Based on science, I think I owe it all to my personal trainer....but...I GREW .75 INCHES!!
Just another 3.5 inches and I can finally become a supermodel. Or a Rockette on Broadway.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Dani Francisco Behind the WHEEL??
I got the California Drivers License Handbook a couple months ago. I had every intention of studying. Each time I flipped through it, I said to myself another time or I've had my drivers license for half my life, I know what the fuck I'm doing. In other words, I didn't study. If you are a California resident (which I became one a month or so ago) and you wish to drive legally in the state, you need a California drivers license...an out of state license will not suffice. With this in mind I decide to drive instead of take the bus like the responsible adult I came here as.
You must fill out the proper documentation, pay, AND get your picture taken before you even take the test. The clerk then needs my Massachusetts drivers license. I have 2 in my purse, but I want to keep them for sentimental values and reasons of vanity, so I claim that I lost them in the move across country. He then tells me that it's fine, I'll just have to make another appointment to take the road test only once I've passed the written test. Fuck that shit!
"Actually sir, I think I may have it in my purse after all!"
"Of course you do," with a smirk on his face.
In California they ask for your height, weight, eye and hair color. Here is how I answered:
Height: 5'4". I'm really 5'3.75" but I like to round up (or down) if it makes me prettier.
Weight: I make believe this says "weight you aspire to be".
Eye Color: Green. They are really hazel, but green is my favorite color.
Hair Color: Auburn. My first choices were "undecided", "mixed", "whatever the box says depending on the month". The clerk was slightly amused, but not a much as I was. Always the case.
I proceed to the next event which is taking the written exam. 36 questions. You are allowed to get 6 incorrect. You can take the test 3 times in one day, but I'm thinking I'll nail it the first time. I check off all the (wrong) answers and skip and whistle my way to the 'I'm going to correct your test while you watch in agony' clerk. She puts a big -10 in a big red circle.
"Is that the amount of points taken off, or how many I got wrong?"
"Same thing honey. Go study. NEXT!"
Study? STUDY?! In other words cram, because the handbook is eighty six fucking pages. And there are about 120 people in the room. Yeah, right.
Fuck-it-I-get-back-in-line-to-get-another-test. I go to the little cubicle and attempt to get 10 wrong answers again (and also to shush the assholes behind me who are talking about France. Twice.) By the time I return to the devil-horn wearing clerk, my answer sheet is soggy and crinkled and shaking and laced with hearts in an attempt to charm her. I flop my head down on the counter and cross my fingers so she can clearly see how tortured I am feeling at this critical moment. I hear another stamp, just like the first time. But this time the stamp read PASS!! Only 3 wrong!! I run out to the car, fire it up, and tear out of the parking lot with such joy in my heart, blasting Tone Loc on the radio, and getting slightly lost on the way home. Now when I drive 'Boston Crazy' around this city, I no longer have to worry about getting thrown out of California!!
Ps. Go ahead and comment that 10 wrong plus 3 wrong equals 13 wrong, which averages out to 6.5 wrong which is failing by .5 wrong.
You must fill out the proper documentation, pay, AND get your picture taken before you even take the test. The clerk then needs my Massachusetts drivers license. I have 2 in my purse, but I want to keep them for sentimental values and reasons of vanity, so I claim that I lost them in the move across country. He then tells me that it's fine, I'll just have to make another appointment to take the road test only once I've passed the written test. Fuck that shit!
"Actually sir, I think I may have it in my purse after all!"
"Of course you do," with a smirk on his face.
In California they ask for your height, weight, eye and hair color. Here is how I answered:
Height: 5'4". I'm really 5'3.75" but I like to round up (or down) if it makes me prettier.
Weight: I make believe this says "weight you aspire to be".
Eye Color: Green. They are really hazel, but green is my favorite color.
Hair Color: Auburn. My first choices were "undecided", "mixed", "whatever the box says depending on the month". The clerk was slightly amused, but not a much as I was. Always the case.
I proceed to the next event which is taking the written exam. 36 questions. You are allowed to get 6 incorrect. You can take the test 3 times in one day, but I'm thinking I'll nail it the first time. I check off all the (wrong) answers and skip and whistle my way to the 'I'm going to correct your test while you watch in agony' clerk. She puts a big -10 in a big red circle.
"Is that the amount of points taken off, or how many I got wrong?"
"Same thing honey. Go study. NEXT!"
Study? STUDY?! In other words cram, because the handbook is eighty six fucking pages. And there are about 120 people in the room. Yeah, right.
Fuck-it-I-get-back-in-line-to-get-another-test. I go to the little cubicle and attempt to get 10 wrong answers again (and also to shush the assholes behind me who are talking about France. Twice.) By the time I return to the devil-horn wearing clerk, my answer sheet is soggy and crinkled and shaking and laced with hearts in an attempt to charm her. I flop my head down on the counter and cross my fingers so she can clearly see how tortured I am feeling at this critical moment. I hear another stamp, just like the first time. But this time the stamp read PASS!! Only 3 wrong!! I run out to the car, fire it up, and tear out of the parking lot with such joy in my heart, blasting Tone Loc on the radio, and getting slightly lost on the way home. Now when I drive 'Boston Crazy' around this city, I no longer have to worry about getting thrown out of California!!
Ps. Go ahead and comment that 10 wrong plus 3 wrong equals 13 wrong, which averages out to 6.5 wrong which is failing by .5 wrong.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I Just Made a Huge Decision
I've said this about several people, and I've said it several times. But I am 100% no regrets confident with this one: Will Gordon is the funniest person I've ever met. Please become a frequent reader, and comment on his posts so he finally publishes the book so I can leave it in the bathroom for my guests to howl whilst they shit.
www.sameasweeverwas.blogspot.com
Thank you kindly.
www.sameasweeverwas.blogspot.com
Thank you kindly.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Injured Dani
Tiny Baby Age. Pneumonia. Hospitalized. I know….B O R I N G. I am not off to a good start with this post.
2 years of age. This one really isn't an injury, but it makes me feel tough girl to tell it. My mom thought I was ready to drink out of a big girl glass (and boy have I now mastered that art). She gave me the glass of juice and I proceeded to treat it like plastic and chew down on it. **crunch** goes the glass and I look up at my mom with an “oh shit” look on my face. She pries open my mouth to find shattered glass. And not one drop of blood. I then became known as a superhero.
2 years of age. Salmonella poisoning. Nobody, not even the board of health could ever solve the mystery. My mom blamed the babysitter (who strangely enough the grandson of this alleged baby shaker dated my god daughter Megan last year).
5th grade. My best friend and me decide to go double riding on my bike. I’m the driver and I take us down a hill. I lose control of the bike and next thing I’m sitting in her kitchen a bloody mess staring up at my parents completely and utterly confused. I end up with a concussion, 4 stitches in my lip and a permanently crooked chin. Swear to god next time you see me, notice my lopsided chin. I’ll even let ya feel it. My parents took me camping the next week and I looked like such a scabby fucked up mess that all the kids were staring at me in the lake when I was swimming. I felt like swamp thing and it still hurts my feelings to this day. On a lighter note, this best friend that I speak of was named Holly Barton. Awesome. And our friends name was….you ready?….Zoe Hollywood. Mr. And Mrs. Hollywood pretty much laid down the gauntlet for pornstardom when they named her.
6th grade. I was a Pop Warner Cheerleader and our big competition was coming up. That week in school for gym class was dodge ball. My very bestest friend in the whole wide world, Jessica, came at me with a ball and chucked it in my face. I put my hand up to guard it but sacrificed my pinky finger. I report the injury to the gym teacher. “Hey teach? My finger hurts and it's all crooked and swollen and throbbing in pain. Can I have a nurse pass?” The mother fucking pervert asshole tells me to suck it up. So I did. Until my mom dragged me to the hospital like any good mother would do with a daughter WHO SUFFERED A COMPOUND FRACTURE. They then banned dodge ball in all Braintree public schools. And boy did that pedophile gym teacher get a lashing from my badass mom. Oh, and in case I left you hanging, I of course could not participate in the cheerleading competition. I did get a HUGE ass picture of me in my uniform and cast with a really sad look on my face in the newspaper that week.
10th grade. My parents are away and I'm on my own. Eric Bell, who is a senior and a 6' big football dude, is starting to like me and of course I'm starting to like him. Him and his friend convince me to ditch out of school early. I oblige. I am getting into his truck when my head is cracked open by the sunroof. The pain was unbearable, but all I am thinking of is please don't cry Dani, please don't cry. Well when I looked at their faces and then looked at the river of blood running down my white t-shirt...I decided it was fair to cry. One Hospital trip and seven stitches later, my grandfather forbade me to go to the red sox game that evening with my boyfriend Dennis Stampfl.
11th grade. Cheerleading accident. I fall off the top of the stunt and sprain my ankle. This caused the whooooole stunt to change and I could no longer climb and be on top :( I got my cute little mug in the newspaper again. With a sad look on my face in the sidelines.
12th grade. Cheerleading accident once again. And this was a doozy. The practice before homecoming I smash faces with another girl. Break my two front teeth and bust open my lip. My dentist was the bomb and opened up her office at 8pm that evening to bond my teeth. I have pushed this memory way back in my brain because I was 17 and all girls at age 17 are vain. The entire team showed up to the dentist for moral support. My teeth were fine and still are. Knock on wood.
Age 24. My heart. Al Presutti.
Age 26. I try to cut open an orange with a serrated knife and instead cut the side of my finger into a flap. 5 stitches.
Age 28. My heart. Jason Webber.
Age 32. Went to see Pearl Jam with my brother the hippie. Not sure if it was the tequila, the weed, or that I tend to do this with people I work with, love and care about, but I decide to slap hippie across the face in the middle of PJ's set. Karma came back swiftly as I was descending the stairs after a beer run. I roll my ankle, which in my experience is worse pain than a sprain.
Age 32. Me and Jill and Sam and Chris (my boyfriend of 3 weeks) were up late night after hours partying in Jills big bedroom. I decide to perform human cannon ball off a computer chair. Those tend to always have wheels. And the wheels rolled on her hardwood floor. This was not my smartest moment. I land square on my shoulder on the floor. Boy am I in pain for weeks. Chris is sick to death of listening to me complain, sick of helping me put my shirt on (but not sick of taking it off) so I decide to go to doctor. I broke my arm and tore a tendon. I learn this 2.5 months later. Surgery is always an option though!! God Dammit Dani.
I hope you've enjoyed me reliving my pains.
2 years of age. This one really isn't an injury, but it makes me feel tough girl to tell it. My mom thought I was ready to drink out of a big girl glass (and boy have I now mastered that art). She gave me the glass of juice and I proceeded to treat it like plastic and chew down on it. **crunch** goes the glass and I look up at my mom with an “oh shit” look on my face. She pries open my mouth to find shattered glass. And not one drop of blood. I then became known as a superhero.
2 years of age. Salmonella poisoning. Nobody, not even the board of health could ever solve the mystery. My mom blamed the babysitter (who strangely enough the grandson of this alleged baby shaker dated my god daughter Megan last year).
5th grade. My best friend and me decide to go double riding on my bike. I’m the driver and I take us down a hill. I lose control of the bike and next thing I’m sitting in her kitchen a bloody mess staring up at my parents completely and utterly confused. I end up with a concussion, 4 stitches in my lip and a permanently crooked chin. Swear to god next time you see me, notice my lopsided chin. I’ll even let ya feel it. My parents took me camping the next week and I looked like such a scabby fucked up mess that all the kids were staring at me in the lake when I was swimming. I felt like swamp thing and it still hurts my feelings to this day. On a lighter note, this best friend that I speak of was named Holly Barton. Awesome. And our friends name was….you ready?….Zoe Hollywood. Mr. And Mrs. Hollywood pretty much laid down the gauntlet for pornstardom when they named her.
6th grade. I was a Pop Warner Cheerleader and our big competition was coming up. That week in school for gym class was dodge ball. My very bestest friend in the whole wide world, Jessica, came at me with a ball and chucked it in my face. I put my hand up to guard it but sacrificed my pinky finger. I report the injury to the gym teacher. “Hey teach? My finger hurts and it's all crooked and swollen and throbbing in pain. Can I have a nurse pass?” The mother fucking pervert asshole tells me to suck it up. So I did. Until my mom dragged me to the hospital like any good mother would do with a daughter WHO SUFFERED A COMPOUND FRACTURE. They then banned dodge ball in all Braintree public schools. And boy did that pedophile gym teacher get a lashing from my badass mom. Oh, and in case I left you hanging, I of course could not participate in the cheerleading competition. I did get a HUGE ass picture of me in my uniform and cast with a really sad look on my face in the newspaper that week.
10th grade. My parents are away and I'm on my own. Eric Bell, who is a senior and a 6' big football dude, is starting to like me and of course I'm starting to like him. Him and his friend convince me to ditch out of school early. I oblige. I am getting into his truck when my head is cracked open by the sunroof. The pain was unbearable, but all I am thinking of is please don't cry Dani, please don't cry. Well when I looked at their faces and then looked at the river of blood running down my white t-shirt...I decided it was fair to cry. One Hospital trip and seven stitches later, my grandfather forbade me to go to the red sox game that evening with my boyfriend Dennis Stampfl.
11th grade. Cheerleading accident. I fall off the top of the stunt and sprain my ankle. This caused the whooooole stunt to change and I could no longer climb and be on top :( I got my cute little mug in the newspaper again. With a sad look on my face in the sidelines.
12th grade. Cheerleading accident once again. And this was a doozy. The practice before homecoming I smash faces with another girl. Break my two front teeth and bust open my lip. My dentist was the bomb and opened up her office at 8pm that evening to bond my teeth. I have pushed this memory way back in my brain because I was 17 and all girls at age 17 are vain. The entire team showed up to the dentist for moral support. My teeth were fine and still are. Knock on wood.
Age 24. My heart. Al Presutti.
Age 26. I try to cut open an orange with a serrated knife and instead cut the side of my finger into a flap. 5 stitches.
Age 28. My heart. Jason Webber.
Age 32. Went to see Pearl Jam with my brother the hippie. Not sure if it was the tequila, the weed, or that I tend to do this with people I work with, love and care about, but I decide to slap hippie across the face in the middle of PJ's set. Karma came back swiftly as I was descending the stairs after a beer run. I roll my ankle, which in my experience is worse pain than a sprain.
Age 32. Me and Jill and Sam and Chris (my boyfriend of 3 weeks) were up late night after hours partying in Jills big bedroom. I decide to perform human cannon ball off a computer chair. Those tend to always have wheels. And the wheels rolled on her hardwood floor. This was not my smartest moment. I land square on my shoulder on the floor. Boy am I in pain for weeks. Chris is sick to death of listening to me complain, sick of helping me put my shirt on (but not sick of taking it off) so I decide to go to doctor. I broke my arm and tore a tendon. I learn this 2.5 months later. Surgery is always an option though!! God Dammit Dani.
I hope you've enjoyed me reliving my pains.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
(Tampon) Tennis Anyone??
This story may not be my most shining moment, but I'm humble enough to tell it. My inspiration for this story is that those hot boys are playing tennis these days. Roddick, Nadal, Federer, so I've been watching and drooling but uncomfortably because I have an unpleasant affiliation with tennis. If you are a boy, you may not want to read this. That statement alone probably just locked in the male reader.
I was an early bloomer. My first Aunt Flow visit was at an young age. I was 11 and it was Thanksgiving-fucking-morning. For some reason my mother was proud of this (I guess someday I will learn why) and decided to tell everyone at dinner. She wasn't cruel enough to tell it at the table, but sweet enough to whisper into all family members ears. A couple years go by and I befriend the new girl in the neighborhood. She just moved from a local tough town and she was a tough girl. I think she actually was asked by her father to live with her mother. Her name was Jen and she taught me how to fight. She also taught me that at the age 13 it was time for me to start using tampons. I was terrified. I had yet to explore that area and didn't know what was where. For Christ sake, I thought that a woman got pregnant because when the penis went into the vagina it tapped the egg and cracked it open so the baby could start growing. So Jen gives me a brief description on what to do with the cotton stick. I go into the bathroom and insert it as fast and as easily as I could into whoever would take it first. I was nervous touching myself so I hurried. But it wasn't as comfortable as I was promised, but figured I would adjust. I come out of the bathroom and Jen is waiting and staring at me.
"Well? How did it go?"
"I guess it's in there?"
"Cool. Let's go down to Watson Park and play some tennis."
The next hour or so I can not only not play tennis, but I can barely walk. I suck it up, because this is Jen Miss New Tough Girl. But only for so long.
"Jen I gotta go home and get this thing outta me. It just doesn't feel right."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
We get back to my house and she insists that I look in the mirror to make sure I've inserted it all the way. So I do this. I bend over with mirror in hand, and low and behold, there it is. In between my butt cheeks. Not in the butt...in the CRACK. Delightful. It took me a couple more years before I attempted this Olympic event again. And I don't mean tennis.
I was an early bloomer. My first Aunt Flow visit was at an young age. I was 11 and it was Thanksgiving-fucking-morning. For some reason my mother was proud of this (I guess someday I will learn why) and decided to tell everyone at dinner. She wasn't cruel enough to tell it at the table, but sweet enough to whisper into all family members ears. A couple years go by and I befriend the new girl in the neighborhood. She just moved from a local tough town and she was a tough girl. I think she actually was asked by her father to live with her mother. Her name was Jen and she taught me how to fight. She also taught me that at the age 13 it was time for me to start using tampons. I was terrified. I had yet to explore that area and didn't know what was where. For Christ sake, I thought that a woman got pregnant because when the penis went into the vagina it tapped the egg and cracked it open so the baby could start growing. So Jen gives me a brief description on what to do with the cotton stick. I go into the bathroom and insert it as fast and as easily as I could into whoever would take it first. I was nervous touching myself so I hurried. But it wasn't as comfortable as I was promised, but figured I would adjust. I come out of the bathroom and Jen is waiting and staring at me.
"Well? How did it go?"
"I guess it's in there?"
"Cool. Let's go down to Watson Park and play some tennis."
The next hour or so I can not only not play tennis, but I can barely walk. I suck it up, because this is Jen Miss New Tough Girl. But only for so long.
"Jen I gotta go home and get this thing outta me. It just doesn't feel right."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
We get back to my house and she insists that I look in the mirror to make sure I've inserted it all the way. So I do this. I bend over with mirror in hand, and low and behold, there it is. In between my butt cheeks. Not in the butt...in the CRACK. Delightful. It took me a couple more years before I attempted this Olympic event again. And I don't mean tennis.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Little Tiny Dani-isms
Age 4
While at the beach one summer afternoon...
"Okay Danielle, time for lunch. Come over here and let me clean the sand off your hands."
Mother cleans hands off and places PB&J sandwich in my lap. I stare and stare down at it.
"What's wrong? Why aren't you eating your sandwich?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I have sand on my feet."
Age 5
"Mom, I can't go to Sunday School anymore."
"You can't? Why?"
"Because my Sunday School shoes hurt."
Age 9
"Mom, when I grow up, can I be Jewish?"
Age 10
Me and my mom are on line in a clothing store after dance class. A slightly older girl and her mom behind us.
Girl says to me, "What are you wearing?"
"My leotard and tights."
"Take them off."
"No." (Aren't you all proud?! I didn't take them off like I always do when told to!)
Age 12
After a long day of school, a dance recital, and a sundae at Friendly's we go home and my mom has to change me into my jammies I'm so tired. Out of my training bra comes some tissues.
"Oh Danielle. Why is there tissue in your shirt?"
"Because the boys at school punch me in the boobs and I needed the extra cushion."
While at the beach one summer afternoon...
"Okay Danielle, time for lunch. Come over here and let me clean the sand off your hands."
Mother cleans hands off and places PB&J sandwich in my lap. I stare and stare down at it.
"What's wrong? Why aren't you eating your sandwich?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I have sand on my feet."
Age 5
"Mom, I can't go to Sunday School anymore."
"You can't? Why?"
"Because my Sunday School shoes hurt."
Age 9
"Mom, when I grow up, can I be Jewish?"
Age 10
Me and my mom are on line in a clothing store after dance class. A slightly older girl and her mom behind us.
Girl says to me, "What are you wearing?"
"My leotard and tights."
"Take them off."
"No." (Aren't you all proud?! I didn't take them off like I always do when told to!)
Age 12
After a long day of school, a dance recital, and a sundae at Friendly's we go home and my mom has to change me into my jammies I'm so tired. Out of my training bra comes some tissues.
"Oh Danielle. Why is there tissue in your shirt?"
"Because the boys at school punch me in the boobs and I needed the extra cushion."
2 People in a Twin vs. Queen
The winner of this match might seem quite obvious, wouldn't you say? I will prove otherwise.
So, there is this boy that I know in San Francisco. And now I really know him wink wink. When I first moved here, I was overwhelmed by the cost of living. Especially in the posh neighborhood I live in. Boy also lives in the same neighborhood. By himself. And his only source of income is being a door guy 3x's a week. He's cute and charming and funny and nice. But that's not why I became so interested in him. I suddenly became not just interested, but OBSESSED with how he could live this lifestyle! Trust fund kid? Gambler? Drug Dealer? I did research. I asked his friends for some hints, if there was a big secret about him I didn't know. I asked him questions without it seeming obvious or nosey (believe it or not, I pulled this off quite well for me). This then forced us to have conversations over drinks over drinks over drinks to "I lost my keys can I stay with you?" so I could finally see if he was living in squalor or grandmas basement. But surprisingly enough he lives in a cute studio that SORTA has a bedroom. By SORTA has a bedroom I mean he has a closet that he can stuff a twin size bed into and still close the doors.
My experience of sleeping quarters:
I have a queen-sized bed. I like to sprawl out and have pillows under my head, against my back and in between my legs (a pillow being 2nd choice of course). When someone else is in a queen-sized bed with me, I rarely find myself asking him or her to move over. Megan and Jill are the two I can remember quickly off the top of my head without delaying the posting of this latest blog. I have slept with this San Fran boy in my bed before and because there is so much room, he can allow himself to sleep on his back which then enables him to snore which keeps me awake because I have to constantly ask him to flip on his side. So not much sleep is taking place for me because he keeps rolling back over every hour. When I've slept in his cubbyhole, here is what I find: You must stay on your sides...doesn't matter who is spooning who (I actually prefer back to back) and this stops him from snoring. Because it's harder to flip-flop-move-around, you stay in place for most of the night so you actually aren't waking up as much! I always take the wall side. And I learned this the hard way. It involved drunken sex in the dark with a glass next to the bad that smashed when landed on. Oops!
The findings:
Boy offers up why he prefers a twin “It forces cuddling!” I actually don’t mind sleeping in a twin, as long as it’s with someone. That happens to be of the opposite sex. And after I’ve had a few drinks. And I get some. And then I get the wall side.
ps. in case you were wondering, I did some more questioning and rationalizing and got to the bottom of my investigation. He lives in a rent control building. He is a California resident, so the time he took me to the zoo it only cost 12 bucks. He has no car or debt or cable. He drinks for free where he works. And he only eats fruit and corndogs. God Dammit Dani!
So, there is this boy that I know in San Francisco. And now I really know him wink wink. When I first moved here, I was overwhelmed by the cost of living. Especially in the posh neighborhood I live in. Boy also lives in the same neighborhood. By himself. And his only source of income is being a door guy 3x's a week. He's cute and charming and funny and nice. But that's not why I became so interested in him. I suddenly became not just interested, but OBSESSED with how he could live this lifestyle! Trust fund kid? Gambler? Drug Dealer? I did research. I asked his friends for some hints, if there was a big secret about him I didn't know. I asked him questions without it seeming obvious or nosey (believe it or not, I pulled this off quite well for me). This then forced us to have conversations over drinks over drinks over drinks to "I lost my keys can I stay with you?" so I could finally see if he was living in squalor or grandmas basement. But surprisingly enough he lives in a cute studio that SORTA has a bedroom. By SORTA has a bedroom I mean he has a closet that he can stuff a twin size bed into and still close the doors.
My experience of sleeping quarters:
I have a queen-sized bed. I like to sprawl out and have pillows under my head, against my back and in between my legs (a pillow being 2nd choice of course). When someone else is in a queen-sized bed with me, I rarely find myself asking him or her to move over. Megan and Jill are the two I can remember quickly off the top of my head without delaying the posting of this latest blog. I have slept with this San Fran boy in my bed before and because there is so much room, he can allow himself to sleep on his back which then enables him to snore which keeps me awake because I have to constantly ask him to flip on his side. So not much sleep is taking place for me because he keeps rolling back over every hour. When I've slept in his cubbyhole, here is what I find: You must stay on your sides...doesn't matter who is spooning who (I actually prefer back to back) and this stops him from snoring. Because it's harder to flip-flop-move-around, you stay in place for most of the night so you actually aren't waking up as much! I always take the wall side. And I learned this the hard way. It involved drunken sex in the dark with a glass next to the bad that smashed when landed on. Oops!
The findings:
Boy offers up why he prefers a twin “It forces cuddling!” I actually don’t mind sleeping in a twin, as long as it’s with someone. That happens to be of the opposite sex. And after I’ve had a few drinks. And I get some. And then I get the wall side.
ps. in case you were wondering, I did some more questioning and rationalizing and got to the bottom of my investigation. He lives in a rent control building. He is a California resident, so the time he took me to the zoo it only cost 12 bucks. He has no car or debt or cable. He drinks for free where he works. And he only eats fruit and corndogs. God Dammit Dani!
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