If These Vaginal Walls Could Talk

A lot of times when I'm hanging out at McGee's and one of my many fans on campus recognizes me, they try to make out with me. But after that initial fawning over my writing and my clever sexcapades, the conversation always comes to the same topic: Maddie, your labia are majora biz-zay. And I can't say I disagree. Most of the time, I just sit down at the laptop and just let these walls do the talking. But with school out for the summer and The Depaulia no longer in circulation, if my walls could talk, there'd probably be an echo. Hello cobwebs!

April 22, 2009, marked the 39th official Earth Day, when we attempted to turn down the volume on our Aquanet hairspray, rev the Hummer engine a few less times and generally inspire awareness as to how we can save this beautiful earth of ours. Many people choose to reduce, reuse and recycle as much junk as they can find to help lighten their carbon footprint. I personally will do my part this Earth Day by recycling as much crotch as humanly possible over the course of the next several months.

Every VD, I have a tradition: troll till my little heart’s content. There is no better time to find recently bruised, crushed or generally emotionally dilapidated guys than on the “Most Romantic Night of the Year.” And believe me, nothing makes for a greater lover than the type of guy who’s spent the last three days crying into his Bud Light because his GF dumped him.

So, I’ve had some bad luck with the fellas as of late, and I think it’s time to finally dive in, face first, into some serious vag. Lately, I feel all Paul Blart: Mall Cop anytime I try to hook up with Chad, Brad or any of my dozens of hockey hookups, so I think it’s time to go for the other white meat. I’ve never been really all that happy with my team anyway, time for a trade.

So I read here that all of the poor, dejected massively sex-irific Jack Sparrows have been laid off from Disneyland. Now, I understand in this horrific economy we all have to make sacrifices but this isn’t even the work of recessionistas. This is due almost entirely to underage girls flashing their underage boobs at these of age Disney sex gods.

This economy of ours has really got my dried-up lips all up in a knot. I mean, I get the whole recession thing (thanks Econ 120, Prof. Kimble!) and I get that we need to start putting some cash under the mattress while we’re not between the sheets. But there are some things that I just cannot give up: sex and the alcohol I need to sedate myself to stop crying during it.

I was laying in the Delta Kappa house the other Thursday night after another romp with my frat-with-benefits buddy Chad when I thought, “Madison, if only your vaginal walls could talk! What a pube-ridden yarn they’d weave!”

So it was right then and there, after getting another quick fingerblast in from Chad, that I decided to bring my CRAZY sex stories to you, the good students of DePaul. Now you all get to be a fly on my vaginal wall! Go Blue Demons!