Ask A Ho: Move that HO!

Red Dirt Babies,

I’m moving. And I fucking hate moving. More than I hate children, people in “love” (don’t get me started on “love …” bullshit), beets, slow drivers and Valentine’s Day put together. That’s a lot of hate and anger.

My roommate is moving in with her boyfriend — see No. 2 on list of things I hate — so I’m out on the streets. While sleeping in a cardboard box under 75 sounds like a delightful idea, in this weather, I don’t think my delicate sensibilities could handle it.

So, I’ve decided to be an adult and get a place of my own.

On the downside, the number of naked pillow/tickle fights will decline exponentially living by myself.

And I can’t mooch off my roommate’s dinners (she’s a far better cook. And by “far better” I mean, she can actually cook and doesn’t consider cereal or cottage cheese dinner) or steal some creamer in the morning.

There will be no one to make me pancakes when I’m crazy hungover (i.e., every day) or drive me to Taco C at 2 in the morning.

My DVD collection will be cut in half, and sans audiophile roommate, my music taste will undoubtedly decline.

Who’s going to help me wash my hair when we take bubble baths together?

These are serious concerns I have.

Not to mention the anxiety I have over going through the kitchen and trying to remember whose stolen bar ware is whose.

But there is an upside.

It can be naked time all the time.

I can have boys over without my roommate calling me a whore, sprinkling holy water on me or, worse, trying to steal them from me (it’s tough living with a hottie).

I can leave dirty dishes out … oh, wait … I already do that.

No more dog farting in my face (Note: I’m convinced her dog farts at me on purpose. Seriously.)

No more having to watch movies with subtitles … damn foreign movies.

I can be naked all the time.

I can have boys over.

Housewarming party, anyone?

C U Next Thursday,

SugarTits

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