My husband bought me a toilet for my birthday.

Yep. I mean, technically he just got me the seat. I think that's the traditional gift for a 30th birthday, yes? Toilet? Or is that the modern gift?

The thing is, it's a spaceship. It has a control panel with more features and buttons than my car. It has a heated seat and multiple bidet options, one of which is called "vortex" and is to be USED WITH CAUTION. My poop chute has never been so pampered. I'm realizing now what subpar levels I've stooped to with all the peasant toilets my cheeks have graced. It has varying levels of heated water and a massage feature as well, and when you're done tending to business? It has a fan to blow dry your taint. Oh, is it shark week? No prob, just hit the "feminine" button for a rinse-a-roony. Fresher than Summer's Eve.

We named it the Starshit Enterprise.

And really, he's thoughtful. He knows I can go get my nails done or schedule a massage. And I can go get a facial or get my hur did, but only he is fit to tend to my butt hole. And with great power comes great responsibility. And he brought his A game.

But I'm a little uncomfortable with him thinking about my deuce game. I mean, right? Where's the magic there? Should we just give up on our sex life now? No. He needs to know that I shit glitter and unicorn magic. AND NOTHING ELSE.

So I painted him a reminder and I hung it up right in front of the Starshit Enterprise, so that he is clear about my magical backdoor, nothing but rainbows and happiness emitting from there. NOTHING.

This is the second unicorn ass I've shaped this year.
And in my life.

Anyone else who dumps out in my spaceship? You're gonna get cropdusted by a unicorn. Be warned.