Friend: “You should go on a date with Edward.”
Me: “Nah, I’m gonna try to finish this year without dating — less risk of discovering I suddenly, viciously hate anyone else after I’ve slept with them. Seems like a good general life policy.”
Five more months of sexual deprivation should make for a very happy New Year’s date for whomever is around, though. (There’s a “ball drop” joke here somewhere, but I’m kind of tired.)
My brain is no longer tormenting me after Nine Days of Emo. (Sort of like the 12 Days of Christmas — equally shitty music, far less tinsel.)
Sshhhh! Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting equilibrium.
I read about HelloFlo on Jezebel.com, and while I’m totally on board with the kiddie starter set of basic feminine care needs and some candy on a monthly auto-delivery (which, hey, solid plan), I’d also like to set myself up on some kind of Old Pro’s Plan. (OMG, we could be down with OPP!)
I’m thinking the same base idea with the feminine products, but add a selection of salty snacks, a few pints of ice cream, fancy chocolates, a heating pad, and a bottle of Aleve. Super customizable to fit your Special Snowflake Cycle needs — whatever your ladyparts demand, obviously, you just have to check a box. (See what I did there?)
I’d probably give you $100 a month if that just appeared at my door every few weeks via some sort of Magical Menses Unicorn. Or, you know, UPS, whatever. (Though, I mean…there should clearly BE a Magical Menses Unicorn. I’m just saying.)
Discussing fat-girl book-to-movie casting with a friend, and he cited In Her Shoes by Jennifer Weiner.
My reaction:
“Yep, I read that book and saw that movie. The author wasn’t pleased with the casting, appearance-wise. Toni Collette weighed 20 lbs less than I do and worried in the movie voiceover about how her ass looked in a thong, and lamented that she loved shoes so much because they ‘always fit.’
“Um, whatever, lady. Sorry, I couldn’t hear your tiny violin over all my ear fat. Also, shoes never fit me, either, so eat a dick — maybe it has some calories.”
(Not to hate on Toni Collette, or on skinny women at all. She gained the weight they told her to gain for the role. I’m not saying she should have been made to put on 50 lbs more. It’s just that Toni Collette at ~120 lbs. should really not be the standard for Cameron Diaz calling you a “fat pig,” as happened in the movie.)
I mean, c’mon, really?
Yep. Toni Collette — clearly a total fucking hambeast.
Conversation with a friend:
Friend: “Man, if semen tasted like peanut butter…”
Me: “Oh, I’d be tapping that shit like a keg.”
Friend: “You’d think God would figure out a way to make that happen.”
Me: “Well, God or Pfizer.”
Texting with a friend:
Such a good song. Fiona Apple should release a new album every year by some kind of government mandate. I’m kind of soulless, but some of her songs just reach in and yank out my insides.
In addition to still being in love with my ex, I also have a massive, unrelenting crush on a guy whose girlfriend (yep, hella awkward) looks like Shailene Woodley.
And I look like me. Out-fucking-standing.
I know, I know — “I am beautiful, no matter what they say, words can’t bring me down.” Fiiiiiine. Can I wallow in my blandness today and be all about confidence and empowerment tomorrow?
I deleted the Facebook page associated with this blog yesterday after a real-life friend accidentally tagged my real Facebook page and linked to it using my real name and calling it my “anonymous dirty blog.”
Tagging my name means that the Ex, New Lad, my DAD, and various other people I’d prefer not to see me whining about my vagina, are provided a link right to the Facebook page.
So that’s what happened. I was home and deleted it swiftly, hopefully before anyone saw it. I want to make you guys laugh and get all this shit out of my head. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or let my super-Jesusy former college professor know that I had a bikini wax the other day.
But it’s been ONE day and I already miss that little red “like” icon I’d always get.
I’ll figure something out and get it back. Having it exclusively on WordPress is really limiting my ego stroking when I need it most.
Apparently my default shipping address on Amazon is still my ex’s and my apartment (where he still lives), because that’s where my shipment was delivered. I only realized when I checked the tracking info.
I can easily go get it, and also grab a few other things I left when I moved, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed at the idea of going back there, like I can’t even handle the thought of walking into the apartment.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It was an amicable, mutual breakup. I’ve SEEN him at other friends’ houses since I moved out. We text almost every day just to say hi. I just haven’t been back to “our” apartment, and the idea is making me queasy. Maybe because it’s been 6 months and that’s still the place (and person) I think of when I say “home.” Maybe also because it’s not my apartment to just walk into anymore — I still have a key, but I contacted him to make arrangements first. Because that’s what you do when you require access to a dwelling that’s not yours.
Well, shit. Working out the rationale didn’t help at all.
As a bonus, we discussed it, and now I’m going over there this week and we’re going to have lunch. Hey, awesome. Date with my ex? Sure, why not?
Seriously, a crystal ball that looked ahead just 6 months would be goddamn amazing, just so I can at least see if everything gets less fucked up and confusing than it is right now. I’m 35, aren’t I a little old to be emo?
Smug Singleton 