Boy Trouble w/ a Capital T, and that Rhymes w/ Jackass

Boys.  Can't fuck 'em, can't murder them.  Okay, actually you can do both, and believe me, they both can feel really good if done right, and really bad if done wrong.  Did I get up on the wrong side of the bed today?  Did someone piss in my Raisin Bran?  Did I just dump and/or get dumped by a boy jackass?  Maybe all of the above - or at least two out of three.  Anyhoo, I set up this damn blog to write about things in my head, and I go an entire month without writing.  WTF!??  So here I am.  Back from the woods.  Back from the martini bar.  Back from the dive down the street.  Back to bring sexy back.

Anyway, as I was saying, boys are trou-u-u-uble.  Now don't get me wrong, though I do occasionally pitch for the other team, if you get my drift, and even though that is fun as all hell, there is nothing like a good solid cock rummaging around in your wet basement.  Wow, was that blunt enough?  Fuck it, who cares.  But still, wet basement or not, most guys are fucking jackasses. I'm a tattooed-baby, drunk-sailor-talking, sometimes hard-drinking, film noir-loving, curvy-but-slender, motorcycle mama kinda girl, and if the boys don't like that, well fuck 'um.  Seriously though, many boys do like that...at first.  And many boys like the way my basement feels, and moves, and what-not...at first.  Then, at some point in the relationship, these boys become assholes, or at least start showing the assholeness that is already in them.  Bitter?  No, not me.  Wink wink.

Sure, there are a handful of good guys.  Granted, they are usually either gay or just friend material.  Though I've been known to fuck them on occasion as well.  What a whore, huh?  Yeah, well, maybe sometimes.  But still, boys suck.  But still, I can't wait to have another one inside that wet basement of mine.  Yep, I might just be a whore after all.  But a whore with standards. That's enough for now.  Maybe I'll write something up again, before another month goes by.

How I Became the First Jewish Shiksa

Once upon a time in my life, I was a good little Jewish girl from an affluent parkside penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.  Then I turned twelve and listened to my first punk record.  Okay, actually it was a cassette (remember those?) but you get the drift.  For the next few years I denounced everything.  My religion.  My family.  My faith and hope and, as some would have said, my eternal soul, or whatever that thing is.  I ran away from home at fifteen, and headed out west.  I met some boys, and we did things I probably should not have been doing at fifteen and sixteen.  I went down to Mexico and did a lot more things, both boys and drugs and such, that I should not have been doing.  At this time I was going by the name of Cherry Bomb.  I actually had some believing that it was my real name.  Said I was raised by CBGB-loving 'rents.  Anyway, the basic fact is that I was what one would call a troubled teen.  Eventually, my parents tracked me down in Modesto California, a few days before my seventeenth birthday, and made me come back to my old life in NYC.  As a girl filled with typical Jewish guilt, I did indeed go back to that life of the good and proper young lady.  I finished high school - a school of nothing but girls by the way, where I did some other things I probably should not have done (yeah, you get my drift) - and entered a good college and all that proper young Jewish American Princess crap.  Dated and such.  Then suddenly, on my twentieth birthday, I ran off and married I sweet gentile boy.  This was just to piss off my family once again.  I do feel kind of bad that I used poor Joey like that, and then just tossed him away after a few months of marriage.  But anyway, cut to three failed marriages later, a world of travel and decadence and drugs and d-i-v-o-r-c-e, and here we are in the waning days of 2013.  I am Esther Rosneblatt.  This is my introduction, and this is my blog.  Let's have some fun.  I only occasionally call myself Jewish these days (I really am a fickle bitch) so I am a pert-time shiksa, hence the title of my blog.  I don't really know what the thing is going to be about yet.  I am certainly not going to keep talking about myself, so don't worry about that.  But what I am going to talk about?  Damn if this girl knows.  Nail polish?  Shoes?  Sex?  Boys?  Girls?  The socio-political climate of post-millennial America?  Shoes?  Let's keep thinking, shall we.  Until then, I am the Cherry Bomb (part time) Shiksa.