Yeah, he’s lying there next to me, snoring like a rhino with a deviated septum that’s got a sheep shoved up his remaining good nostril. Yak-snurck, snorty, hum, yak-snok. Over and over and over a-fucking-gain.

This after 2 minutes and 12 seconds of the most gawky, spit-infused writhing under kneecaps and bony elbows that I’ve had to endure since that time in 6th grade when I got felt up in the coat closet by the boy who turned out (9 years later) to be a fag.

Then — as now — I’m left with a 3-inch triangle that feels like it was rubbed raw by a bristly corncob, along with a hankering to know why most guys fail to grasp that “harder” and “faster” are NOT synonymous.

So why am I writing this? Well, because for some reason he woke up wondering why there were feathers in his mouth, which proves the difference between wondering and knowing.

I had to set the pillow down and step away to blog… if only because I don’t look good in orange prison jump suits.

HEY YOU! Support this site, dammit. Visit my sponsors!

It’s amazing how quickly after you’ve promised “Til death do us part” that becomes a goal.

Good luck, pal. When you get back from your honeymoon and find that you’re done with all that wool you’ve been using in place of sunglasses for the past several months, you might want to take up knitting as a way to keep your hands busy.

Oh, hah. What am I saying?

Oh, sure. When it comes to a woman’s pussy, guys don’t mind sticking their penis or fingers in it. Heck, they don’t even mind eating the thing. And they love hearing about what a tight fit it is.

But mention that your menstrual cup is too big (or even mention one at all, like Summer did), and they freak out. Big time.

Sheesh. It’s not like I suggested we save the stuff for finger-painting.

Over four months ago — back when QOS was a halfhearted celebrity gossip site — I woke up one morning and realized I was sick of blogging about celebrities.

As a matter of fact, I was sick of pretty much everyone else, too: the mouth breathing, gum snapping clerks at Wal-Mart; my passive-aggressive mother-in-law; the greasy-haired pervert at the gas station who stares at my chest when I stop in to buy cigarettes; my husband (some days of the month); the Prozac-powered mommies of my son’s schoolmates who are constantly trying to get me to volunteer for one stupid activity or another… the list just kept getting longer. Meanwhile, I’d noticed that my martini consumption had increased dramatically, while my interest in blogging was plummeting.

So I asked myself, “Self? Why not combine the two things you love most: bitching at people, and drinking martinis.” Hence, I give you the newly reinvented Queen of Snark: a place where all of those vodka-fueled inner thoughts get unleashed about the idiots who piss me off.

Oh, sure, I already do that sometimes on Electric Venom, but there you have to put up with a dose of politics, news and other crap (and, believe it or not, I try to keep my language clean over there).

Here? It’s all snark, all the time, baby. So, if you’re easily offended, fuck off. This is MY place.