I am the words "feelings," "boundaries," and "behavior" that quickly give way to "bitch," "whore," and "cunt."
I'm the bowl of bread pudding, waiting to be flung at femme partner in rage!
My cane! Or you'll get no nut loaf!
I'm the Subaru Forrester, being backed out of the garage so angrily that the chassis scrapes the driveway and a Tracy Chapman CD falls out of the passenger visor.
hey sugar tits let's sizzor all night long
I'm the brooding Frida Kahlo print hanging on the wall of the stainless steel kitchen in Park Slope.
I'm the lawyer dealing with the custody battle over the cats
I'm the cats resting on the furniture who all scatter for the hills when said bowl of bread pudding flies across the room and smash into the framed Georgia O'Keefe print.
What a clever idea for a thread. I wonder why we haven't thought of it before.
I'm the jewelry box full of chunky sterling silver jewelry being contested. They are fighting over a Labrys, interlocking Venus symbols, and silver rolling three-band thumb rings. There are rainbow colored freedom rings tucked in there too, but no one is claiming them.
Wow, can we get more ludicrous when starting threads?
I'm both partners' exes, each named Kelly. One of the Kellys has another ex named Kelly as well.
I am the shattered breast casting.
I am the Holly Near CD, playing in the background as the femme's face is being punched into a slab of hamburger.
I am the lesbians complaining in this very thread. I'm completely unaware of how humorless I come off, or how seriously I take myself. I'll leave an angry post after the sting of recognition hits me, before going to my thread watcher to find the "Rumored Lesbian Romances in History" thread.
I am the bottle of Coca-Cola poured all over the floor.
I am the crab-walk down the stairs.
I am the vibrant creativity of the participants in this thread. Who would think of anes, bread pudding, nut loaves (!), cats and boundaries. Where do you guys come up with this stuff? I'm laughing so hard coffee just came out of my nose.
Sorry, the original thread will never be topped.
I am the coffee flying out of r18's nose.
What original thread? I wasn't here for that.
I am the straight friend of the lesbian couple, collaborating on a book with one of the wymyn. That is until she can't seem to keep her dildo in her pants, steals my material and turns it into a lesbian Hardy Boys freakfest.
I'm the Budweiser bottle that was hidden by the secret drinker in the laundry hamper. I cause a homicide.
I'm the work colleague who is forced to listen the phone calls to your friends as you endlessly discuss your partner's behavior and seek validation for your reaction. Shut up!!!
I'm the homophobic Christian neighbor next door, waiting for one of the children to scream or cry so I can call CPS on you vile people.
I'll be the old softball jersey with a history, used to mop up tears as one of the partners curls up in bed sobbing in the middle of the afternoon while two puzzled cats look on.
Well, if you were the Original OP R19, pat yourself on the back (with a cane). That thread was hysterical!
Two I remember with fondness:
I am the pinball machine at the local lesbian bar and grill, being slammed, shook, and shoved with ever increasing amounts of force as the invectives about "Cuddles" and "Babs" reach fever pitch. It won't be long until I am broken. Again.
I am the all-natural, biodegradable menstrual sea sponge hurled with unerring accuracy by the best pitching arm in the tri-state all womyn softball league right at the lying, cheating head of my "lover" who was just caught "being coached" by Delia Moonblossom.
I am middle aged homely ex-home maker and straight, who came out late and now run a cosy tea room for endless arguments about feelings, only for women.
I am the previously uninterested heterosexual creep that starts touching you inmapropriafely at work when he finds out you are a lesbian.
I'm the U-Haul secretly parked in my sisters driveway. I will wait here until cane face goes to work then I will be dragged from my hiding space to be stuffed to the gills with worldly possessions and driven like a bat out of hell three states over.
I am the parents of either partner, tired of being blamed for every failed relationship.
Seriously, sisters: most childhoods are imperfect. Parents disappoint, or disappear. Let. It. Go. Own your life. Own your choices.
Which is not to say that therapy is a bad idea....
I am the ex-girlfriend that has been relabeled as her "best friend".
I'm the Blogspot blog that has gone untouched since 2010, but is now suddenly active again with long passive-aggressive essays that start "I don't know if anybody is even reading this, but I just have to put it down somewhere..."
I wear the pants in the family!!
I am the bag of sex toys hidden in the night stand. Dusty. Forlorn. In need of batteries.
I'm any lesbian on any committee.
We must have meetings.
We must have meetings about the meetings.
We must have debriefings, and comment periods, and time to voice our disapprovals, and then we must lather, rinse and repeat 500 times.
We must PROCESS.
Lesbians could put together a house in a day if it was on sheer ingenuity alone. But it would take us a decade to process and reprocess and re-re-process to decide who does what and how everyone's talents will be best used.
I find R38 linear and phallocentric, and I feel oppressed by that.
I just need to be heard.
Then you can't borrow my dolphin dildo, R39.
I am the ROAR. I am screamed with ANGRY POWER.
I'm the gay male pal, sipping chamomile and secretly siding with each one as they run through the house slamming doors.
I'm the morbidly obese partner late thirty-something partner dresses like Poochie from "Itchy & Scrtatchy" holding hands with the slimmer femme who has ruined her looks with more bad piercings that a dollar store plastic statue of St. Sebastian.
I'm the very, very ugly lesbian who nevertheless has a babelicious little dyke who want to eat my pussy and be my girlfriend.
This thread is one of the funniest I've read here in a while. Brava!
I am a pair of birkenstocks that the soft-butch lesbian will put on just before storming out of the house.
I am the tube of "Pink Champagne" lip color that the lipstick lesbian will use once she stops crying.
I am the bound editions of MS magazine that take up space in the bookcases
I am the casserole for the potluck hat burned in the oven. When the argument broke out, no one heard the timer go off
I am the tickets for the Tammy Baldwin fundraiser that neither will use. The tickets are on the refrigerator door under a Hillary in '16 magnet
I am Tammy, the "psycho" ex-girlfriend who always get brought up.
("She still has my automatic hedge trimmer!")
This thread isn't as good as "Dark Lesbians", sorry!
I'm the sleepy cat who wishes these heifers would take it outside (and plotting to get some post-breakup pampering).
I am the rainbow-colored dolphin vibrator that will not be taken out of the nightstand drawer tonight.
I am the Ani DiFranco song on the iPod, the crumpled PBR cans, the hidden pack of Marlboro Reds, and a river of tears.
I am the sound of heaving sobs coming out from under the bathroom door, along with the smoke from a Marlboro Light.
I'm the cats, again, who've come out of hiding to meow at said bathroom door because we're damn hungry!
I'm the signed Alison Bechdel novel, and during the breakup I will be more of a bone of contention than even the car.
I'm Ellen on the TV in the background, dancing with Bethany Frankel- as Mojo chokes Dana to death on the floor.
I am the handful of flax seeds thrown into a deeply lined, tear stained face
LOL....this is great stuff. There must be something different about me though...I can't relate to any of it!
I am the back-up hostess of the pot-luck birthday party my roommate is having for her ex-girlfriend, who is bringing her girlfriend who is my ex-girlfriend, and joining us is my girlfriend who just told me she has been getting together with my roommate but it's just because she has a crush on my roommate's ex-girlfriend, but it may be because she's jealous because the roommate's ex-girlfriend's girlfriend is her ex-girlfriend, but I don't really mind because I invited my neighbor because I've never really gotten over her but we couldn't get together before because she was my ex-girlfriend's ex-girlfriend and I didn't want things to get weird.
And we're all going out to Sunday brunch the morning after, like we always do. We meet some friends there and then get together after for some drinks. Just the 40 of us, like family.
I'm the sound of chewing during a tense dinner after suspicions of cheating were raised the previous day.
I'm interrupted by "Is this sauce gluten free? Because I thought it-" immediately cut off by "OF COURSE it's gluten-free. I told you that when I found the recipe on pinterest."
"Oh, right. Pinterest is such a great site."
*sounds of more chewing*
I'm boundaries. I'm clearly stated over and over, then and now, until they are understood and respected. I'm crossed at every opportunity, I think those passive aggressive bitches do it on purpose.
I am the: and WE, and WE,and WE, that has now become: and SHE,and SHE, and SHE!!!!
Marry me, R38.
I am the food sensitivites that are tearing this relationship apart.
I am Carol, completely terrified, again, because I just got a call from the clinic and have to break the news to Dottie that the embryo didn't take... She will blame me... again.
I can't believe anyone would participate in these insipid, tasteless and endless "Let's Pretend..." threads.
Is it the same 2 or 3 hamburger flippers in flyover states responsible for this shit?
I am r66, telling you NOW so she won't have to tell you THEN.
R66 is Julie... What a cunt!
I'm the plastic bag that somehow ended up in th recycling container, shivering in fear of being discovered.
I am the bag of cocaine that goes missing early on Friday evening out with the girls.
You're looking for the "Let's pretend we're really tired, obtuse DL-NY queens" thread, r66.
I am the masculine baritone voice in the bull dyke in the tuxedo smoking a Muriel cigar at the grand opening of the Gay and Lesbian Center bellowing I WANT WOMYN!!! Yet, I am also the requisite Memorial Day bar-b-que where said bull dyke holds court over her cute model babes, some of whom broadcast the weather on local TV stations and picks names out of her top hat for who gets cunnilingus from her next except for Bonnie, her one true love. All she needs to bellow is BONNIE, BOX!!! and bonny appears in a flash, ready and waiting............
I am the table at a titty bar at which sit several female taxi drivers in men's pants and flannel shirts. As the boobalicious babe begins her pole dance they all take turns shouting, "TAKE 'EM PANTIES OFF!!!"
I'm the water bong that is currently in use on the back deck after the latest screeching argument.
I am the 98 year old African-American lesbian,who is tired of being the featured speaker at every dyke event." I was born by the river in a little tent, and like the river,I've been a dyke ever since"
They Call Me Sammie
I am "woo." Whatever that is.
R63 Only if you bake the nutloaf.
I am part of a butch/lipstick lesbian couple.
More specifically, I am the phone number of the hot, tall guy, that old college friend, that's been sitting in the Facebook message inbox of the lipstick lesbian for months.
The phone number of the guy she occasionally thinks of as Butchie drives that dildo into her wet zone......
I am the lipstick of the lipstick lesbian and my color is bubbly pink.
I'm the "Marriage Equality Now!" bumpersticker formerly on the back of the Chevy Tracker but now in a crumpled back on the garage floor.
I am Lesbian Bed Death. I invade your sacred sanctuary. I am silent yet recognized.
I'm the hot make-up sex after watching Diana Nyad finish her Cuba-to-Florida swim on CNN.
I am the unfinished the doctoral dissertation "Sapphic Images in 14th Century Flemish Sculpture."
I am the Visa card that is supposed to be in Kelly's purse, but I am actually in Peg's wallet as she drives away in the Subaru.
I am the undiagnosed borderline personality disorder.
I am the OP, stealing a line from a thread with this exact same title from years ago.
I am a party of thirty dykes who realize everyone has slept with everyone else.
I'm the (secret) earrings and caftans
I am the imaginary illness. the stress will cause me to flare up and the cane will come out of the closet again.
I'm the demanded free bread pudding
Isn't "lesbian drama" redundant?
I am the empty water bed mattress after it was drained and shoved to the back of the closet in 1996 when a woman complained it did not provide enough traction for good sex, not to mention the water balloons that popped up between their spread legs.
Let's pretend we are LESBIAN DRAMA!
I am an argument over an empty carton of soy milk left in the fridge that results in one lesbian's clothing being set on fire.
I'm the ex-girlfriend. Of both partners.
I'm the three cats, nervously huddling under the sofa until it's all over.
I'm the self-serve vat of tofu at the local cooperative grocery store. The arguing couple had their first meet cute over me.
I'm the cane both arms are reaching for.
I'm the gay boy neighbor, peeking through the window and clutching my pearls.
I am a patchoulli candle which will soon get knocked over by a flying cane igniting the carpet into a blaze of epic proportions
I'm the eco-friendly menstrual sea sponge, ripped from a bloody vadge and thrown with a softball-trained arm at the cheating party.
I'm the bread, sitting in the fridge, hoping they'll stop fighting and put me in some milk with butter, sugar and eggs.
I'm the big, sturdy coffee mug that is going to get knocked off the nightstand and smashed on the floor, ruining the fleece jacket left on the floor.
I'm the three hour conversation about Hurt Feelings that happens afterwards.
Soy milk is flammable?
I am bread pudding.
I'm the dog that is sicced on one of the womyn by the other.
This is not funny.
Yes it is.
I'm the word "boundaries," and I'm used approximately 200 times in this confrontation.
I'm the gay guy who would scream and clutch his pearls if he saw a female breast and who starts stupid threads like this one.
I'm the brilliant logic: "I know that you were thinking about possibly THINKING ABOUT your ex, you BITCH!
I'm the comfortable shoes hiding in the closet. help!
I'm the screeching wheels of the Volvo barreling away from the house.
I am the phone number of the local U-haul moving van rental agency. I am on speed-dial.
I am the sense of humor, which is desperately lacking.
I'm the Maya Angelou-penned Hallmark card that was given in happier times, and I'm being ripped. Hard.
I am Andrea Dworkin, trying and failing to roll over in my grave.
I am the one sperm from David Crosby used to knock up the femme one.
I am the pacific ocean, awaiting the next toss in of "another one of the ex's" belongings.
And I am David Crosby himself, who drunkenly comes to the "rescue" with a handgun.
I'm the question that started the whole ordeal: "What are you thinking?"
I'm the restraining order, that gets filed on HER every 180 days by yet another new ex girlfriend.
we've run out of yogurt!
I'm the final drink of the night which cause the 30th break up of the couple.
I am the rural highway that the "fake one" will wander on foot in a psychedelic drug-induced stupor before going back to cock.
I am the therapist that will be suppressing yawns through our next session.
I'm the dog, who just wants this damn relationship over.
I'm the corncob pipe, lit in anger and incandescent with rage.
I'm the oversized wristwatch given as a Christmas gift years ago, but from this night forward will no longer tell time, but instead, a tale of shattered dreams and ruined reputations.
I am the mother of one of the lesbians, and I will eventually be played by Mercedes Ruehl in an HBO film.
I'm the sex toy hidden in the bottom drawer that hasn't been used in 3 years.
I'm the revolving door at AA.
I'm the best friend who is waiting for the relationship to break up so I can sleep with the cute one.
I'm the tattered cell phone.
I'm the pot dealer who refuses to make house calls on a Friday night for fear of my life.
I'm the female pastor at their Unitarian church, damn sick and tired of the 3:00 AM calls. We have boundaries, too.
I'm the best friend who doesn't want to wait for the relationship to break up. I decided to sleep with them both!! They'll never EVEN know!
I am the smashed lesbian singer-songwriter CD.
I am the customer service clerk at the returns desk on Sundays at Home Depot.
I'm the next door neighbor that always takes a quick glance out the window before going to the car to make sure they aren't out there.
I am the softball bat that was swung in righteous anger, shattering a collection of Peppermint Patty figurines.
I'm the straight brother who lives in the suburbs. I don't care that she's gay-- really. But Jesus Christ, I've got enough on my mind, what with trying to feed and clothe 3 kids in this recession or depression or whatever the hell it is. My wife is NOT amused
I'm the pot luck wedding reception that was to have been.
I'm the next carton of cigarettes to be smoked this evening.
I'm the ...... blog! *GASP*
I am the inexplicable yet irresistible compulsion to shorten names to three letters, and I make it real easy to just SPIT those monosyllabic names out as if they were obscenites. Right, DEB? Right?
I'm the cue ball at the pool table at Lickety Splits that notices an increase in the force which with I am being struck.
I am the Datalounge reader who thinks this is the funniest thread in recent memory.
I scratch myself between my legs even though I don't have any package.
Thanks DL - I needed this thread.
I am the lawn mower, waiting to be driven right over that carefully-tended herb garden.
I'm the health club membership she will never own.
I am the snarky speech pattern which will mar the rest of the evening. "Fuck, we're out of Rice Dream. I suppose *I'll* be the one who has to go get more."
I am the "Sex and the City" Complete Series DVD collection, taking out of hiding and watched all night while drinking virgin Cosmos.
I am the fully stocked toolbox that rides shotgun in the trunk of every lesbian vehicle.
I am the butch one's mullet, shaking righteously with womyn sweat and musk.
I am the labyris necklace, yanked off in rage.
I'm the vagina cape. I *think* I'm gonna be okay. It took them a really long time to make me, so...
I am the power drill being toted purposefully around the house by the "butch" one, allowing her to feel exceedingly capable as she needs works off some steam.
I am either of them's mother, better at drama than both of them put together. I am waiting to step in anytime.
I'm the successful, out-and-proud singer who dated the little femme one a million years ago, and can you see why I moved out to the country? This shit is one thing when you're in your twenties, but come on... Yes, I'm Fat. Fuck You.
I'm the Shane haircut
I am a case of Busch Beer which seems to have been instrumental in starting all this in the first place.
I am the "emotionally distant" and "spiritually abusive" fathers whose fault we all know this really is.
I am the therapist, eagerly awaiting the income from the several more months of sessions this drama will generate... or even more, if I can successfully link this to (invented) suppressed memories of childhood sexual abuse.
I'm the bed, bored out of my friggin mind
I am the Subaru Outback, ready to be stuffed full of boxes filled with belongings and whose wheels will angrily spin out to announce "I'm outta here!"
I'm the Patricia Cornwall mysteries shoved into the cardboxes next to the poems of Audre Lorde and the used copy of "Rubyfruit Jungle."
I'm Jada Pinkett Smith, and if only I'd been able to study this thread before I played a lesbian for the very first time in the remake of "The Women." Because as you know, I don't have the faintest idea...
*chuckle* Lotta research.
I'm the bartender Nuff' Said
I am the Earth Goddess, disappointed with her womyn sisters.
I'm the father. I know they're just really good friends who love to fight.
I'm Jenna Jameson's undernourished fetus.
I am the words "mutual", "healing", "validation" "process" exhaustedly giving way to "bitch", "whore" and "c*nt"
Why, in MY day...! by: Vita Sackville-West
I am the all-beef™ patties at the fast food joint, waiting to be consumed by a sobbing chick in a "meat is murder" T-shirt.
I'm the rainbow flag over the doorway that will tremble in the breeze as the door is slammed.
I am the Lithium that someone has stopped taking.
I'm the frightened neighbors, peeping though the curtains and wondering why those jolly women we thought were chubby sisters are screaming at each other.
I am the hand-scrawled, eleven-page "novel" that is tossed into the wood stove.
I'm the straight, female co-worker. I have spoken to the lesbian down the hall maybe two or three times max. Yet by the end of business today, she will leave a 7 page love letter on my desk detailing how she and I have been having a "sexless relationship" for the past two years, that she "can't take it anymore" and must "separate herself from me" by transferring to another office out of state.
R96 MARRY ME!
R88 is with me you fucking bitch cunt slut
R98, That's what she tell YOU.
I am the two begrudging gay men who she calls to take her out to a "fun" night in the local cruise/leather bar after the break up where she will start a fight with a 60 year old patron about spilling beer on her leather vest.
R99 You lie like a penised person she would never do that to me, she loves me, she respects me. She has just needed a lot of time for her essential oil awareness classes lately. Thats why she's been gone so much, and comes home wreaking of nag champa...
I'm gonna fuck you up bitch.
I am the dildo enjoying the time off.
I'm r96's mother, whom she called, crying, as soon as she got home. How many times have I told her that she's like a freak magnet? It's not the gay thing that bothers me; men have done it to her, too. I'm not saying she ASKS for it, but... Yeah, I am saying she asks for it.
I am Rosie O Donell
I'm the new episode of "Law & Order: SVU" that will go unwatched tonight because they got into the argument.
Well I used to be the aquarium.
I'm the cheap bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz that will be swigged down later tonight to help forget the pain.
I'm the Yale University dipolma that Jennifer Beals can't bring herself to look at as she reads another assinine L Word script that she is contractually obliged to perform.
I'm the close friends who will be bored silly by the details of all this, recounted over and over again in the weeks ahead.
I'm the next day. When all memories of this cat fight/bar brawl will be forgotten. Back to poetry and romantic evenings spent at our local dimly lit cafe.
I'm the hot lesbian who gets tons of pussy up in San Fran. After I have my sex change operation, I will become a 5'4" man who every woman ignores.
I'm chocolate, the eventual solution to all and any problems.
I'm the reason for the argument that has long been forgotten since it started.
I'm pretending to find this thread funny but deep down seething with humorless rage.
I'm the parking lot of REI where the fight escalated
I eat my rage.
Hi! Your shrink, remember me? See you tomorrow. And please bring your checkbook this time.
I'm the familiar folk rock playlist that one of them plays obsessively when they aren't talking.
I'm Jackie Warner. And when I show up, you know some crazy shit is about to go down!
I'm the self-pitying facebook status updated every 20 minutes, pretending that we don't care if she doesn't notice.
I am the DVD copy of "Nell", watched in more amorous moments, and still covered in sticky lady stuff.
I'm the mental image of Rachel Maddow that will summoned when one of them joylessly masturbates later tonight in a lonely bed.
I'm the cab driver. Trying to hide my grins as the meter runs. Waiting out front of their studio apartment in Park Slope as they finish there argument in the back seat of teh cab. Oh wait... make-up time! ha! Tic Tic Tic... I love those lesbians! Best fares of the night!
I am the fifth pint of Ben & Jerry's consumed in three days.
I'm the pair of season WNBA tickets about to be listed on craiglist.
I am the marathon e-mail written, but never sent ... except for the bits sent to friends for proofreading.
I'm an animal control officer. Some crazy bitch had her bitch attack her crazy bitch.
I'm the goat's milk, sandalwood & Jojoba soap bar that shudders at the thought of pendulous breasts and an unkempt nether region. She comes to wash away the day's pain.
I'm a U-Haul Manager trying (for the umpteenth time), to explain to "ladies" that we need at least one day's notice to rent our trucks.
I'm a lady Shick razor, and I'm lonely.
I am the chocolate cherry cheesecake and I don't stand a chance.
We are smart enough to decide what's funny on our own. We don't need any campaigning for w&w.
I’m Head Lesbian performing crowd control.
I'm the mother reminding one of you that now might be a good time to start The Pill again. I'm only trying to be helpful. Honest I am.
I'm Suze Orman and none of you can afford to impulsively U-haul it out of there in this current economic climate. Denied!
I am the physical scuffle as both try to rush to the computer to tell DataLounge all about it.
I'm Michelle Rodriguez. I AM lesbian drama, complete with desk appearance tickets and jail time.
I am the emotionally unavailable mother of partner number one frostily phoning to enquire if my excuse for a daughter finally accepts why I tried to have her aborted.
I am the Patagonia lilac fleece that started it all.
I am the emotionally submissive gay male friend who comes over to console the less crazy one with ice cream and reality show marathons.
I'm the thoughtless remark, made eight years ago and never repeated, that gets brought up in every fucking disagreement we ever have!
I'm the multiple sets of power pants suits hanging in the closet.
I'm the "brilliant" lines written by Showtime/HBO 'writers': "Piper, your love is... killing me!"
I'm the Melissa Etheridge/Indigo Girls/Sarah McLachlan soundtrack.
I'm Dan the Dental Dam. No lesbian in the history of lesbians has ever made my acquaintance.
I'm the mutual friend who doesn't want to hear about any of it.
I am the Shelby Lynne CD played at top volume around 3 am.
We're Merriam & Webster. Once considered a book of worship by the spelling and grammar maven of the pair. We'll be completely neglected in lieu of incomprehensible swearing & profanity for at least the next 6 months.
I'm the stack of "Thank you" letters from the Hillary! campaign addressed to the two as joint contributors clutched in the hands of the partner with money as she frantically tries to find someone to speak to about making sure that she gets "full credit" for the contributions.
We're the local precinct in the girls gayborhood, sick dealing with the repeated phone "inquiries of concern" from nosy straight "yuppie" new neighbors.
I'm the armchair lesbian psychiatrist with one year of Community College behavioral science under my belt and a copy of the DSM IV stolen from the local Barnes and Noble diagnosing everyone involved with narcissistic tendencies and bipolarism.
Praise be, goddess. One of the best threads in recent memory.
I'm the stack of gay porn dvds "hidden" in the taller one's bowling bag, terrified that half my number will soon be angrily stuffed into a hemp ruksack and scratched all the hell on the way to the last ex's ex's basement because she still has the key...
I am the "your love is killing me" comment by the angry mulleted partner.
I am the lab mix stray that was adopted by both and soon to fought over.
I'm the "mad quaffed" hair cut that happens in a hazed hangover a week after the break up.
I'm the landlord. WTF? I have TWO tenants in a single occupancy unit?
I am the long-forgotten bottle of Beano sitting in the cupboard after a potluck dinner.
I am the soon to be hit on Starbucks barista. "Just because I remember you drink a short vanilla 2 pump latte dooesn't mean I'm a lezzie." I will go home and question my sexuality and cry my eyes out when I realize I AM LESBIAN. I will change my major to woman studies and write folk songs. I will quit college and tour lesbian coffeeshops selling my cd, "Sapphic Dreams and Soy Chai Kisses". It will be dedicated to my first love. The most requested song will be, "My Lambchop has the sweetest Pussycake".
I'm the angry lesbian who joined PETA, so I could be in a Militia Ethridge.
I'm the fem lesbian who is hot, and knows it!
I'm the lesbian that doesn't go hiking.
I am the once-sturdy menstrual hut, now reduced to kindling beneath a determined pair of army-surplus steeltoed boots.
r17 is hitting a little too close to home. Please respect my boundaries, r17.
I am the petite ex-beauty queen hairdresser from Tucson that moves in two weeks after the big one throws the smaller one out because the small one is no fun anymore --too depressed from the big ones harrassment and humiliation.
I am the small one, risen from the ashes. Fully recovered and laughing her ass off at the site of her ex playing out the only script she knows -- again.
I'm the fighting couple's "friend", ready to move in with the skinny one the moment they split.
I am the kokopelli wall ornament that watches over their passive aggressive gestures, my godly purpose completely fucking dismissed by their barren lifestyle.
I am the dreamcatcher earrings ripped from the ears of a mulleted butch named Jan during a bar fight at Lickety Splits.
I'm the softball coach wondering whether I've lost my pitcher or my 3rd base player because of this.
I am the femme. // I will rise again. // I am the femme, they all love my hair. // I am the femme. // They all want me, sometimes I wear a small Bandolino wedge heel. // Nobody rocks a pair of Dockers like me! // I am the femme. // I have a bleached blonde fade, mirrored Oakley sunglasses and drive a Volvo. I'm going to Cabo to get laid. // I am the femme! -- sung over and over the femme before she walks into their old bar.
I am Sister Nighting-Gayle, I read tarot cards at the lesbian coffee shop. The lesbian coffeshop was established for our sisters in recovery, but in reality, it was because we couldn't get a liquor license. I see bad things for you Deb, but soon you will find your soul mate. The yin to your yang. Walk in gentleness and be careful of your back.
I am the joint checking account that has been cleaned out since 10AM this morning.
I'm the wedding photo album from the cute, romantic inn outside of Boston (2004), sitting next to the wedding album from Vancouver (2005), the wedding album from San Francisco (2004) and the wedding album from San Francisco (2008), all wondering who will go where?
I am the Eddie Bauer salesclerk, happy for at least one week, that they'll shop separately before they hook up with their new life partners. I need to boost my sales.
I'm the quiet guy at the gay AA meeting who has stealth-cruised every man in the room three times over waiting for the lesbian to finish justifying last night's behavior.
I'm the soulful song at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival last August.
I am Holly Near, enjoying the peace and quiet of the heterosexual relationship I've been in since 1994 (but still "self-identifying" as a lesbian).
I am Katie Perry, laughing all the way to the bank.
I am the phrase,"fuckin lesbian drama" muttered by the best friend shaking her head.
I am the truck which will be fought over in the divorce settlement.
I am Lesbian Bed Death, the brooding daughter of that gloomy fellow who plays chess with Swedish farmers.
I am Jodie and I need not explain myself to ANY of you.
I'm the silent treatment. I haven't said anything for 190 posts because it's always about you, isn't it?
I am the rainbow commitment ring thrown against the wall in disgust.
I am a pair of rolling eyeballs.
I'm the deep reserve of denial that no one at work knows I like pink tacos, and the believe that a thin layer of makeup can cover up the boy haircut and refusal to wear skirts that announce my lesbionic tendencies to everyone I meet.
I am the reusable Whole Foods canvas bag containing the faint odors of patchouli, Tofutti and Morningside Farms soy burgers. I am unfamiliar with the terms "razor blade" and "red meat."
I am any female who's ever fucked Anne Heche.
I'm the rebound girlfriend who gets dropped when they get back together. This will happen 3 more times.
I am the women's studies major at Sarah Lawrence who expands her emotional boundaries and demonstrates her freedom from traditional sexual roles by having joyless sex with men in-between relationships with women.
I am the angry Wiccan best friend of the heavier one, lighting candles and casting dark spells to brutally punish the thinner femme for causing such pain and suffering.
I am the Menstrual Hut at the Michigan Womyn's Festival, and my PTSD tales put John McCain to fucking shame.
I am the Subaru saleswoman who sees discussions over the merits of the Outback versus the Legacy devolve into threats, tears and slammed doors on a daily basis.
I am the real-life humorless lesbian, fingers trembling with rage as she pounds the keyboard, crafting her fourth failed attempt at a "gay male" parody of this thread in just the last 20 minutes.
I am the tig and I'm tired of looking for love in all the wrong places.
I am the broken acoustic guitar. Once, I was used to create gentle, empowering folk music to bring sisters together. Now, I lay in a busted heap, having been used as a weapon because the other life partner was a half-hour late and neglected to call.
I'm the matching pairs of Crocs. Regardless of what the big one says, I am NOT just worn when gardening.
I'm the inevitable shit storm. I start off slow and steady gathering up all my irrational thoughts, anger and rage. I will turn into a hurricane of shit approximatly 2 days after the novelty of this thread has worn...
"I JUST KNOW that it was YOU that posted about me in the Lesbo Drama thread on the Datalounge!!!
I JUST KNOW IT!! WHY? Because I'm psychic and the be all and end all queen of the world wide web. It's about me!! It must be about ME!! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!
I DON'T CARE that it's an anonymous board! I don't care that it was a generic post, signed Anonymously, that could have been posted from ANYONE. I don't care! I know it's YOU! FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUCK!"
I'm the episode of House filled with hot lesbian sex that the couple would have loved if they weren't in the midst of their own drama.
I am the framed Lilith Fair T-Shirt, removed from the wall and flung into the face of the mouthy one.
I'm r207 aka the controlling fat one who sits on the tv remote so I can watch SVU in peace without having to flip to The Big Break during commercials and missing precious moments with Mariska.
I am writing lots of slash fiction to channel my sexual fantasies, since I can't find an actual partner.
Xanax, meet R208.
I am the hidden photo of Mary Cheney, only used to accelerate the passion in bouts of mutual twat-plunging.
I'm the girl who secretly has the hots for the cute one. I'll "be there for her" in this time of need during the post break-up blues.
Hopefully by Thanksgiving I'll be calling Uhaul for their economy model rental!
I am the last name of either one of them, due to change to another hyphenate within a year at most, taking bets on the length of time and rolling my eyes.
I'm the father of Jodie Foster's baby. And I'm in the kitchen.
I am the gigantic magnet secretly dropped in the cardboard box packed with the butch one's Xena videotape collection.
We are the zip-together double sleeping bags sitting in the closet. After tomorrow we will never see each other again.
I am the passive-aggressive one's myspace quote of the day.
I am the torn in half copy of "Fun Home" that was signed by the author and given at Christmas.
I am the donut-sized rear wheel tire on Deb's jazzy scooter slashed out of revenge by her hateful ex. Even though Deb knows better, she labels it as a hate crime perpetrated by a local teen gang.
I'm Mary Cheney, and the only Dick in my life is Dad.
I'm the Hooters waitress who begs my boss for another section when "they" come in.
I'm the "Showtime" intern that has to read all the comments about "The L Word", and convey the consensus to the department head. Do you know how embarrassing it is to constantly report "I wanna fuck Bette"?
I'm the straight sales clerk at Urban Outfitters. I only flirt back to boost my commission.
I'm the 'personal day' that will be called in to work tomorrow.
I'm the BPD poster girl whose vengeance against various exes is held back only by restraining orders and threats to distribute my 20-minute-long 4am voicemail tirades to the media.
I'm the district court judge that has to sit through ANOTHER request for a peace order from a former "roommate".
I am the motorcycle with the worn-out suspension who is now relieved that I don't have to transport two women of size.
I'm the lost keys of an 18 wheeler that fell into a boot left at the soon to be ex-girlfriend's mountain top log.
I am Stanford University, which started all this misery indirectly by rejecting the thin one fifteen years ago so she had to go to Mills College instead, where she discovered everything that has contributed to this day.
I am the empty beer bottles and the broken things, some of which will not be cleaned up for months, especially the stuff that went under the couch-futon
I am the dog who always sleeps in the couple's bed, even though the cute one said I absolutely would not be allowed in the bed when my original owner and I moved in.
I am the First Lesbian Friend From University of the older one (when we called ourselves 'Nozama' and Sseddog'); I never speak to the younger one, I only mutter to my friend. Is this, at last, my chance?
I'm the order of buffalo wings and cheese fries that will be inhaled after, or possibly during, the make-up sex.
I am The Children's Hour by Lillian Hellman.
I am the laughter mixed with tears that have resulted after a misunderstanding over a misplaced cell phone.
I'm the Nurse who calls suddenly in effect stopping the fight when she tells MoJo she has titty cancer. Hold me, Kim!
I'm Mandy Moore's mom!
I am the forgotten cooler in the basement, once filled with Budweiser and taken to Women's Week in Provincetown every year.
I am the proventil asthama inhaler that the big one must use after the stress of "the incident".
I am the American Spirit cigarette that the big one lights up after using her proventil asthama inhaler.
The cane and bread pudding invectives coming from the culture that invented "Bears" is a little hilarious.
I am Mary Chapin Carpenter, cutting down on my touring schedule, just so I can avoid running into my insane lesbian stalkers. I don't feel lucky at all.
I'm the straight woman who "experimented" with my college roommate. Afterwards, she professed her "need" for me. Now, I'm on the waiting list for a new dorm. Afraid to close my eyes.
I am Samantha Ronson and I am on my way to the offices of the producers of "Ugly Betty", and I am ready to personally beat the shit out of them for making my girl upset!!
I am the necklace of freedom rings hanging from the rear view mirror of the Jeep Wrangler, clanking together as my owner peels out of the driveway on the way to the sports bar.
I am the copy of "The Incredibly True Story of 2 Girls in Love" that is about to be watched and cried through.
I am the the small granite Zuni "power animal" fetish stone bought from a feminist bookshop in Santa Fe, and I never dreamt that I would be hurled in anger, much less that I would leave a dent in a bedroom wall.
I am the .357 Magnum stashed in my owner's F-150 glovebox, waiting to take revenge, "Thelma and Louise" style, on all the hick guys who called her "dyke" at Bumfucke High.
I am the lyrics to "I am Woman" surfacing to consciousness as I connect to my inner survivor.
I am the carefully preserved napkin from their first dinner date, now soaked with tears and snot, violently hurled into a Hello Kitty wastebasket.
I am the journal that was kept and ultimately abandoned because I asked too many questions.
I'm the spoon sticking mournfully out of the top of a scraped-clean pint of Haagen-Dazs, sitting next to five empty Amstel Light bottles and the season 2 box set of "The L Word."
I'm the "Addams Family" pinball machine in the corner at Lickety Splits, being played with such furious paddle-slamming force that I ultimately TILT and the bartender has to come over to reset me. But I'm used to it.
I'm the keyboard covered in Devil Dog crumbs and cigarette ash. I will be pounded on furiously as the girls take turns blogging in minute detail about everything that has just transpired.
I am the duplicate CD's of Melissa, Indigo Girls, and Michelle Shocked that were sold for $2 store credit last month, because, after three years, they finally decided they would be together forever and might as well only keep one copy. They will fight over both the remaining copy and the $6 store credit.
I am the press-on nails discovered in one of the partner's satchels that led to this breakup.
In a moment of weakness, Deb begged the cute one to take her back. Deb was crushed when told no, but realizes she needs time to process and honor her feelings. I am the pizza delivery guy, once again delivering an x-large with xtra cheese to the sobbing larger partner
I'm one of the wrong places tig looked for love in.
I'm Lindsay Lohan and I refused to go near America Ferrara's snatch and now look at what's happening.
I am the "hey what's up" text from the ex that resulted in the subsequent hostage situation and shootout with the police.
I am the cute one. Soon to be fought over by every lesbian in a 30 mile radius.
^ Hey girl, you totally deserved better. Screw her fugly fat ass, time to have some fun. Can I buy you a drink?
^ Hey bitch, I'm the one who was "there for her" after she had another blow out with her ex last night. I wiped away her tears. Stand back bitch, she's mine!
God dammit! Fuck you Deb! You made me carve a B into my face and pretend to be attacked by a black man because YOU, and You alone said you didn't love me. Great and now I'm in trouble. This is all your fault. I'm a poly sci major Deb, I can't be out and YOU know that. Fuck you".
I am the tears that fall from the puffy red eyes of the dumped-one after she fucks the drunk hetro married stranger in the lesbian bar bathroom
I'm the only thing Suze left here ex- a pleather jacket
I'm the mousy 40-year-old librarian, looking on as the cat-fight continues -- both appalled and secretly envious.
I'm the Suzuki Sidekick, once again idling in the Arby's drive-thru for the third time in as many hours. The Big One is trying to eat her feelings.
I'm the lezzie who can't figure out why every single girl I fall for happens to be bi and dumps me to return to her straight hausfrau life in the 'burbs.
I'm the DHL delivery woman who rocks my uniform
I'm the six hundred dollar one-way ticket home from Taos, which is actually more expensive than asking for a different room at the hotel and staying the rest of the weekend, but lacks the ooomph of a hasty departure.
I'm the shattered cast of the big one's breasts, smashed to pieces by a flying Birkenstock.
I'll be the pool table
I'm the child, a product of artificial insemination. My mommy's skinny and had me. My mama's fat and didn't have me, but swears that I'm hers and she's gonna fight for me. Both my moms went to the sperm bank even though they were "having trouble" and said that I would bring them together.
I'm the fat one's lawyer, billing by the hour for the custody battle that's shaping up, AND writing the script for the Lifetime Movie (and billing the client!) Ka-Ching!
I'm the email from gaia68@ gmail.com to parkslopepam@ yahoo.com with a link to this thread and the headline, "I think Viv is writing in this thread. Check out r38, r93, r116, r145, r147, r160, and r219."
I'm the hole in the wall the Touch-Me-Not bull just made with her fist because her new girlfriend won't let her do the same thing to her frilled crevasse.
I am the make-up session that ends with the last two windows being broken out and the understanding gay-friendly neighbors deciding finally to call the cops.
I am the Church of the Latter Day Saints that the big one has decided to join (again) because the men all drive their trucks over and help you move your stuff to your new apartment, and it's *that* time in the latest relationship, again.
I'm the 12" dildo that my partner calls "Love Mound" that sits on top of the $49.99 dresser from Wal-Mart. I am the big old pair of Doc Martens that sits next to the dresser. I'm the giant size bottle of Drakkar Noir that my partner wears. Im the Norelco Man Beard Shaver that my lesbian lover uses to shave the sides of her head. I am the closet filled with flannel shirts and the beautiful plaque that says 'Dike and Proud" on the stone fireplace. I'm the complete lack of humor that is my partner's personality.
I'm the slutty gay neighbor who offers to take The Fun One out to The Cockring- "to get your mind off things!".
I am the partner who brings it all up again after three peaceful weeks. "NO! I CAN'T JUST LET IT GO!!"
I am the partner who brings it all up again and then again after three peaceful months. "NO! I CAN'T JUST LET IT GO!!"
I'm the next door neighbor laughing my ass off!! They provide me free weekly entertainment. Love it when the windows are open or the drama spills over to the yard and the cops are eventually called. Unfortunately, the instigator (bully) is always the same one. The drama would be much more riveting if they mixed it up a little bit and switched roles every now and again. Maybe I should start directing them!
I'm the love that has died.
I'm the new love interest of the partner that needs time.
I'm the lonely highway where the big one is going to crash her cycle while riding to ease the pain, because she can barely see me through her hurt, angry tears.
I am the gay man, standing on the sidelines and mocking lesbians without any sense of irony.
The cane comment made me spit all over my monitor. Whooo. Oh boy.
Again with the sexist trolling? You've become so predictable and boring that what you should actually consider playing is an acid enema.
I’m the ominous omnipresent purring of the U-Haul.. just waiting
I am a relatively slender lesbian who left this sort of low-ball craziness behind long ago.
I'm the haiku Tammy Lynn Michaels will post on her blog.
I'm the unoriginal troll that posts repeatedly when not fingering my belly lint.
R96 - 104, brevity is the soul of wit.
I'm the 'problem' she has with prescription painkillers.
Just preserving the 2008 version, r112.
I am the TERF that will shove you under the bus if you get in the a way of my psychotic agenda to prove I am the highlander of all feminists, now spread dem legs, girl!