An Ode to Fucking Sculptures (and What to Buy Instead)

Kate Sloan

Beloved artisanal glass dildo company Fucking Sculptures has opted to shut down, after years of cranking out unspeakable beauty. This announcement makes me even more proud and protective of the Fucking Sculptures I own, which I already consider so precious I won’t even fly with them lest they get lost in transit.

For those who still dream of fucking a Fucking Sculpture, I’ve compiled some suggestions for other dildos that might live up to their hype, at least sensation-wise. Read on for dildo dupes…

The G-Spoon was my first Fucking Sculpture, and is still, to this day, one of the best A-spotters I’ve ever owned. Mine is on the cusp between medium and large, so it’s big enough to feel impactful but small enough that its weight doesn’t bother me; long enough to reach my A-spot but not so wide as to bump my cervix; curved enough for G-spot stimulation but not so much it can’t get all up into deeper spots. Really, the only thing I don’t like about it is, I wish there was more extra length I could use as a handle. I could thrust a lot faster and harder if more than an inch of the toy stuck out of me when fully inserted.

What to try instead:
• The stainless steel Njoy Fun Wand is about the same length as my G-Spoon, but slimmer. It can hit my G-spot and A-spot with equal aplomb, but in a slightly more pinpointed way than the G-Spoon. The steel feels just as heavy and firm as Fucking Sculptures’ glass does. Like the G-Spoon, the Fun Wand leaves me with almost no handle if I insert it all the way, but it does indeed hit the spots I want it to. Plus that bloopy end feels great in a butt.
• I haven’t tried the Fifty Shades Darker Deliciously Deep steel dildo or the Crowned Jewels Shaftsbury, but they’re both of comparable dimensions to my G-Spoon and have the gentle curve I’ve come to associate with good A-spot toys.
• This Spartacus glass G-spot dildo, is, again, of similar dimensions to my G-Spoon and has the straight shaft + curved tip I’ve often found effective for A-spot stimulation. The looped handle would make it easy to thrust with, too.
• I’ve found the Icicles #53 effective for deep stimulation, though it’s a bit girthier than the G-Spoon at 1.5″, so if you have a cervix that’s particularly low and/or sensitive to pain, I wouldn’t recommend it for that purpose.
• A vibrating option, incase you’re into that: the Jopen Vanity VR9 is long, gently curved, and offers two differently-sized ends for exploring your various internal spots.

I consider the Pussywillow relatively unremarkable compared to my other two Fucking Sculptures, sensation-wise, though it’s still beautiful. Mine is a medium-sized, triple-blooped, softly curved dildo that stimulates my G-spot gently with one end and can nudge my A-spot with the other.

What to try instead:
• The Fifty Shades of Grey Drive Me Crazy glass dildo has gentle bloops of about the same diameter as my Pussywillow. It’ll rub your G-spot, but not nearly as intensely as something like, say, the Pure Wand.
• The Icicles #18 has one straight, mildly textured end, and one end that’s much more curved and textured. Like the Pussywillow, it’ll allow you to explore a few different internal spots and sensations.
• The Icicles #8 is straight (though still bloopy), so if you know you like your G-spot stimulation gentle as fuck, you’ll dig this one more than a curved toy.
• For more intense G-spot sensation but with similar texture, try the Sinclair Institute Crystal G. That long handle should make it easier to thrust with.

The Double Trouble is my priciest and most prized Fucking Sculpture, by far. I use it solo and with partners, and it always satisfies. Its deal is that it somehow manages to be alarmingly girthy (6″ around the smaller end, 6.5″ around the larger) while also hitting my A-spot amazingly. (I wish I had an X-ray machine so I could see exactly how it accomplishes this, because it’s a mystery to me.) I don’t use it much these days because my vag isn’t as enthused about girth as it used to be, but when I really want to feel filled up and deeply fucked, I can’t imagine a toy I’d prefer over the Dub Trubz.

What to try instead:
• The other major contender in the “big, heavy, firm, double-ended, gently S-shaped dildo” category is the Njoy Eleven, another favorite of mine. I find it much more G-spot-centric than my Double Trouble, since I can’t get the Eleven’s big end deep enough inside me to rub my A-spot firmly, though it does graze it a little if I push it as deep as it’ll comfortably go. If you crave Fucking Sculptures for their beauty, durability, and “wow” factor, the Eleven will tick all those boxes for you too.
• If you want something shaped like the Eleven but less expensive, less heavy, and less huge, try the Dorcel So: it’s essentially a smaller, silicone Eleven clone. Its more minuscule girth makes it likelier to be able to hit your A-spot, if that’s what you’re after.
• The Dorr Silker vibrator isn’t as thick as the Double Trouble, but its insertable end is shaped very similarly to my favorite end of the DT, so I think it might feel comparable. Plus it vibrates, if you want it to!
• The Lumberjill Knob is a girthy-as-fuck double-ended dildo like the Dub Trubz, so it’ll fill you up real good, though I can’t personally attest to its A-spotting abilities.
• I’m intrigued by two silicone potential contenders, the Maia Riley and Doc Johnson Beauty. Both are long enough to hit your A-spot (probably), girthy enough to feel filling through the shaft (1.6″ and 1.9″, respectively), and have the tapered and slightly curved tip that tends to work well for A-spots. And they’re both under $35, so if you’re not up for a big investment, these are relatively safe bets.
• There’s sadly not a lot of girthy glass out there, but try the relatively inexpensive Spartacus Blown Medium (1.5″ diameter) or Blown Large (1.75″) if that’s what you’re cravin’. The Medium has a slight curve, while the Large is totally straight, so if width isn’t a dealbreaker, I’d lean toward the Medium for spot-targeting purposes.

This post was sponsored by the good folks at SheVibe. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Review: Doxy Die Cast

Kate Sloan

When Doxy gifted me a Die Cast, I heard proverbial angels singing from heaven. Because I knew orgasms aplenty were on my horizon.

See, if one thing is true about Doxy wands, it’s that they are strong. I’m not the ideal person to be reviewing Doxy wands, in fact, because I’m so sensitive I barely use the power for which they’re famous. My Die Cast is the only toy in my regular rotation that I always wish had a lower speed. I turn it on and think, “This can’t possibly be where we’re starting. This is a higher speed than most of my vibes end at.”

But don’t get me wrong: it gives me orgasms nonetheless. Lots and lots of ’em.

The Die Cast is an updated version of the original Doxy Wand. While it’s hard to find fault with a strong, rumbly wand vibe, I have a couple quibbles with my original Doxy: the buttons sometimes get stuck and skip speeds, and the squishy PVC head makes the vibrations feel somewhat buried. Both these issues are fixed in the Die Cast, so I use it far more and enjoy it more when I do.

The Die Cast’s head is silicone, so it’s non-porous and easier to clean. It also transmits vibrations better than the PVC did, so it feels even stronger than the original wand. The head is “double-weighted,” too – a technology that is supposed to make the Die Cast’s vibrations feel rumblier. When I use the original Doxy, I only go up to the second speed; with the Die Cast, I literally only ever use the first one. (I know, right?!)

This is, if anything, my one major complaint about the Die Cast: I wish it had some lower speeds. While using it, I’ve often had the thought, “This thing is like the belt sander of sex toys.” True, I can hold it on my outer labia so it only stimulates my clit indirectly, or use it through clothes, or employ other techniques I’ve developed for dealing with overzealous wand vibes, but I would rather not have to do all that. If it’s been a few days since I’ve used a vibrator, often the Die Cast will feel alarmingly, almost uncomfortably strong, prompting me to grab a weaker vibe to use as a warm-up until I’m ready for more.

The Die Cast’s body is made of a titanium/aluminum alloy. It feels super sexy and sensual – and I love the glittery texture of my red one! – but it makes this wand heavier than the original. I only tend to notice this when I’ve been using it for a while or when my chronic joint pain is flaring up. If you have strength or mobility issues, you’ll want to go with a lighter wand.

Like many powerful vibrators, the Die Cast is lovely for forced-orgasm play. At my request, a partner cuffed me into my under-the-bed restraints and then held the head of the Die Cast in his palm, pressing it against my clit while he pushed two fingers inside me and muttered filthy shit in my ear. After I came so hard I practically ascended to heaven, my beau grinned and said, “Are you glad you asked me to do that?” and yeah, I really, really was. However, like I’ve said, the Die Cast is somewhat heavy, so it’s not as well-suited to forced-orgasm scenes as something lighter like the Magic Wand Rechargeable.

The MWR also has the benefit of being cordless, while the Doxy wands are corded. This doesn’t bother me when I have the space and forethought to leave my wand plugged in, but if it’s a choice between standing up to plug in an unplugged wand and just grabbing my MWR, usually my lazy ass will go for the MWR.

Noise-wise, the Die Cast is comparable to most other electric vibes of this power level: definitely audible if you’re in the room with it, but probably undetectable through walls and doors.

On the whole, I’ve still been reaching for my beloved Tango and MWR more often than the Die Cast, because I like their wider variety of gentler speeds and that they’re lighter and easier to hold than this big heavy behemoth. But if you need power, and want it to come in an absolutely stunning package, I can’t recommend the Doxy Die Cast highly enough. It’s gorgeous, well-made, and does the fucking trick.

 

Thanks very much to Doxy for supplying me with this wand to review! You can buy the Die Cast at Peepshow ($200 USD), SheVibe ($190 USD), or Come As You Are ($236 CAD/~$190 USD).

Freelance Friday: Baby Blog + Time Log

Kate Sloan
What my blog used to look like when I was just starting out!

Freelance Friday is a new regular feature where I’ll be answering your questions about my life as a freelance journalist, blogger, copywriter, and all-around sexy scribe. If you have questions for this feature, feel free to leave ’em in the comments, or email me!

Q. I want to hear about the very beginning! The baby blog! Mistakes you made, what you wish you knew. What you surprised yourself with.

A. When I started Girly Juice, I was depressed, bored, and scared. It was March 2012 and I was six months into a gap year between high school and university. I had recently decided to return to school to study journalism, but was terrified I’d hate it or wouldn’t be good at it. In the meantime, the months stretched ahead of me, blank and unyielding. Most of my friends were away at school in other provinces, so I spent most of my time alone or with my then-boyfriend. Aside from a few hours of part-time work each week coaching high school improv and doing customer service for a catering company, there was nothing to do. So I started a sex blog.

I made the mistake, initially, of assuming I had to be someone else to be successful. I tried on the voices and styles of other writers I admired in the sex niche: Epiphora‘s sardonic sass, Sinclair Sexsmith‘s erotic esoterica, Lilly‘s no-nonsense guidance. I think artists of all types have to learn through imitation, but that can’t be all that you do. I think it took me about four years of blogging here twice weekly to really find (or create) my voice. It’s hard to say what I am as a writer, exactly, but I know I’m not any of those people I longed to be like when I began.

In the early days, I blogged according to my whims, not according to a schedule – but frequently, nonetheless. I wrote three or four or five posts a week. Blogging was all I could think about. I had so many thoughts and ideas and feelings about sex. It was like that stage of a new relationship when all you want to do is tell them everything about yourself and learn everything about them. I wrote posts, promoted them on Reddit, wrote posts, promoted them on Twitter, wrote posts, told friends about them, wrote posts, tested sex toys, wrote posts, daydreamed about what my blog could become one day, wrote posts, wrote posts, kept writing posts. I loved it to death, and still do. There has never been a time when I’ve considered quitting. I can’t say that about anything else I’ve ever done in my life.

What I wish I knew when I started, and what I would like all beginning bloggers to know: your voice is valid, important, and worth spending time developing. Helpful content does better than personal content, but if you build an audience who love you, they will love your personal content too. You are not obliged to give out any more information than you want to; sharing part of your deepest heart doesn’t mean you owe the world all of it. Make friends with other bloggers as soon as possible, and don’t be afraid to ask them things, run your ideas by them, and collaborate. Brainstorm content based on what you think your ideal reader would like to read, not what your chosen topic supposedly dictates you have to stick to. Keep transforming, growing, challenging yourself. And make at least some of your choices based on what will make for the better story.

Q. How many hours go into daily blog work? Do you count sexcapades as part of your work, or are they just fun and you write about some of them?

A. I once went to a job interview for a copywriter position at a hip young advertising startup. The stern dude interviewing me scanned my résumé and asked, “How much time do you spend working on your blog?”

I ran a quick mental calculation, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t really curious about numbers – he wanted to know where my focus would be, if he hired me. Whether I would be hunched over a slick Mac in his exposed-brick office building on a Wednesday afternoon, writing copy for a cooking blog client while secretly pondering dildos and floggers. “I spend about 10 hours a week on my blog, but obviously, if you hired me, I would only do that on my own time,” I told him. I thought it was a ridiculous question. You wouldn’t ask a weekend golfer if his games would cut into his office hours. You wouldn’t ask a foodie if she’d be playing hookie for restaurant openings. Smart, responsible professionals know how to compartmentalize.

That ad agency didn’t hire me, and I wonder if they thought 10 hours a week spent on blogging was 10 hours too many. I’m not sorry, either, since that’s about when my blog started to take off and make me decent money.

These days, I’d guess I spend closer to 15 hours per week on this here blog. There’s writing, researching, editing, formatting, scheduling, marketing, corresponding with retailers and sponsors, testing toys, taking photographs, managing my website’s backend, updating pages and old reviews, making affiliate links, keeping track of my earnings, and maintaining my social media presence. Not all of these things feel like work, but they are, nonetheless (which is why I laugh when well-meaning strangers find out about my job and ask, “So you just, like, get paid to masturbate?!”).

I don’t consider sexcapades part of my work because I don’t pursue them for work reasons. I can think of few things more depressing and artificial than seeking out sexual partners purely for blog fodder (though I applaud bloggers who are able to do this happily and well, I am not one of them). If I was sleuthing out sexual experiences to write posts about, I would look for difficult or strange experiences – but instead, I mostly just try to find good ones. If an experience inspires me to write something, that’s cool, but it’s never my main goal – except for that time I sat on a cake.

Got questions about the #FreelanceLyfe or what it’s like being a sex blogger? Ask ’em in the comments, or send me an email!

3 Versions of Myself I Access Through Fragrances

Kate Sloan

“John Varvatos” by John Varvatos

I am a cisgender woman, but it is just not that simple. Gender never is.

In high school, I used to describe my eclectic personal style as a mix between a 1950s pinup girl, a 1980s teen queen, and a British schoolboy. Elements of the latter only snuck into my outfits occasionally – a collared shirt here, a silk striped necktie there – but I always felt that schoolboy somewhere below the surface, particularly as I came into my queer identity. Pursuing girls, giggling and blushing at girls in the school cafeteria, training my gaze on girls in an unabashedly desirous manner – these all brought out a butchness in me, for lack of a better term; a hard sharpness on the edges of my otherwise plush femininity.

I wondered – and still sometimes wonder – whether my once-in-a-blue-moon dalliances with dapperness are more an homage to a person I want to be, or a person I want to fuck. But then, maybe those two categories are always a Venn diagram, and it’s just a question of how much overlap exists in your personal version.

When I peruse fragrances online, I’m most drawn to notes I associate with masculinity: leather, oak, tobacco, sandalwood. It all sounds terribly sexy, for much the same reason I sigh and swoon when I encounter phrases like “blue striped button-down with the sleeves rolled up” or “freshly shined leather wingtips.” These aesthetic elements sit right in the centre of my Venn diagram of attraction and aspiration: a sweet spot where I can equally imagine myself pinned against a wall by a ravishing man who is kissing me, or being that man.

I ordered a sample of John Varvatos’ self-titled fragrance because a male xoJane writer described it as smelling “[like] you spilled a chai latte into an old leather jacket.” I could see it so clearly. Flirting with a leather-clad heartthrob in a bustling café, all waxy hair pomade and smug bravado – or being that heartthrob, and not needing to ponder petty concerns like gender, because chai and leather and flirty nerve are genderless and always have been.

There are some “men’s” fragrances that feel like drag when I wear them, coming off incongruously boyish on little ol’ femmey me. But John Varvatos melts into my skin and my gender with an uncomplicated ease. It’s masculine and powerful and sexy and bold, but coexists peacefully with my femininity and softness and docility. It’s like a men’s leather jacket I might steal from a boyfriend, that looks beefcake-handsome on him, but adorably spunky on me. It’s masc but it’s not a mask. It’s the brashest kind of boy this cis femme lady can ever be.

I love it. I want to wear it every day. I want to feel this attuned to all my gender-peculiar facets at every moment. I don’t ever want to lose that.

“Carnal Flower” by Frederic Malle

Like anyone who’s lived in a particular city for a long time, I have personal rituals tied to certain places and activities in my city. Like any introvert, many of my personal rituals involve being alone.

There are some activities I will not do alone. Though I love attending improv shows at places like Comedy Bar and the Bad Dog Theatre, I cannot go to a show solo; sipping a beer in a claustrophobic bar before the show cranks my social anxiety up to eleven, as my bad brain hallucinates judgmental eyes lingering on me from across the crowd. Likewise, I will not go to local sex club Oasis Aqualounge unless I am meeting at least one person there; the libidinous glances and bold advances of disingenuous lotharios aren’t worth enduring, even to languish in Oasis’ beauteous heated pool under the stars.

One thing I do love to do alone, however, is go to the theatre. In particular: Soulpepper, in the Distillery District.

There is something classy, mysterious, and refined about attending the theatre alone, at least in my imagination. I select shows carefully every year, spacing out my tickets so I never have to go longer than a couple months without one of these pilgrimages. It’s a special, pre-planned night out, like taking myself on a date. I get dressed up, do my makeup, spritz on some scent. When I used to live in the east end, I would get on the King streetcar, clutching a little leather purse and walking with purpose, and ride it down to the Distillery. Once there, I walk along the dimly-lit cobblestone streets, sometimes wobbling in heels (the theatre is one of the only occasions I deem worthy of heels), until I reach the warm, bright, elegant lobby of the Soulpepper theatre.

The crowd is different there from my usual haunts; it’s a lot of older people, married couples, mature professionals. Whereas swilling beer alone in the crowded Comedy Bar makes me feel like people are staring at me and think I’m weird, sipping a pint of Tankhouse in Soulpepper’s lobby gets me almost no attention at all. Everyone bustles softly around the space, waiting for the house to open, cooing gently at the posters of coming attractions, greeting each other with warm enthusiasm. There is no culture of cruising, scoping, judging or partying. I am almost always the youngest person in the room, but am otherwise invisible.

Stripped of other people’s projections, then, I am free to be whomsoever I please, and to be that woman in peace. And at Soulpepper – a brick and wood haven full of quiet theatre devotees – I am a mature, sophisticated young woman, elegant in my little dress and little shoes. I am precious and put-together, confident and collected. I am a nonexistent but aspirational vision of myself.

Frederic Malle’s Carnal Flower is often described as a “dangerous” or “sexy” scent, but I don’t get that from it at all. On me, it’s floral, summery, and feminine in a way I have never quite been. Helena Fitzgerald describes the woman evoked by this perfume as “the kind of woman I had once thought could wear perfume while I couldn’t… I am not her; through perfume I could try on her life as a costume.” I feel this too: when I wear Carnal Flower, I can gather up my guts, my smudged eyeliner and scuffed boots and crooked teeth, and compress myself into a lither, lovelier little lady. A lady who might – for example – waltz up to the bar in the Soulpepper lobby, order a glass of white wine, and sit sipping it on a leather chaise without once worrying what anyone thinks of her.

“Acqua di Gio” by Giorgio Armani

I’ve told you before about my conflicted love affair with Acqua di Gio. It’s the signature scent of someone I used to love, who never loved me in the same way. My heart’s year-long tussle with this man was all wild hope tempered with crushing disappointment. One followed the other, like a dance. We’d have a good night out, laughing over beers and sandwiches – and then I wouldn’t hear from him for days. We’d share sex so intimate, it made me believe those who use “intimacy” as a euphemism for sex – and then he’d declare how much he valued my friendship. He’d tell me that we were on the same wavelength, that we were meant to stick around in each other’s lives, that our connection was special and deep – and then he’d go off grinning goofily on dates with random women from OkCupid, looking for “the one.” I remained the one he left behind.

If I’d never been in love with someone who wore Acqua di Gio, probably its inhalation would strike me only as mildly pleasant. It might remind me of oceans, cucumbers, or musky muscled strangers fresh out of the shower. But I have been in love with someone who wore it, so when Acqua di Gio crosses my nostrils, it’s a guilty hit of glee. An endorphin rush I quickly work to suppress. Wild hope, as I’ve said, tempered with crushing disappointment.

This is a problematic reaction to have to a fragrance as ubiquitous as Acqua di Gio. I rarely go a week without passing someone on the street who’s wearing it. Every time, every damn time, I’m struck with the pins-and-needles feeling that haunted me throughout that ordeal: Will he ever love me? Why doesn’t he love me? How do I make him love me? Why doesn’t he love me? That love has since faded, but the scent is a time trigger, dragging me back into that pit I spent so long clawing my way out of. It’s a lot to grapple with, on a street corner, surrounded by strangers.

So I became interested in reclaiming the scent, reworking its fraught associations, like exposure therapy. I read an xoJane article about this a while back, and the idea resonated hard. When friends go through breakups, I tell them to make new memories in the locations that remind them of their ex – why not do the same with a scent?

There are times, while I’m wearing Acqua di Gio, when I catch a primal whiff and sink back into nostalgic sadness, wanting that Prince Charming and the promise of happiness he dangled just out of my reach. But then there are other times when I breathe deep and realize I am that Prince Charming, I can be happy, and I can and will save myself. There is hope. There is always hope.

Monthly Faves: Rainbow Glitter & Nipple Clamps

Kate Sloan

It wasn’t my most libidinous month, on account of mental and physical illness, but I managed to squeeze in some good experiences nonetheless! Here were some of my fave things in September…

Sex toys

• The Standard Glass S-Curve has been my favorite dildo all year and this month was no different. It’s just… so… good.

• I moved out of my parents’ place earlier this month, taking with me all the toys I actually use regularly and leaving behind the rejects and redundancies. I’m glad, however, that one toy I left behind is the original Doxy wand (I took the slicker, rumblier Doxy Die Cast with me to my new place). With a Doxy at each house, I’m guaranteed giant, thrumming orgasms whether I’m at home or staying at my family’s for a night. Perfection.

• You might know Weal & Breech for their amazing handmade wooden paddles (and if you don’t, you SHOULD), but did you know they also make wooden nipple clamps now? I bought a pair of purpleheart ones this month and they are very pretty (and highly effective).

Fantasy fodder

• Sensory deprivation orgasms (like in this porn scene) are carnally intriguing to me! Now I want some cute domly person to strap me down, blindfold me, put noise-canceling headphones on me, and “torture” me with a wand vibe… I mentioned this to a new beau and he said he’s interested in trying it, though I think I’d reeeally need to trust someone before I’d feel comfortable letting them do that to me.

• There is so much filthy Brooklyn Nine-Nine fanfiction out there, y’all. This one is a recent fave. Brief “plot” summary: Jake quizzes Amy on historical facts and police trivia as part of a teasing foreplay game. (Send me your dirty Jake Peralta and/or Rosa Diaz fanfic links + headcanons, please. They nourish my soul.)

• I sexted with a Twitter crush this month, and mid-cyber-fingerbang, he noted that good sex is a blend between pleasure and tension. (See also: TEASING IS GREAT.) Sometimes a good tease turns me on more than the part that actually gets me off, y’know?

Sexcetera

• Some of my work elsewhere this month: I consulted and reported on the Sex Toy Awards story in the new print edition of Glamour. I wrote about gags and muzzles for Stockroom. I was interviewed about ageplay and communication for the Off the Cuffs podcast. Pedro Marques interviewed me about my career. I reviewed one of the new Fun Factory Battery+ vibes for Peepshow. On our podcast, Bex and I talked about platonic kink, exhibitionism, orgasms, and interviewed Sunny Megatron and Ken Melvoin-Berg.

• Orgasm stats: this month I had 24 orgasms, an uncommonly low number for me, due to the aforementioned depression and sickness. Two of them (8.3%) were from a partner. That brings my total for the year up to 247 so far.

Femme stuff

• I ran out of my perennial favorite pink lipstick, Bourjois Pink Pong, so I’ve been wearing Sugarpill lipstick in Girl Crush a lot instead. I don’t like the formula quite as much (it’s a bit drying), but the shade is fantastic and I love the glittery, hyperfemme packaging!

• I’m currently haunted by the new rainbow glitter Doc Martens, which don’t seem to be available in Canada yet but which I desperately need. (Um, send me an email if you’re feeling generous!)

Little things

My new room! Making out with a random guy who recognized me from Instagram at the Horseshoe Tavern (#SlutLyfe). Finding new favorite haunts in my new neighborhood (ya gotta have a café, a bar, a 24-hour grocery store, a bookstore, and a sushi place, at the very least). Listening to the Flop House endlessly. Working on my boundary-setting. Visiting the Condé Nast offices in NYC and having great chats over coffee with my editor at Glamour! Seeing the McElroy brothers do a live show in Brooklyn, making friends with the girl sitting next to me, and drinking a giant, bright green Long Island ice tea-esque cocktail while laughing my ass off. Spanking Bex at their birthday party. Going to the theatre with my mom. Hitting 6,969 Twitter followers. Wine and pizza night with a fellow femme. The woman in front of me at Waiting for Godot who got so offended by how much I was laughing at the play that she left at intermission (!). Catching up with my little brother over coffee. A photoshoot in pink leather on my balcony (oh, just you wait!). Tiny shorts weather.