It was last night that I realized that I was subconsciously Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. How did I realize this? By finally watching Sex and the City for the first time.
The room was well lit but dark at the same time. Perhaps that is my memory creating tunnel vision. Because all I remember is seeing you. You shone whiter than all the others. You snuffled around on the outskirts, waddling a little from your baby fat. My little feet took off, as I chased you around. My dad groaned, for it appears as though I had made my choice and of course I had picked the whitest, fattest one, when all the others were mottled with liver and already starting to slim. But I didn't care because I was three and you were mine now.
When in doubt, grab a Cosmopolitan. No, I'm not talking about the sickeningly sweet pink drink. I'm talking about the magazine that will tell you "How to Make Your Sex Longer and Hotter" or "He Got His—Here's How You Get Yours." It's the mother of all sex manuals for many people desperate to figure out sex and love.
I'm really young - just old enough to drink in the States young. Taylor Swift has a song about my upcoming birthday.
There is a strange phenomenon that happens when you indulge (or overindulge) in alcohol. The things that you were previously too shy or too smart to say suddenly start sounding pretty good out loud.
If you're anything like me, you can feel yourself turning red when you have to say anything remotely intimate. You cast your eyes down and mumble something that could sound like something dirty and hope that your partner doesn't ask you to say it again.