the vibrator diaries ii

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This isn’t about a vibrator, but its cousin, a dildo.  One night I was watching a television program that was discussing homemade, personalized dildos.  Apparently you could purchase a kit and make a copy of your partner’s penis.  I was instantly intrigued, and, a short while later, I received a do-it-yourself Pecker Pail in the mail from my dearest C.

I was really excited about making a copy of my husband’s baby maker.  It was perfect timing, since he was about to leave for a long time for work.  He may have been going away, but he would be leaving Little C behind ... well ... Little C’s evil twin.

The Pecker Pail came with detailed instructions.  The person supplying the goods had to get it hard, stick it in this tube of plaster, and keep it hard for ten minutes.  No big deal, right?  Especially considering that C had a more than willing female that was happy to assist.  For some reason, however, C felt this was something he needed to do on his own.  He apparently felt less than masculine with his hard pole stuck in a bunch of white gunk.  I had to leave him to his own devices, which consisted of him getting it hard, sticking it to the plaster, and watching some girl-on-girl cheerleader porn while sitting on the can.

It probably didn’t help that every few minutes I would knock on the door and ask him how things were going.  He would confirm that things were fine, while I was impatiently waiting on the other side of the door desperate to see the results.  Exactly ten minutes later, he presented me with a tube full of hardened plaster, complete with a penis shaped hole inside.

The next part of the process required filling the plaster mold with some sort of goo that would turn into a flesh-colored, synthetic penis.  After filling up the tube-mold with the goo, I was disappointed to learn that it had to sit over night in order to set.

I slept restlessly that night, with dreams of dildos dancing in my head.  I was the first to wake up that morning, and I quickly found the tube-mold-dildo on the bar of our kitchen.  In no time flat I had the plaster cracked to reveal my prize ...

... my prize was a small, crooked dick with ginormous balls.  It looked like a small question mark squashed between two scoops of ice cream.  It was the funniest thing that I have ever seen in my whole entire life.  Of course, I immediately woke up C to show him his work from the night before.

V: Wakey, wakey, eggs, and bakey!

C: Sleeping.  Shhh.

V: I’ve got your cock in my hand...
C: No you don’t.  Tease.

V: The one you made me last night.
C: [perks up a bit] How did it turn out?
V: Well ... [shoves tiny, crooked dildo in his face]
C: What the??? That doesn’t look like my dick!
V: I know!  But its still cute.  I love it!
C: [rolls over and goes back to sleep]

Yes, its true the dildo that C attempted to make for me was greatly lacking in what my husband usually supplied me with.  Apparently, it is very hard to keep one’s cock hard while it is stuck in cold plaster without any stimulation.  I still applauded him for the effort.  Little C promptly took a priority spot in my box of adult goodies.

It wasn’t until quite a bit of time had passed that I remembered that I had Little C stored away for a rainy day.  C had long since left for his work duties, and I had been sitting at home alone for several months.  When Little C popped into my mind, I could not wait to put him to good use.

For some reason, I decided that privacy was more important than usual for this adventure.  So important that the privacy of my bedroom wouldn’t even suffice.  Instead, I opted for the office/guest room, which no one ever uses or goes into.  I locked the door, made myself at home on the day bed, got down to business with Little C, stuck Little C into the nearest desk drawer, took a shower, and hit the sack.  Overall, a very pleasant night.

Flash forward two days later.  I am sitting at home, working on the computer.  I was caught up in my own business while my oldest son, G, played around the house.  I was so absorbed, I barely recollect G coming to ask me a question:

G: Mom?
V: Hm?
G: What’s this?
V: [still working on the computer] Nothing.
G: Mom?
V: What?!
G: Why is there a penis in the office?

Fuck me.  I turned around, looked behind me, and, sure enough, there is my six-year-old son with crooked, gigantic-balled dildo in his hand.

I snatched it out of his hands as quickly as possible, executed a sweet slide into my bedroom, and had that puppy locked up faster than you can shake down a leprechaun.  It was the resulting damage that took much longer to deal with.

G: Was that a penis?
V: No, of course not.
G: Well, what was it?
V: [thinking fast] A paperweight.
G: What’s a paperweight?
V: Jeez! It holds down paper!
G: Why does a paperweight look like a penis?
V: It doesn’t!  Its only a paperweight. 
G: B-b-but!
V: Do you think Santa would like to know that you are talking so much about penises!?

A quick save that thankfully worked.  G was entirely too afraid of Santa learning about any penis conversations to question me further.  I could not, however, resist immediately sending a text message to one of my BFFs, T, that read: “G just asked me why a fake cock was in my office.” 

Her response? “LMFAO.”  Yeah.  Me, too.

XOXOXO,
Violet

romance novels lead to divorce

I have been reading romance novels for almost twenty years.  I read an average of four books a week.  Four books multiplied by fifty-two weeks in a year ... that’s more than 200 books a year.  I’m estimating that I have read about 4,000 books over the course of my life, and the majority of those have been romance novels.

Feeling an expert on the subject of romance novels, sex, and relationships, I feel that I should share some of my insight with you.  Feel honored, dear readers, because I have even done a bit of research for you.  Let’s look at some quick statistics:

• 58 million women read at least one romance novel in 2008.
• 29 percent of Americans over age 13 read at least one romance novel in 2008.
• The average reader is female, aged 31-49, and is currently in a romantic relationship.

I could not find any information on the number of romance novels the average women reads per year, but a healthy guess would be around twenty-five per year.  That would be around two books a month, multiplied by twelve months.  I really feel like this is on the low-end, but we will use this number for the duration of this blog post.  Even this small number will be enough to prove my point.  Now let’s look at the average content of a romance novel:

• One slim, yet curvy, virgin.

• One sexy man-whore.
• Two or more sex scenes.
• Happily-ever-afters in the form of an engagement, a marriage, a baby, or any combination of the three.

Hmm ... now this is starting to get interesting.  So, based on the information that I have given you so far, the average women is exposed to twenty-five skinny virgins, twenty-five sexy man-sluts, fifty sex scenes, and fifty happily-ever-afters.  Many women, after being exposed to just one year of reading romance novels, might begin to think of this equation in their head:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Sexy Man-Whore + Two Hot Bouts of Sex = Happily Ever After!

But we are far from through.  Let’s take a closer look at these sexy beasts that romance novels love so much.  The typical romance novel develops the hero to be approximately like this:

• Ethnicity: English, Scottish, Southern, or paranormal species (Vampire, Werewolf, Fairy).
• Body Type: All the men are over six feet tall, broad, muscular, and have washboard abs.  They also have a startling color of eyes (sky blue and storm gray are the most common), along with either black or blonde hair.
• Finances: They’re rich.  Filthy rich.  Always, always rich.
• Sexuality: All men portrayed in romance novels are man-whores who have no desire to find love.  They have plenty of sex with many women, and their sexual abilities are known far and wide for being mind-shattering.  All the men have extremely large cocks and huge balls.
• Interests: All the men only participate in manly activities like riding horses, hunting, doing manual labor, drinking blood, and saving the world.  The men in romance novels never watch sports, sit in the garage, or fart.  The primary interest of these men, however, is to stay single forever ... that is until they meet the skinny virgin.  After that, they suddenly cannot think of other women.  They sometimes even go without sex for months or years, because they only want sex with the skinny virgin.  The majority of the men feel that once they have enough sex with the skinny virgin they will be able to continue with their lives, but, as always, a declaration of love towards the end of the novel seals their fate.  The man-whore then becomes a reformed man of honor.

So now the female readers are left with an even bigger problem if they want to achieve their happily-ever-after.  They must find a six foot tall, muscular, southern Werewolf, with blue/gray eyes, black/blonde hair, and a huge dick, who also happens to love manual labor, drinks blood, and is filthy rich.

It is obvious that many women have found this man of their dreams, or someone who at least closely resembles it.  Worse case scenario, the woman can always “change” him, right?  Every man can and will become like those in romance novels, because no other man exists in romance novels.  Right?  I digress.

A relationship pursues, but then women have an even bigger problem to deal with.  We have already established that romance novels have an average of two sex scenes, and women are exposed to about fifty of these scenes per year.  These scenes are very typical, and I can easily describe the two sex scenes found in every romance novel ever written:

• Scene One: The skinny virgin has decided to lose her virginity.  The man is often aware that he is dealing with a virgin and acts accordingly.  An extremely long bout of foreplay follows as he “prepares” her.  Once penetration occurs, there is only a sharp twinge of pain, or no pain at all, followed by intense pleasure.  All virgins experience intense orgasms and the man experiences the best orgasm of his life.  After the mind-shattering sex, the man goes on to clean up his deflowered virgin by wiping her down with warm cloths or giving her a bath.  Many times this first sex scene is followed by a smaller scene, in which the man refuses to have sex with the woman again because of her recent loss of virginity.  The man is so in lust he gives her a head job, while his tackle remains painfully swollen.  He does not feel the need to have an orgasm, because her pleasure is his own.
• Scene Two: This scene typically happens after the hero and heroine have parted ways, experienced severe trauma, or have had a major fight, only to come together again because they cannot stand to be apart.  The sex is hot, intense, and always lasts all night.  Once is never enough, and the couple usually has sex five or more times over the course of the night.  The woman experiences multiple, intense orgasms.

Wow ... okay ... let’s just be honest here.  Romance novels have fucked over men worldwide with this.  While your wife or girlfriend is sitting on the recliner reading what you assume to be an innocent novel, she is really comparing your sexual prowess to that of a fictional sexual-super-hero.  So now women are thinking in these terms:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Hawt Vampire/Cowboy Hybrid = Incredible, All-Night Sex AND the Happily Ever After!

Okay ... now this is where I step in.  Women need to fucking get real.  I’ve been around the block a time (or two), and I can tell you that the shit in romance novels needs to stay in romance novels.  Women need to look at romance novels for what they REALLY are.  Porn.  It’s fucking porn.  Don’t get all prudish on me, try to deny it, and cover it up with the word “romance.”  That’s bullshit.  Women get off on reading this stuff.  Interestingly enough:

• 70 percent of men ADMITTED they watch pornography films.  One study, researching men in their 20s, stated that 100 percent watched porn.  I think it is easy to conclude that there are two types of men: those who watch porn and those who lie about watching porn.
• 80 percent of women do not “allow” their husbands or boyfriends to watch pornography.
• The majority of those women read romance novels.

Hypocritical bitches.  What is the difference between getting hawt and taking a solo trip down south and your man doing the same while watching some random naked chick?  Guess what?  You’re not going knock boots with a muscular Vampire sex machine, and he isn’t going to bang Bree Olson.  It’s just fantasy.  That’s all it’s ever going to be.

Nevertheless:

• 50 percent of first marriages end in divorce.
• 67 percent of second marriages end in divorce.

Many women cite their partners watching pornography as being the reason why their marriages ended.  I wonder how many of those women read romance novels?  I wonder how many of those women think that they will find their ideal Scottish Fairy if they just look a little harder, magically regain their virginity, and lose a bit of weight?  Get real. 

I bet my last nickel that romance novels have done their part to increase divorce rates.  That also sounds like a fantastic topic for a dissertation.

Contemplatively,
Violet

LOVE IT: Books.

HATE IT: Television.

CURRENTLY READING: Unwind by Neal Shusterman

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO: Tennis balls hitting my living room wall.

Don't forget to "like" Bits of Violet (box on the top right-hand corner) to get instant updates of blog posts.  Also, email any questions or interesting stories to thevibratordiaries@yahoo.com!

the vibrator diaries

I am starting a special section of my blog devoted entirely to vibrator stories.  I’ve experienced and heard so many mishaps, embarrassments, and just plain ole craziness associated with these blissful electronic devices, that I feel they deserve a special blog-type standing ovation.   Welcome to... The Vibrator Diaries!

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This story began long, long ago during the days when orgasms were something I had only experienced by myself.  In more blunt language, this story took place while rubbing one out DJ style when X was not at home.

I loved the days when I got home from work early, knowing that X would not arrive for several hours.  Those times were “me” times.  Times I could experience sexual bliss quickly and multiple times, without the sweaty, oozy, small knob that could barely make it thirty-seconds to weigh me down.  Times when I could fantasize about my perfect lover -- tall, shaved head, politically conservative, and big tackle.  *cough* -- Bruce Willis! -- *cough*

This particular “me” session started like any other.  I had a nice long bath.  Shaved my legs, trimmed the hedges, and freshened my breath.  I couldn’t have my BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) disappointed, now could I?  Even BOBs have standards.  I made the bed, climbed under the cool, silky sheets, and brought out Buzz Lightyear, the newest member of my collection.

Buzz was particularly special to me.  You see, Buzz plugged straight into the wall.  No batteries needed!  No fumbling around stealing an extra "AA" out of the remote control or a desperately needed "C" from the flashlight.  Buzz gave me pleasure without limits.  Well, except for the cord I had to plug in the wall.  Still, Buzz could go for hours and hours without ever having to recharge, take a shower, or get hard again.  Buzz was always ready.

With wickedly delicious thoughts running through my brain, Buzz and I had a marathon session.  It was extraordinary.  Time and time again Buzz worked his magic until I became so thoroughly satiated that my bones felt like jelly.  Afterward, Buzz and I laid there for a while, staring at each other with love-sick puppy-dog eyes.  I glanced at the clock.  Another twenty minutes before X was due home.  A whole twenty minutes!  Who knew when I would have this kind of opportunity again?  So Buzz and I went for yet another round.

Things started out normally.  Buzz buzzed while I warmed up.  Buzzing Buzz.  Blissful Buzz.  Buzz, buzz.  I was starting to get really warmed up.  Sexually, and... physically, too?  Yes, I was definitely feeling extra warmth down south, but I chose to ignore it.  I did, after all, only have a few minutes left before X came home.  More buzzing, more warmth, but almost there!  More buzzing, definitely getting hot, but so close!  Even more buzzing, even more heat down south, then... FIZZLE! POP!  I blacked out.

Sigh... no, readers, I did not black out from the most incredible orgasm ever.  I blacked out in reaction to my pathetic situation.  When I came to, I smelled smoke.  Confused, I looked around.  Buzz was beside my splayed legs, his cord burned in two, ... and X was standing in the doorway.  This is the conversation that pursued:

X:  What the hell is going on?
J:  I’m not sure.
X:  What do you mean, “you’re not sure?”  What is that next to you?
J:  [looks around in a daze]  Oh... that’s just... Buzz.
X:  Buzz?!
J:  I mean, that’s my... um... vibrator.
X:  Your what?!  THAT is a vibrator?!
J:  Yeah, and I was just...
X:  It plugs into the wall?!
J:  Yeah, and I’m not sure...
X:  Why is the cord burned in half?!
J:  [mind clears... comprehension sets in]

Yes, folks, yes.  I got 115 volts AC straight through my fucking clit.  Buzz electrocuted my junk like it was on mutha fuckin death row.  Right as I was about to peak, Buzz reneged.  Rather than humbly declare defeat, Buzz kamikaze’d my ass.  I managed to turn poor ole Buzz into a suicidal terrorist.  And, to beat it all, X was there to witness my shame.

X:  Did you electrocute your pussy?  BWHA-HA-HA-HAR!
J:  Did not.  Shut the fuck up.
X:  You did!  You really did! 
J:  No, I did NOT electrocute my who-ha.  BUZZ did.
X:  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAR!  Blaming it on your vibrator?  HA!  Classy.

I picked up Buzz’s remains and threw them straight at X’s short-dicked face.  Of course, I missed.  Of course, he laughed.  After X and I were through, I was finally able to laugh as well.

So this, dear friends, if the first entry of The Vibrator Diaries.  Stay tuned for more!

Do YOU have a funny vibrator story?  One that you are dying to tell the world, but would rather it happen anonymously?  Please share your stories with me at thevibratordiaries@yahoo.com (YES, this is FOR REAL!), and I will blog about your experience.  You can also use this email to send in questions you'd like to have answered or blogquests!  All emails and stories will be completely anonymous.  NO NAMES!  Pinky swear. 

my first time

I figured if I am gonna put it all out there, might as well GO BIG, OR GO HOME. 

Memories... ah, the good ole days.  For me, that included blowdrying your bangs straight up and laying the AquaNet on thick.  Friendship bracelets.  Shorts paired with turtleneck sweaters.  That was middle school.  High school was even more colorful.  Dark lipstick.  Clothes straight from the Goodwill.  Grunge music.  My flat chest before my momma invested in my “girls.”  The good ole days.

This story occurred during those (definitely not sweet, but not quite bitter) high school years.  The days when I got more sexual education from my bedroom floor than Life Skills class.  The days when I learned that used condoms neither flush down the toilet nor magically disappear when thrown out your bedroom window.  Yes, the days of “my first time.”

I don’t know about you, but my first time bumping uglies really sucked.  I thought it would be simple: Insert Tab A into Slot B.  No one prepared me for the awkwardness of the entire situation.  Or that my extremely high hopes of having a mega orgasm during the act would not only be completely dashed but also put firmly on the shelf until I met C (thanks again, baby!).  There was also no romance, candlelight, or prom dress to go along with the first-time horizontal mambo.  That’s not my style, anyway.  No, I had to do one better and include sneaking the guy through my bedroom window, forgoing my bed because it squeaked too much, and whispering, lest my parents woke up, unlocked my bedroom door, and found their innocent little girl trying to figure out what part of a “blow job” required blowing.

My first and only time with X was definitely lacking.  Sixteen, and in love with being in love, I was easily swayed that X was “the one.”   Or rather, “the one until he banged the girl from down the road.”  The weeks leading up to it were very engaging, but the night we actually made the beast with two backs was anything but.  The decision was made quickly:
   
X:  Are you sure?
Me:  Yeah.
X:  Kay.

Mature adults that we were, of course we made sure to practice safe sex:

Me:  Do you have a condom?
X:  In my wallet, hold on.
Me:  [waiting]
X:  Got it.  Do you think we need two?
Me:  Can we do it twice?
X:  No, I don’t think so, but I think wearing two at one time would be safer than just wearing one.  What do you think?
Me:  Do you have another one?
X:  No.
Me:  Well... I guess we just need to be REALLY careful then.

Then the magical moment of penetration:

X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  Is it in?
X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  All the way?
X:  Oh, yeah.

Yup... only I would learn about small knobs through first hand experience.  Finally, the big finish, about thirty seconds later:

X:  OH, YEAH.
Me:  Yeah... wait, what?

The following weeks were miserable.  In that short amount of time, I convinced myself I was not only pregnant, but that I also had AIDS.  This led to me confessing all to my mother and answering embarrassing questions such as, “Did you have your period yet?” and “Did you use protection?”  The answers to both questions was “yes,” but somehow I still wasn’t convinced that I was neither pregnant nor HIV+.  We did, after all, neglect to use that second condom.

So after that first time, I took a vow of celibacy and got a promise ring.  Neither of which panned out after two years and my first semester of community college.

The moral of this story?  Go big, or go home.  In ALL things.

HATE IT.
Condoms

LOVE IT!

Monogamy in which condoms, pregnancy, or worrying about contracting an STD are no longer issues in my life.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
G complaining about not finding that ever-elusive “swagger.”

CURRENTLY READING:
The Nymph King by Gena Showalter

dream lover come and rescue me...

I have now officially dreamed of knocking boots with Spencer from iCarly three sleeps in a row.  It got so good last night that I found myself waking up mid-dream, only to try and force myself back to sleep so I wouldn’t miss anything.  I feel utterly ashamed.  Not because of dream-cheating on C, but that my subconscious standards are so low.  Yeah, Spencer's hawt, but I am attracted to a more diverse set of characteristics than plain ole hawtness.  Specifically, I am partial towards shaved heads, conservatism, large tackle, and the occasional goatee.  Yes, I’ve just described C and my boyfriend, Bruce Willis.  What?  Didn’t know me and Brucie are an item?  I don’t think he knows, either.

downward dog who-ha

I have really gotten into working out. I started seriously around the first week of December. I especially dig running. In fact, here’s a picture of how much I dig running:

This was taken right after hitting the two-mile mark.

Unfortunately, it’s this kind of behavior that also leads to medical problems like these:

So worth it!

I also recently found out that yoga is good for (wannabe) runners like me. I am actually planning on going to yoga today, but I am also planning on not making the same mistake that I made at class last week. Before I further explain my blunder, allow me to start with an infamous quote:

“If it smells like fish, take a dish. If it smells like cologne, leave it alone.”

We are, of course, talking about the Pink Taco. Pu-nah-ni. Hairy Clam. Coochie. The “fish” refers to what many romance novels describe as “feminine essence.” I’ll be the first to admit to having it, as I am sure 100% of all other self-conscious women have it as well.

One of the problems I discovered with “feminine essence” is that it doesn’t combine well with man gravy. The guys make a deposit, and the girls are left with a bit of an odor. Not exactly a fair deal, if you ask me. Luckily, a shower cures this quickly enough.

The night before my yoga error, C and I did the horizontal mambo right after I had already bathed. Everyone knows that a Relaxing Bath + Orgasm + Ambien leads to some damn fine sleep. So, sleep I did; however, Fish + Baby Batter + Sleep = Smelly Crotch.

I didn’t even notice a smell when I woke up the following morning. I was about to get in the shower; I was planning out my day. No big deal. I made W some breakfast, and, as I spoon-fed him oatmeal, I surfed the Internet. This was when I noticed the 10:30 yoga class at the Y. Remembering that (poser) runners like me should be doing this exercise frequently, I decided to pack up and head out. (An aside – who takes a shower BEFORE going to the gym? Not me.)

I got changed into my workout clothes at the gym. Looking in my bag, I noticed that I forgot to take my (sweaty) clothes from yesterday out and replace them with fresh ones. Oh, well. I was already there, and I was going to get sweaty anyways. I put on yesterday’s clothes, which consisted of a sports bra, white T-shirt, and short-shorts. You know the type of shorts I am talking about. The kind that your ass barely keeps from hanging out of? Yeah, those kind.

Anyways, I get dressed and noticed I had a few minutes before class. Not enough time to do anything productive, but enough time for an ADD person like me to get bored easily. To fill the gap, I decided to sit in the steam room.

Hmmm… let’s get caught up on our equation here: Tuna + Nut – Shower + Yesterday's Sweaty Short-Shorts + Steam Room = could it get any worse than this? Oh, right. Let’s go to yoga.

Yoga consists of a variety of poses that stretch your body, lengthen your muscles, and de-stress your mind. The majority of yoga poses are simple, but challenging on the body. This day’s warm up was easy. I was feeling pumped and full of good energy. Until Downward Dog.

Now for those of you who are unfamiliar, Downward Dog looks something like this:

Skinny bitch.

This is when it hit me. Only when I stuck my cho-cha out and up, in those damned short-shorts, did the smell reach my nostrils. I smelled like a dockside whore. Fuck.

I was convinced that the whole entire classroom - male and female - could smell the roast beef curtains. I remember thinking several things at once: "Should I leave?" "Can this guy behind me see my ass?" "Has everyone gotten a whiff of my junk?" Humiliating.

Luckily for me it was over as soon as it started. We quickly moved from Downward Dog into more smelly-crotch friendly poses, and I pushed my embarrassment to the back of my mind in attempt to find inner peace.

About fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to end, the instructor put us on our backs. Time for some moderate calf stretches and spinal twists. I was more concerned about someone seeing my ass then smelling my ass during these poses, but the instructor decided to spring one on me. Dead Bug.

You guys ever seen the yoga pose, Dead Bug? Let me share it with you:

Seriously? Seriously.

Yes, seriously. Not wanting to appear athletically deficient, I thought I should at least give it a shot. Doing so, I swear I could see a green fog leaving my groin region. There was no way anyone could have missed it. The smell was beyond obvious. I decided my best course of action would be to play it off like a fart in an elevator. So I looked over at the guy next to me, mimicked his look of disgust, then shrugged my shoulders in a quizzical way as if to say, "Who on earth would come to yoga class smelling like Salmon + Jizz + Hooker Shorts? Jeez. The nerve."

On to the recap:

Poon + Skeet + Buryin' the Bone + Eight Hours - Shower + Yesterday's Sweaty Short-Shorts + Steam Room + Dead Bug = Me at Yoga on Thursday mornings.

Hope to see you there!

Fearing any possible future dilemnas I might have (and probably knowing she's gonna be with me one Thursday morning), my BFF, L, from FL, specially designed an ingenious new product just for me. She calls them Pine-Scented Short-Shorts, and they come with a three-pack of these that can easily clip-on to the crotch:

Today's list:

HATE IT.
Cigarettes.

LOVE IT!
Expensive Cigars.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"And She Was" - Talking Heads

CURRENTLY READING:
Still on New Moon... it's getting better!

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