People Found this Blog While Searching for Channing Tatum's Junk.

This is how people found my blog the other day.

Search engines brought people who made the decision to look for Magic Mike's penis on the internet. People who fetishize girls who make their lattes (I promise you it's not sexy. Move along.) People who want to find a fuck buddy who will be their big spoon.

And Google decided I was the gal for the job. Should that make me happy or sad?

Sometimes I feel like I'm peddling smut. But for all of my writing about blowjobs and handjobs and footjobs (and other -jobs that haven't been discovered yet), I can't help but think 'shouldn't I be richer'.

I've been led to believe that pornography, and all of it's brown-bag cohorts, make the people purveying it a pretty decent salary. But I just had to defer my student loans again, and I currently have a case of off-brand ramen in my pantry? I guess I'm doing this whole internet porn thing wrong.

People are obviously pissed once they get here and there's no hot barista-on-barista action, and Channing Tatum's dick is no where to be found (but if you find it let a girl know, oookay?!).

But if I'm being honest, I'd make an excellent pornographer. I had a horrible childhood. I want to make obscene amounts of money without doing all that much. And I know at least 46 euphemisms for ejaculate.

So it looks like I've got a new game plan, guys!

Now I'm off to get pictures of Channing Tatum's junk. But first, do any of y'all know how strict the trespassing laws in California are?

We Smell Like Baked Goods and Other Reasons you Need a Girl Best Friend.

My best friend is a real trooper, y'all.

Just the other day we were discussing how I can get blogger rich by writing about scrotums and reality TV and she did the nicest thing ever!

Offered to do webcam porn with my blog address written across her lovely lady lumps.

Good looking out, girl!

That's why when I decide I'm done with dudes because they smell weird and care way too much about guys who play catch for a living, we're going to get all kinds of gay married and live in a log cabin in the mountains and stop shaving our legs. I just can't wait! 

Of course, we can have an open relationship, because the most intimate thing we're ever going to do is snuggle under a cashmere throw and watch every episode of Dawson's Creek ever made. Dawson and Joey? Pacey and Joey? You better pick a team! But don't get me wrong, I think you're beautiful, it's mainly because I think of you like a sister. Except for that one time in high school. Whoops! Sorry dad, I told you to stop reading my blog.

Our love will be one that stands the test of time. And honestly, it already has.

It's lasted through: Random dudes. Breakups. Makeups. Babies. Dudes we met on the internet. Those awkward middle school years. Those awkward high school years. Bangs. We can endure anything! We're going to be like the Will and Jada of best friend marriages.

Nicky&Allie- To Duckface and Beyond

I couldn't live without my girls.

Which is why every time some chick wearing pigtails and a toddler-sized football jersey laments about how much she hates girls and feels more comfortable with guys, I die a little bit inside.

Doesn't she know that we are the best?!

If you're a girl, who thinks you can't be friends with other girls, then you've been hanging out with the wrong vagina-havers. Come sit at my lunch table, pumpkin nose.

First and foremost, we smell awesome, and we'll totally let you borrow whatever delicious thing we have expertly placed behind our ears and inside our wrists. We will never try to fingerbang you in a booth at Applebee's after your fourth mudslide. We will escort you to the ladies' room, hold your hair while you vomit up your alcohol milkshake, and give you a ride home. We understand how you both love and want to kill your mother. We will let you borrow our copy of 50 Shades of Grey with the good parts highlighted, so you don't have to pretend it's not porn. You know your ex's new girlfriend that you hate? We hate her too. We can talk about the Kardashians and the government shutdown, we're versatile like that.

Did I mention we smell like oatmeal cookies? What else do you need to know?

If any of my lovely female readers are currently in the "I can't be friends with girls" category, I want you to go back to the beginning of this blog. My best friend offered to pimp herself out because she loves me. And because she's kind of an exhibitionist. That is what girl-on-girl-best-friend love looks like, and you need to get yourself some of that.

If you don't know where to start, then let me be of assistance. Get at me on Twitter (@AllieOopsie). We're about to be internet BFFFs!

And I already hate your ex's new girlfriend. She's a major bitch, and I heard she has herpes.

What to do When Someone with the IQ of Asparagus Pities Your Career Choices.

I've spoken about a girl I work with before on this blog, you may remember her, my slightly racist, orange co-worker whose long-term goal is to be an import car model. You can read posts about her, here and here.

She has proven to be an exercise in acceptance and humility. I've learned to tolerate, and occasionally even like, this former cheerleader who is the color of a dirty penny. I've learned that I can literally make friends with anyone.

If Charles Manson and I were forced to make lattes together, I would eventually find common ground with him. I would even learn to overlook that swastika he carved into his forehead. I mean, I have a hella embarrassing tribal tattoo. Youth, right?

Also, whenever I start to feel good about myself and my life decisions, I'm quickly reminded that I am career peers with a girl who doesn't know how to pronounce photography. PHOTO-GRAPH-EE. I wish I was kidding.

A few days ago, I was feeling particularly great. I just landed my first freelance gig. It paid nothing, but I'd be writing about a topic I love for a popular local publication. Cloud nine and shit! That was until this happened.

Spawn of Tan Mom: Allie, when do you graduate from school? 

Yours Truly: Oh sweetie, I graduated two years ago. 

Snooki's Oranger Cousin: Oh. You haven't been able to find a job? 

YT: No, I mean I have some work lined up, but I'm still trying to figure things out. 

Bronze Forrest Gump: Awwwwww, I'm sorry.

You don't really know what humility is until someone whose life ambition is to pose semi-nude on a neon green Honda Civic pities your career choices. It's like having the guy who pisses on himself outside of 7/11 refusing your change, because you look like you need it more.

It's kinda like this.

   

But mainly this.

So what do you do when someone with the IQ of asparagus pities your life choices? You cry and eat all of your feelings. And remember that at least you can pronounce the word photography! 

Which will not help you in the least when you are a 45-year-old barista. I'm going to make cookies.

I Have Shoulder Leprosy, but at Least I can Still Give HJs.

As most of you know, and by most I mean the 10-15 people who read this blog/stumble upon this blog while searching for barista porn, I hurt my shoulder while reaching out of my store's drive-thru window. Yes, I'm quite aware that this is easily the least badass way a person could injure him/herself.

Anyway, I'm in a sling and banished to taking money, misspelling people's names on cups and getting harassed by people asking, "What'd ya do to your arm?" It's almost endearing that people feign concern over my injury. I say feign because most of the exchanges go a little something like this.

Concerned Customer: What's wrong with your arm? 

Yours truly: I'm not sure exactly. I get my MRI results.. 

Not-So-Concerned Customer: That's too bad. Make sure I get my whip cream on that Pumpkin Spice Latte.

But not everyone is more concerned with their coffee milkshake than my overall well-being. Just today, I had a man who resembled ZZ Top remind me that at least I can still give handjobs with my other arm. You sir, are making lemons into lemonade. Thank you!

Speaking of handjobs, I asked my boss if I could tell people that I hurt my arm because I'm an over-zealous masturbator. She told me only if I wanted to lose my job--so I'm still debating that one. But I've been thinking about alternative stories to explain why I'm in a sling, so far I've come up with the following:

1. I have shoulder leprosy. Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. 

2. I bought Bud Light instead of Budweiser. Please help me. 

3. It's a lot more strenuous to give yourself an abortion than one would think. 

4. I was trying to copy Miley Cyrus and fell off of a wrecking ball. 

5. Arm wrestled a shark. Don't ask. 

6. Sometimes the voices get so loud. And I didn't mean to cut off his entire penis. It just happened. 

7. They tried to take my guns. 

8. What arm? 

9. Have you ever read 50 Shades of Grey? 

10. I hyperextended my shoulder handing out a drink to a customer who didn't understand that my ass is not Inspector fucking Gadget, but don't worry I can still give handjobs.

That should get me through about 4 minutes.

Any of you deviants have some more suggestions for me? Now remember I work in a small, extremely conservative town--so the more offensive the better. If you can somehow incorporate Ronald Reagan's ghost personally injuring me, you get bonus points.