I broke my pa-china.

Not literally, after all, in order to break one’s pink parts one generally has to use one’s pink parts. And since my husband has been gone for a week the only action I have seen is when I flipped past the free porn preview channels while searching for some Hannah Montanna to watch.

Damn that Billy Ray. He’s like my crack. I ought to be ashamed but sadly I’m not all that achey breaky over the fact I have a wee crush on the World’s Foremost Example of Business up Front, Party in the Back hairstyle gone bad. Feel free to judge me. My children do all the time.

Back to my broken pa-china.

Turns out, in life there is one thing I use more than my cork screw, toilet paper and duct tape. My laptop. This poor sucker sees more use than a porn star’s vibrator. Unlike the vibrator though, it never runs out of juice. (Oh, the self restraint I am using to refrain from continuing on this train of thought….)

Not only does my laptop see a lot of use, but one specific letter on my key board bears the brunt of my creative expression. One little letter on my keyboard has been pressed so many times that as of Saturday night it died.

Poor little v. That’s right. The letter v key on my keyboard bit the biscuit.

(So how am I typing it you ask? I’m freaking copying it from random peoples tweets and emails and then manually pasting it in to my sentences. Which I can tell you is not only time consuming but really freaking annoying since unlike me, not a lot of people regularly type odes to their whoo-ha’s.)

(Never before did I realize how many damn words used the freaking letter v. Argh.)

I have tried everything I can think of. I brought out the air can, the vaccuum, a wet wipe. I pried the key off the keyboard and cleaned underneath it. I hired a witch doctor and had an exercism while my kids ran around with sticks of smoking incense. I wept. I bartered and still, no luck.

I have officially murdered the letter v. (I’d have capitalized that v but sadly I just scrolled through twitter and no one is talking about their vajay-jays in capital letters. Damn them.)

Short of taking my computer in and having to explain to the techno-geeks that I wore out my letter v the same way a pimply 16 year old boy wears out a tube sock after emptying a bottle of his mother’s finest hand lotion, I really don’t know what to do.

My husband suggests I stop talking so much about my cooter.

He thinks he’s wise.

I think he’s delusional.

I just need to find more synonyms for my little fun box. Preferably ones that don’t contain my broken letter. Although I can’t tell you how much I love va-jay jay and beaver. It’ll be sad to see them go.

So if you have any suggestions for a v-less vagina, I’d love to hear them. Because this copy and pasting thing is getting really old, really fast.

And we all know that I’m not the kinda girl to just give up on her twat talk. Even if it seems like her computer is telling her that it may be time.

But asking this girl to quit the box talk is like asking Santa to skip the milk and cookies. Somewhere out there a fairy gets it’s wings everytime I talk whooha talk. I am no fairy killer people.

So help save the world’s fairy population and my sanity. Fix my v.

My bagina begs you.