Today I used my rockin' hot bod to get free food, and it was totally awesome.

Wait, before you make any assumptions about this incident I think I should lay out the circumstance: It was this vanilla milkshake-like drink... really sweet and well churned. They serve it with mixed ice coffee sometimes and oh my god is it good. I think it's made with whole milk and everything... so just remember that.

Anyway what was I saying about the part where I whorishly advertised my feminine guile to get this treat for free? Oh yeah. It was rad as hell. Who would have believed that I,the face of neo-feminism, the menstrual monster herself, would willingly pout my lips at the moment of truth if it meant somebody would hand me free stuff? Not this girl, that's fer sure. The only problem is as I later sat salaciously sucking down my shake, charged by my instance of manipulative prowess I stopped to wonder: Shit. How is my morality going to fuck this up for me? Inevitably that nagging voice, the old crone of inherent disapproval, is going to squawk in my ear like that hag teacher from the Disney show Recess, reminding me that if I enjoy this too much I will forever be a deplorable slut… Goddamn Recess.

"You little skank."

So like, that kinda got me thinking. It got me wishing I guess... wishing for the old times. I remembered reading about how, in the past, woman were never faced with a conflict of character because god knows the risotto wasn't going to wait for you to reach a decision that didn't compromise your individuality. They lived pleasant lives uncomplicated by the phrases "I'm in charge," or "Here's my opinion," or "No I don't know how to darn socks." That must've been so nice… never having to question whether to use your sexuality for purely personal gain, because a buxom figure was probably our gender's best natural resource. And there must've been something oddly comforting living at such a time. Imagine: Hubby's out doing grown-up things like keeping steady employment and perusing the local strip clubs. Junior, our pride and joy, is smart as a whip and possibly a closeted homosexual who's slowly destroying his life by self medicating with these chipper new things called "anti-depressants". And me?  Well I stay at home, delighting in the work of a housewife: I tidy, I chat on the phone, all the while keeping a souffle in the literal oven and a baby in the figurative one. What a life! Yes, I dream of domesticity. Just like that chick from Little Shop of Horrors all I want is my own pastel-colored abode in 1950's suburbia, where I can go about in ignorant splendor, not having to deal with the increasing number of ethical dilemmas that face this generation. Freedom from all that depressing shit, y'know? Imagine how much nicer it could be if instead of wondering "How am I going to go about doing something productive for this piece of shit world?" I just wondered "Wow, Mrs. Miller seems in a lot better mood since she got that lobotomy!" Hell yeah, that would be baller.

I WANT IT.

So I guess it all comes back to whether or not I felt too guilty to finish that milkshake, right? Well obviously I finished it. Just 'cause I lack self respect doesn't mean I'm dumb enough to say "no" to free jank. :]

-R