Starbucks Controls My Sex Drive

Okay, I'm not totally sure if I'm right about this. Right now its just a theory that I'm developing but here goes:  I think Starbucks controls my sex drive.

When we were broke for those two months my husband was out of work, I cut back on a lot of things. But the one thing I couldn't give up was my Starbucks. I drank LESS but I just couldn't give it up completely.

Now, before you say:  you're stupid. Starbucks is expensive. Your cell phone was cut off, lemme just say:

I KNOW I HAVE A PROBLEM.

Starbucks is my crack. I can't help it. I mean, my apartment building is like a halfway house, everyone here is addicted to SOMETHING. Even my son. His addiction? Ni-Hao, Kai-Lan or whatever that show with the cartoon asian kid is. He can't get enough of that show. And I can't get enough of Skinny Iced Caramel Machiattos. I LOVE THEM. If I don't get one, I am in a terrible mood and I don't want to do anything. Especially have sex. If I don't get my daily intake of coffee my husband can kiss the mere idea of any nookie goodbye.

When we were broke, we had a lot of sex. My husband was home all the time, the house was clean, I was working all the time-thus I was near Starbucks. I drank INSANE amounts of Starbucks iced lattes. I had one in the morning. I had one in between shifts. I had one before closing the store at my second job. If I was walking around the mall on one of my breaks there was a good chance that I had either just finished an iced latte or I was on my way to getting a new one.

And when I got home, I would tackle my husband and we would have sex. Amazing sex, too, which was impressive because he only had one hand to work with.

I've noticed something;  I have gone two days with Starbucks. We have not had sex in two days. I have been irritable and my vagina does not want a penis near her. Coincidence? I think not.

Before We Get To The Sex

I have to tell you something.

There is a ghost in my house. And he is a pervert.

My husband and I were getting it on (in this crazy position where I was like kinda on my side with one leg in the air and the other was behind my head-I dunno, whenever we have sex or I consume two shots of vodka I get really flexible) and I feel like something is watching me.

So I tell M. to hold on and he's like "You're not going to text K (best friend) are you?" Believe me, at that point, there wasn't much to talk about, so no.

So I put all my joints back into place and kinda do this little crawl in to the dining room and there's nothing there. Everything is just as it is. (Oh, yeah, we were fucking in the living room). So I start to shimmy back to the living room and all of a sudden three books just fall on the ground.

So not only is this ghost being a voyeur and watching us get it on, he's also trying to scare the hell out of me.

Bastard.