While I know a good number of people who vocalize loudly that they do not dream or at the very least concede to the fact that they don't remember their dreams if they're indeed having them, I dream a

Duplicitous (adjective): "Given to or marked by deliberate deceptiveness in behavior or speech."

I've written a lot about sex over the course of my "blogging career." Hell, I still write about sex on a regular basis and get paid for it, something that still is working circles in my brain.

I'm glancing at my cell phone bill the other day, attempting to calculate how I managed to rack up as many roll over minutes that I have, especially considering that my coworker who loves to point out

There's an undercurrent flowing steadily inside of me. It started a couple of days back and seems hell bent on driving me insane until it is appeased.

I have very detailed dreams. Vivid, intense dreams that sometimes parallel what's going on in my everyday life and sometimes come out of the fucking blue.

The last guy that I had sex with was named after one of the Chipmunks.

I was thinking about something today. I really like dick. I like the shape of it, the smell of it, the juice that it produces.

I was over at my friend Stacy's house this past weekend for UFC 66, otherwise known as the night that Liddell beat the crap out of my Tito and cost me a picture of my ass (shut up, you fucking hillbilly!) and something interesting occurred to me. As the room (divided about 60/40 men to women ratio) started to debate whether or not Jenna Jameson was going to be ringside, I found it amusing that not a single woman seemed offended at the idea of a porn star getting such massive attention. In fact, I think I've yet to meet a woman who doesn't like Jenna.