for the play, with the intention of inviting agents, and then I found out that I can't use them unless they have been approved by TheaterVision, and have their logo on them. Sooo, guess I won't be sending those bad-boys out to any people who can influence my career! That sucks!

What was I talking about? Oh yes, so the play can't exceed 30 minutes. We cut out some more dialogue, but odds are the play will run 45 minutes. But what can they do? Once it goes up, it goes up, and there's no way they can stop it from completion.

But let's focus on the positive. My director, Christopher Cohen, is really smart and innovative. He's my age, but I can see already that he has a promising career as a director ahead of him (despite his refusal to take my advice on a prop - if you're reading this Chris, you should know that my direction of a scene from Cowboy Mouth earned me an A in Intro to Directing! I know a thing or two about this thing you call directing!) Also: According to Chris, looks like there was a scramble amongst the TheaterVision directors to take on my script - during an initial orientation with the directors and actors, the actors got to talking, and when my actors expressed that they were doing When Turtles Fly, all the other actors and directors whined that that was the play they were hoping to get slotted with.

Did you guys follow that story? Maybe if I explained the whole TheaterVision process and how my play got a director, you'd comprehend what I am talking about....meh, but I don't feel like it.

Sorry if this post was completely incoherent, but I have a lot on my mind (oh yeah, and I'm at work, blogging on my boss's dime - makes me nervous and quick to wrap things up).

More later!

Hey kid, why are you looking at that furry porn?

Here's the skinny on what I do to pay the rent: I'm an assistant copy editor with a lot of side jobs. Along with proofreading and researching all of the copy we create, I am also my boss's sole IT support, both business and personal.

My boss has two boys, a 9 y/o and a 12 y/o, who share their own desktop. Because the chance of them seeing a woman eat yogurt out of a donkey's asshole is just a google search away, my boss had me install Web Watcher on their computer; now, not only can they not access pornography, but everything they type, every email they receive, and every web site they visit (or try to visit) is recorded and available for my boss and me to see.

Or I should say, me to see. One of my work duties is to check-up on the Web Watcher and see what the boys have been viewing, and alert my boss to anything suspicious I find.

I've been pretty good about this; when I discovered that her eldest disabled the Web Watcher by stealing the password and hacking into the account, I told her. And when I found emails her eldest had been sending that sounded threatening in tone (though they really weren't - the kid just needs to brush up on his writing style), I felt as though I'd diffused a hostage situation - my boss was, and still is, eternally grateful.

But then one day, I found this (warning: NSFW!!!):


Ok, full disclosure: This is not the exact image I found on the boys' computer, but it is something like it. I got so tired of looking at furry porn (did you guys know that "Yiff" is now the common name for furry porn lovers? Well I do NOW), that I just picked something that resembled the pictures I saw.

Wow, I don't know if I can ever come back from that two-hour excursion I had on the internet trying to find the right picture. I'm sacrificing myself for you, folks (mom I hope you appreciate this!).

ANYWHOO, so yes, I found furry porn on my boss's sons computer. At first I laughed - like, wtf? Of all the things to find - no naked chicks, no guys with eight balls, no trannies blowing themselves - I found furry artwork.

I guess I had an obligation to tell my boss what I found, but guess what folks? I didn't say a goddamned thing to her! Here's why:

1. Can you imagine how horribly embarrassing that would have been for her, and more importantly, me? How would I have even approached her about this? "Hey boss, remember how you were afraid that your son was looking at naked ladies on the internet? Well don't worry, he's too preoccupied looking at weirdo art of animals with detailed genitalia to even wonder what a human woman would look like naked. TOTALLY NORMAL."

2. The kid is 12. When I was 12, I probably would have looked at the same shit too. Not because furry porn gets me hot, but when you're 12, anything related to sex piques your curiosity.

When I was in the sixth grade, I bought the Sophie B. Hawkins cd Whaler. After several weeks of owning it, I realized that if you turned the cd case upside down and squinted real hard, you could see Sophie B. Hawkins's nipple. A nipple!!! I would listen to her cd whilst staring at her nipple, because I just couldn't believe how blatantly sexual it was, AND because there I was, staring at a nipple, and my mom had no clue I was staring at a nipple. Just reading the liner notes, ma!

So really, I don't think the kid is a furry or into furries - he happened upon something on the net that was sexual in nature and wanted to see more out of curiosity, and he doesn't deserve to be humiliated and punished because of it. There's no need to worry about the pics unless he starts begging his mom to take him on a trip to Disney World.

Her son must have accessed the furry porn during that three week interval when he disabled the Web Watcher and I didn't realize it.

Should I have told my boss, guys? Even if you tell me I should have, there is no chance in hell that I will. I do have a strong work ethic and try to complete every task my boss gives to the best of my ability, but I'm sorry, I can not tell her about this - I would have to move back to Ohio from the sheer mortification.