Worst Little Whorehouse in Texas.

I’ve been combing through everything I’ve ever written, updating my resume and cover letter, and preparing to send it all to prospective employers. I am so mentally exhausted from “selling myself.” I don’t know how prostitutes do it. I haven’t even had to fuck anyone, merely blow them verbally, and I am BEAT. Kudos, ladies.

Gagging on my toothbrush this morning actually reminded me that I have limited prospects in prostitution as a fallback career. I’m going to have to find a job more suited to my shallow-throated skill set. Or, you know…just be an small-dick-only prostitute. But I have a feeling that’s an untapped (heh) market for a reason — no dude is gonna go to the small-dick-exclusive whorehouse. Worst niche ever.

Sincere flattery is the sincerest form of flattery.

I can’t speak for all women, but I personally have never objected to a random midday text that simply says, “Hi. You’re pretty.”

For me, it does get a bit old (and verge on insincere) when it happens TOO often, particularly when the guy isn’t bright enough to think of words other than “pretty.”

But for the moment, squee.

On the “writing” process…

Quotable Kathleen Madigan:

“People say, ‘How do you write a joke?’ Most of the time I don’t — I just call home. And I say, ‘What are you guys doing?’ And I repeat what they’ve said to me and I make money.”

My lady boner for Stephen Colbert continues…

I’m sure it’s unhealthy that the only reason I want a TV in my bedroom is so I can masturbate during The Colbert Report and fall asleep immediately after without having to get up and go to bed.

Stephen Colbert is sexy as hell, don’t judge me. My vagina wants the Colbert bump.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the crazy.

My mom told me that she and her husband argued yesterday, but that “everything is OK today, we’re talking like it never happened.”

So a) that’s totally healthy, and b) that’s where I get it from.