C'est Spring. Je suis Sprung.

Dudes, it's sunny and gorgeous outside. Sunday we 'spring ahead.' All signs point to renewal and reawakening. Soon, we'll rise for work when it's sunny and come home when it's sunny. Unless, of course, you've got a real job, one where you work 50 or more hours a week. Suckers! The darkness continues to surround your unfortunate asses. My point is: Yeehaw! It's Spring, bitches!

What does Spring mean to me? Well, to start, I like to wear less clothing, lighter weight fabric and whatnot. Screw my turtlenecks and all that damn wool. This body wants her freedom. I've got great legs. Sure, they're a little hairy, pale and bruised, but that's nothing that a weed wacker, some sunless tanning lotion and protective padding can't fix. Then there's May sweeps and season finalies galore. Every TV show blows their proverbial "money shot" on weddings, shocking deaths and the odd guest star, i.e. Ann Jillian, Louis Gossett, Jr. and Jonathan Winters on a very special "The O.C." Truly weird shit like that is what sweeps is all about. And I love it. So much so that I'd titty fuck my TV if I thought it would make any appreciative noises.

But by far the most prominant sign that Spring has arrived--and speaking of titty fucking--is the constant tickle in my middle that no anti-depressant in the world could deaden. There isn't enough SVU fanfic in the world to further a cause like mine. (If anyone can tell me the movie I ripped that quote from, I'll give you $1.) I'm alive! Congratulations girls, if you've got a pulse and a hole, I will hump you. Well, not quite that random, but let's just say I am on The Pull. Now accepting applications, inquire within. EOE. D&D free. Wait, I don't even care. Truth be told, I love disease and drugs. Bring 'em on! I've got syringes, dental damns and a whole lotta Lysol. Yummm! Actually, I do have one teeny tiny itty bitty little caveat: no nail biters. That's really skank. So, to recap, Her qualifications: pulse, hole, well-manicured hands. God, I am needy.