There is a state of being more exasperating than any other. It takes over your mind and your body all at once.
It happens when you're hungry and horny at the same time. You can barely tell which desire is stronger. You're in full animal mode, but you don't know which part of your body you should obey.
Do you want to jump a random stranger's bones, or do you want to lick meat off chicken bones? Are your lady parts asking you to be a freak between the sheets, or are your tastebuds telling you to beast through an impeccable feast?
The problem is you aren't hungry and horny just once in a while. It's your permanent mode. It's the default setting. If you came with an on/off switch, no one would be able to turn you off.
Being "horngry" perfectly captures your inability to feel satisfied. You always want more, and you always want the best.
The other night, my friend and I went out to dinner. While I talked about cute boys through a mouthful of food, she spent the evening trying to turn the R-rated conversation into a PG-13 one.
But her efforts were futile, since I am constantly thinking about food or men -- or, rather, food AND men.
“Tell your vagina to calm down!” she snapped. I couldn’t help it. I can’t help it. I’m horngry AF.
What is “horngry,” you ask? Good question. “Horngry” is really just a funky word with a simple meaning: horngry = horny + hungry.
Horngry isn’t just a state of being; it’s a way of life.
There is no greater struggle than that of wanting to rip into a sub three times the size of your head and pounce on someone at the same time. I mean, really, is there anything harder than making the late-night choice between pizza and sex?
You don’t know what you want to put in your mouth faster: a Ring Ding or his ding-dong.
You unapologetically think of penises every time you eat a banana… or any fruit, for that matter. Your uncontrollable desire isn’t limited to phallic foods.
When sitting at your desk, you eat seductively. When you aren’t feeling the urge to get down and dirty, you walk down the street and bare your teeth like a bonafide bulldog so those creepy-ass mofos don’t get any weird ideas.
Your most vibrant sexual fantasy is your partner feeding you buffalo wings.
You want to get your wings all up in his dipping sauce (and you need that extra sauce on the side).
Both forms of edibles sound delicious.
“My man’s package looks fiiine today in those boxer briefs. But that brownie, though…”
You actually begin to find your delivery guy attractive.
Wait, did he start working out? Or maybe he got a new haircut? Nah. He’s still ugly as f*ck, and you’re just horngry AF.
You accidentally yell out the names of your favorite foods in bed.
Forget your ex; you've got that chocolate molten lava cake from last night’s three-course meal on the brain.
You refer to your man’s junk as your "pepperoni prince."
His pee-pee didn’t ask for that horrid name -- and neither did he. I feel sorry for it. And him.
You don’t know what needs filling first: your stomach or your vagina.
Is that your uterus or your stomach rumbling?
You pressure your hook-up buddy into experimenting with whipped cream.
The poor guy doesn’t even have a sweet tooth; he’s more of a chips-and-dip guy. You end up creeping him out with your freaky-as-hell style.
You want all kinds of sausages.
All of the sausages, from all around the world. Foreign and domestic. There’s nothing wrong with a nice ol' juicy Italian sausage to go with your New American cuisine.
Oh, and there’s nothing wrong with a spicy Italian dude, either.
You can’t hide the frustration you feel when you're doing just one of the two.
When you’re eating, you want to f*ck. When you’re f*cking, you want to eat.
A 12-inch pizza will always be 12 inches, but a dick might not always be.
It’s tough as hell being a single girl.
A typical night is this: You drink yourself into a blackout full of endless bad decisions and poor judgment. Since you haven’t gotten laid in a hot minute, you troll the bars in search of your next prospect, but the time and energy you invest in the hunt is utterly exhausting.
You have to play the unavoidable penis-guessing game, eyeing his man parts in a desperate attempt to figure out his size. What if he’s too small? What if he’s too big? You aren’t f*cking Goldilocks, and this isn’t a f*cking fairytale.
Sure, you could end up in a gross apartment that smells like socks, but a good, old-fashioned, too-drunk-to-remember one-night stand is the only thing that will satiate you in that moment.
Well, that and a personal pizza.
You have a go-to pizza spot; you’re so preDICKtable.
(See what I did there?)
You know all there really is to life is good food and good sex.
And you’ll be damned if you die hungry, horny, or both, because that would be the worst thing EVER.
