Read the mystic bubbles and behold the future! Besides the stomach upset — that’s a given.
You and your boyfriend, Cody, are sixteen and wear purity rings on behalf of your church, The Chastityriffic Chapel of the Creepy Patriarch. Dear ol’ dad says things to Cody like, “My brothers are named Smith and Wesson and AR-15,” and “Nobody would find you six feet under our begonias lol.” His preachings are mostly murder-based, amen. Nonetheless, you and Cody enjoy (well, he enjoys it) secret, vigorous anal sex in the back of his mom’s purple PT Cruiser — so you can still be virgins until you wed, of course.
When you met Dakota, he washed over your life like a welcome summer breeze. You laughed at bro movies, savored shared tapas, and sizzled in the bedroom. Then, he brought you a gift! A huge box holding…fur? You pulled out a giant yellow horse costume. Glee on his face, Dakota explained that he was a Brony, and you, his delightful paramour, Lemon Drop. Whinny, baby!
You’re constantly getting UTIs because your partner, Grant, while being an uber-intellectual*, is lazy about washing his dick. He supplies a calm, rational argument that such petty physical things shouldn’t matter — besides, he totally lets you not shave your armpits during half of January. But you want it both ways. Or one way. You want it your way, like Burger King, but with soap and a dick. Why are you stifling his logical life choices? His MGTOW group is right about you!
Janice studies you across the boardroom table at the hostile takeover meeting, her ebony eyes narrowing on your body, their gleam at turns both allured and hateful. The tapping of her Montblanc pen drives you mad in your pants-place, so you pop another button of your best Ben Sherman shirt. In return, her devilish nostrils flare like a pair of naughty bell-bottoms. Always the same dance — she is your nemesis, after all. And you really should stop meeting her at TGIFriday’s for Double-Trouble Berry-Regretful Margarita Mondays, you glorious slut.
You shouldn’t have juggled two dudes at once. But Tony the architect had the prettiest bedroom eyes, and Wayne was hilarious — the guy actually made truck nutz work. Didn’t hurt that he had the face of Sebastian Stan with also the body of Sebastian Stan. Yet much like Peach-Pear La Croix, when you double-booked your erotic pottery class art show, the result was a confusing mess that left a film of regret on your tongue. Your friend Ernesto was wrong — the whole thing did not end up in a hot, naked, pottery threesome. More like Wayne/Sebastian cried in the corner while Tony peed in your vagina bowl.
The fruit of your passion will reveal itself six weeks from now, when your tits hurt for no good reason, and it’s not even raining. Your FWB, Joey from sales, will beg you to raise the bundle-of-oops on the grounds that “I’ve always wanted a son to play with a few times,” and also “I’m a little tapped out right now, baby. I thought you were on the pill, you’re trying to steal my valuable seed!” Joey’s, er, “input” ends when he leaves you on read after you agree to discuss the matter post his ironic Candyland tournament.
Your name is Melania, and you got when you deserved when you put your lips on the can, girl.
Do you hear wedding bells?! The Hi-Biscusi nuptials will take place on a perfect day in June, in the New York Public Library’s “Poetry About Moneyed Wildflowers” wing. Lucan Hi is an investment banker with the most whimsical hobby — he collects vintage prostitutes, dresses them in mummy’s furs, and hunts them on Martha’s Vineyard. Using archery, as befitting a gentleman. You, Miss Biscusi, will be a stay-at-home blonde.
Martti Nelson is a lady humor writer from LA, which means she needs all the help she can get. If Michael Schur is reading this, please know she will work for embarrassingly cheap and can provide her own cat. She’s on Twitter @MaladyMartti. Follow for more casual desperation!