Tag: pubes in literature

Panty thickets.

~ Lkvy ~ Leave a comment

Tonight’s post has been made possible by CBG Happy Place Mango Peach and Yuzu Cannabis Infused Sparkling Beverage. Products like these make me glad I’m deaf: I get to point at whatever I want, and the staff will happily grab it for me. I’ve refined my pointing technique so the other person doesn’t have to follow my line of sight to connect my finger to an object 10+ feet away: I take a picture with my phone, then point to the thing on the monitor.

Onto pointless things: the knives on the magnetic knife rack above the kitchen sink. For someone who watches a lot of Hell’s Kitchen, I don’t know how the roomie doesn’t imagine Gordon Ramsay’s horrified expression whenever the roomie places the knives blade-edge down on the wire dish rack.

“Easy tiger, these aren’t Ginsu knives!”

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Days well spent.

~ Lkvy ~ Leave a comment

It is with immense satisfaction that I share Snorkelling Cat in its final form:

The frame turned out exactly as envisioned. As far as cross stitch projects go, this one is on the simple side. The handmade frame elevates the finished piece as a whole. It now hangs before the room known as the pain/crafting nook.

I started my day with toast. I love toast. But an hour post-toast, I found myself in the saddle with my shoebox-mounted laptop in front of me and a pool of sweat below. It was the last race of Zwift Racing League: City Showdown, and the final time I’d race with the RIOT ladies this year. This week, we raced in a world that serves as New York City, but with a futuristic touch. A part of the course takes you over the city on glass pathways. Or maybe it’s plexiglass. I don’t know what the material is meant to be, but the point is:

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The Fort Collins Pube Fair.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

111 pages deep into 1Q84, and Murakami describes a woman’s pubic hair for the second time.

“Pubic hair like a poorly tended soccer field.”

Then, another 71 pages later, Murakami can’t hold in the urge to shoehorn in another uncomfortable simile about pubes.

“Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army.”

I’m currently on page 275, anxiously awaiting to see how much more abstract Murakami can get in his descriptions of women’s pubic hair. Between those 93 pube-free pages, there have been swells of chests and tight sweaters. Nothing as bad as Simmons’ “Her nipples, he could not help noticing…” line.

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