Whore no, hoar, yes.

I recently got googled for “2005 Diaryland whore,” which made me laugh for a few reasons.

In spite of my filthy mouth, dirty mind, and love of porn, I am really not that slutty (no, really). Granted, I have put out on the first date a few times, but that does not a whore make.

I (and a lot of people who read this) have laughed and hijacked the term “hoar,” a title foisted upon me by My Fan/illiterate moron. I have embraced the term, and think it’s funny.

Now, I am not admitting to being a whore (keep up with the difference between the two, people). A real whore is someone who proudly admits to sleeping with HUNDREDS (we’re talking like 250+) of people. I know someone like this.

I mean, at that number, I have to imagine that there might be men lost up in there that haven’t been seen for years. That’s a lot of fucking people.

LITERALLY.

Speaking of whores, the conversation I had with my Mom on Saturday both disgusted and entertained. And, to respond to Rachel’s suggestion that we enact a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about our sex lives - believe me, my sister and I discuss nothing with our parents. My parents love how uncomfortable it makes us when they talk about their sex life. And, god, does it ever make me unfuckingcomfortable.

How would you feel if your mother talked about swallowing?

At least I know I come by my vulgarity honestly.

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My diary may have its first guest writer ever, because my friend Jen, aka Mrs. Mitchell, reminded me the other day when I was ranting about Tom and Scientology that I completely forgot to recount her own run-in with the wacky cultists. And since it’s her story, and she’s a way better writer than I am (evidence of that in this very sentence), I will force her to write it.

I did remember the story when I wrote that entry, but it was late, and I couldn’t remember all the details. But it’s funny.

Ps – you really should check out her journal. She is beyond talented. And smart. And funny.

Now go read it.

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This guy that answered my personal ad a while ago (we emailed once or twice, but that was it) IM’d me Friday, and after we chatted, he asked if I wanted to meet me for coffee.

His name’s Jude, he’s 38, and not my type at all. Which, given my track record, could be a good thing.

How could I say no to a guy that tells me how cute and funny and smart I am all the time?

We’ll see.

God, I hate dating.

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I also hate anonymous comment posters.

I got a comment today (mysteriously buried in an entry from May 4) from “Bitch” that just said something like “Don’t blast other peoples’ diaries… have some respect!” Or some shit like that.

First – I don’t recall ever having blasted ANYONE’S diary.

Second – If you’re going to talk shit to me, have the balls to put your URL and/or your email address. Don’t be a pussy your whole life.

Third – Quit reading my diary. RIGHT NOW. Only smart and funny people are allowed to read this, and you, my dear, are neither of those.

Now, please take your stupid comment and shove it straight up your fucking ass. Is that respectful enough for you?

God, I hate losers.

Except Bill. Even though he clearly lost the 80’s game, he’s still alright in my book.

I win, dear. Just like Gloria and the Miami Sound Machine said, the rhythm is going to get you!!

Hehe.