My inadvertent foray into online porn.

So. Over the weekend, I found out a married male Facebook acquaintance had taken one of my (very innocent) Facebook photos without my consent and used it as his profile pic on a porn site. It’s likely been there at least since February. His soon-to-be-ex-wife called to tell me.

Two things:
1. I haven’t been my most demure in the past year. So I was frankly relieved it was just a photo of me in a tank top rather than, say, the photo of my naked back down to the curve of my hip I’d sent to New Lad, or similar pics I’ve sent to others that could’ve made it online. (I’m the first to admit my judgment hasn’t been great this year as far as sexting.)

2. Other friends are involved in worse aspects of this story, so I know I’m overreacting, and that this feeling will pass. But for now… I rarely feel dirty in a BAD way, and I can’t say I’m a fan. When some random dude scanned my body up and down at the coffee shop today, I wanted to crawl into some oversized sweats and hide.

Bonus: I don’t know if my Porn Pal resized my photo just to fit the site’s parameters, or to make me look thinner, but it was definitely stretched. So it’s possible I’m too fat for porn fiends. SUPER.

Fuck you, football.

My ex’s sister is still on my Facebook feed, and she just posted a photo of her husband and their two kids all jerseyed up to watch Sunday football.

Why am I suddenly verklempt about what a great father my ex is going to be and all the cutesy photos we’d take if we’d had kids?

Goddammit, brain. Your problem was never that having children wouldn’t be totes adorbs on Facebook. Knock it the fuck off.

“I’m sexy and I know it.” Well, I know it TODAY, at least…

I’m sure there’s a size and shape a woman can be where my grandfather WON’T see fit to comment on it. But I have not yet found it. All of us are either “too thin,” are “losing weight” and should “keep it up,” OR have “put on a few pounds.”

It starts when you’re about 10; end age to be determined. (Grandmom is 83, so…not yet.)

Thanks, Granddad. You wanna kick in some cash for my next therapy session?

I don’t know how it’s even possible I still find this stuff remarkable. This is a family that regards weight loss as a “bright side” of having cancer. The fact that I manage to have more body-confident days than body-conscious days is a goddamn miracle. (A miracle I often fight myself for. But a miracle all the same.)

“I got my ticket for the long way ’round…”

I’d finally sorted through SOME of the shit rolling around in my head, at least enough to decide I want to continue living and working where I am (East Coast), rather than moving away and starting over completely.

So obviously I just scheduled a phone interview for a job in Orlando. Because why wouldn’t I?

Sex biscuit sandwich.

Stephen Colbert: “Pornography masturbates to me.”
Joseph Gordon-Levitt: “People masturbate to me.”

I want both of them so much right now. UNF.

Technology is the worst.

I went on LinkedIn, and looked at who’s looked at my profile. (Because I am narcissistic.)

Um, yeah. You know who’s looked at me? The wife of some guy I used to work with and sleep with back in 2003. The job I met him at isn’t even listed on my LinkedIn profile, it was that long ago.

Why does weird shit with people’s husbands always happen to me on the Internet?

(By the way, he was single back then. I wasn’t fucking anyone’s husband.)

Do I have to think of everything?

If no one else has ever thought of calling a pregnancy test a “whiz quiz,” I’m going to be so disappointed in humanity.

Seven! Seven! Seven!

I love that one of the side effects listed in Cialis commercials is a swollen tongue.

I quote Rachel Green: “Well, you know, sometimes that helps…”

100 Days of Solitude

I spent most of my summer hiding from humanity, but lately, life circumstances have been forcing me to interact with people more frequently.

For the most part? Not a fan.

A much more fun manifestation of “maternal instinct.”

I may not want to have children, but seriously, if I find a guy sexy and then I see him snuggling a baby or playing trains with a kid, all sensitive and nurturing-like? I’m going to fuck that guy senseless at the first available opportunity, preferably the minute we get home to my child-free apartment. We won’t even make it to the bedroom — we’ll have to do it in the entryway (which…entryway…heh), because that is your privilege when you don’t have kids.

Good LORD. I thought I was dead inside, but that tingle in my barren baby garden begs to differ. Begs. Pleads, even. UNF.