Are you dirty like
the balls of a turkey?
If so, how much?
Are you like me:
Clutch your cunt
to get in touch?
Did it stem from childhood
and wishing on all THAT good?
Or did it bloom
from the state of
reaching perfection
forever dysfunctional
and misunderstood?

I smell my earwax.  If you give me a choice between urinating in a toilet bowl in the middle of the night or an empty bucket with a funnel on the side.  I’m taking the second!  I blow intense snot rockets, not only in the raging streets of New York.  But on my breasts in the shower.  And when I’m feeling super creative and dedicated I finger paint a massacre in my tub with my period.  Now that I think about it?..

If my boyfriend during the age of 12 never told me, “You don’t stop eating your boogers you can’t be my girlfriend anymore”, I wouldn’t be able to truly pinpoint to myself or anyone else when I would have stopped eating my salty, soggy, brittle, chewy boogers?

I don’t like clean gyms.  The fuck is sup with that?   Can’t we get housekeepers to do something else?  Perhaps powder my face down after I’m done with my sloppy cardio session?  I like those precious and going instinct basement dungeon, scary dark, who-the-fuck-wants-to-workout-there meathead gym.

I never understood people who believe a gym is supposed to be spotless.  And though I can appreciate a mega clean, bright doctors office, glamorous Gym and Spa like Equinox..it just doesn’t suit my carefree grungy personality.  Or give me the edge I need mentally to get a heavy-duty workout in.

I mean, am I the only one who has seen the asshole with gallons of sweat coming off onto the gym floor while he performs a marathon on the Stairmaster?  Am I the only one who has the nerve to leave glute sweat on spic and span benches?  How about my snot tissues in the treadmill bottle holder?  Have any of you come across them? 


Are you aware the people who are the cleanest are the dirtiest behind closed doors?  It’s why I don’t trust men with super clean faces or woman with perfect bounce in their tresses.  The least I could do is show you the build up of lint on my sweatpants and the smudge porn mascara streaking my face like black comets because I medicate myself with raunchy workouts.

I’m not sure where this dirtiness arose from?  But back from the age of 7 I could tell you my mother and aunts had to force me to get in the bathtub.  They would check the bar of soap, see if it was dry.  From there on out I had to wet the bar of soap before I came out the bathroom.  Eventually my aunt won.  I couldn’t turn away big boats along with those green little army men with guns and soap war.  Clever bitch?

I never enjoyed washing my hair or detangling it.  I kept it hidden under a hat.  (Still do!)  When I came back from hanging with the mob of boys from what I call our car-house at an empty lot I was content with the dirt on my face and greasy oil under my disgusting fingernails.

I remembered a few times I got hit on the head Puertorican style with a hairbrush because I somehow had bits of chocolate, ladybugs, leaves and branches falling out while the bitch of my mother tried to comb through.  I was that kid who would bring lice to school.  Probably the kid your own parents warned you about?  During these times, I made sure to take advantage and visit my asshole cousins often to give them a taste of lice when I could.

So tonight in the gym I felt extremely dirty and I must say:  I get off on it mentally.  Mostly because nobody knows it.  And although I sneer at any man who decides to get close to me with a dumbbell in hand, I smile silently to my hearts delight.  During the first set of Incline Dumbbell Chest Press I could feel the unity forming between my perspiration and heavy menstrual flow bubbling into what I call Wet Farts.  These suckers slide from down below where my vagina hole is and works it’s way up to the starting line of my outer lips.

I could sense and visualize the air balls in full detail and in my head they make little pop, pop, pop noises.  Nothing loud.  Just undercover.  This evening, (not the first time around) I wondered if the herd of men in the weight-room heard them too.  You know, in the exact way they sounded in my head.  FUCK YES!  I wanted them to hear it.  But I refused to take off the music blasting happy in my ears to see if the noise came through.  Still, did they? 😉

On every failing rep for the evening I felt the push of blood sprouting out and about right on the mess of my napkin.  Surely, it’s annoying at times.  But my devotion to the work and effort I’m putting in literally outweighs every con within the high of moment.  Yet the topper of the night was practicing some jogging (fake) skills and psyching myself entirely by saying:  Just 5 more minutes and just 5 more minutes until 40 was completed.  (Because I hate cardio!)

But fuck me man!  I wanted to run the hell away from the treadmill as I felt the world of mangled people in my panty from a kotex-wreck.  And through the sweat, front, back, shirt, breasts, neck, pausing to tie shoelace, side stitch and excessive menstrual flow.. I had to put up a gigantic fight through the disturbing mental waves while seeing red.