At first I thought "kiss" might be some kind of G-rated code for "bone," so if your great-grandchildren found this book they wouldn't know it was about making whoopie. It turns out each of these 365 tips are literally about kissing. It also turns out that if you and your husband need a manual for working out your intimacy problems and you're not even on first base yet, go ahead and buy a book on masturbation and another on divorce while you're there at the book store.
When you're kissing someone this dull, be careful that your mouth doesn't drift off and start spelling something more exciting and erotic like G-U-M D-I-S-E-A-S-E.
And then what? She drives off the road shrieking because she thinks her fish made her a mix tape?
Another morse code kiss? Tomima Edmark must make out with a lot of mute sailors. And if they're sitting through this kind of stupid shit, they're also probably dead.
It does add a bit of adventure when you know your partner has been putting his or her lips on things near the toilet, but I don't think it's good for a relationship when you're literally wiping your ass with each other's love notes.
Try to do this early so he knows you're a fucking dingbat before things get serious. Does Tomima think before she types or does she just rip a hole in her chest and let the locusts fly randomly into the keyboard?
Ladies, leave a bookmark on this page so investigators know why your husband killed you.
The collarbone? Oh, Tomima... you whore. Look, I don't want to judge someone for having a terrible sex life, but this level of prudeness is environmentally hazardous. Tomima is so asexual that when she wades crotch-deep into a swamp, it dries up 15 acres of alligator habitat.
If you got to work, opened your briefcase, and found a scented coupon for one passionless kiss on the toilet, would you even bother going home ever again? Legally, Tomima has to add a warning to the bottom of every coupon that says, "The bearer of this document is now sterile."
Lady, if I already have a briefcase full of kiss coupons, I don't need a kiss certificate. What I need is a woman whose barren orifices don't shear the skin off my fingers. You flaky cow, if you're writing a book about 365 different kinds of kisses and you have no standards, at least make them all different. After Godek, the last thing the world needs is a second Alzheimer's victim with mannequin genitals declaring themselves an expert on relationships. Next thing you know Tomima will be telling us to write a personal check for kisses.
Jesus fucking Christ, Tomima. The only thing you have left to do is suggest using pizza as an expression of love, and your journey towards the Dark Side will be complete.
You uncultivable bitch. After you're done apologizing to your gynecologist for turning his arms into snakes, I demand an apology of my own.
And then what? Watch them cry? You can't just prance into a room with a bag on your head and destroy someone's life like this, you monster.
Is this still a book about kissing? Because it's starting to look more and more like a scheme by Tomima and her divorce lawyer to get her husband to take a swing at her. "Sugar Frosted Lips" alone probably got her full custody of the kids. And God bless those brave little bastards. They never let Tomima hear them scream even as her rostrum pierced their spines and drained the fluid from their tiny husks.
When you're at the grocery store, you can easily spot which men have gone home with Tomima. They're the ones curled up at the end of the cereal aisle, whimpering and peeing on themselves. They also have medically unexplainable tendrils probing out from their bite wounds.
So you want me to get a person alone and show them a film I made of me with a bag on my head telling them how I want to kiss them? Do you romance authors ever stop to think, "What if someone is actually dumb enough to listen to me?" or are you too busy picking maggots out of your underwear?
This tip will come in handy if you're ever infiltrating a society of sex offenders and one of them says, "Do something that proves you're not a cop."
It was exactly here where Tomima lost the bet she made with her Illithid friends that she could sound like a human past tip #256.
If you're doing this, you'll also probably want to explain to your love that not everyone was lucky enough to have parents that could afford car seats or books about the dangers of dropping babies.
Right. The joke's on them. Those fools will never guess that the corny couple giggling into each other's mouths are the ones making pointless, stupid sounds! I've read some bad romance guides, but Tomima Edmark wrote the only book that's so unsexy it can only used by necrophiliacs trying to prolong their orgasm.