“Memotional” trauma

Trading a silly email survey with friends, you really don’t expect shit to get real…

“Q: When was your last passionate kiss?

“A: In April. (We’ll just gloss over how much kissing I’ve done since then. It says ‘passionate,’ not ‘passing time.’)”

The Other Rhythm Method

Sometimes I talk to my ex and remember the rapport we have, and wonder how I’ll ever get even close to that with anyone else. I felt the potential for it with one other person, but it wasn’t mutual.

It’s a rhythm and a chemistry that’s so important, so rare, and (I’ve found) impossible to create if it’s not there innately. And then you build on that until it’s almost like your own language. I have that with a lot of friends, but the idea of trying to get there again with a new Romantic Person is daunting to the point of exhaustion.

(I understand this isn’t logical. It’s just a brain spasm I get sometimes. Usually on crazy hormone days where my most fulfilling relationships are with lasagna and gin.)

Finding Religion: The Church of Gladiators in Suits

I am officially obsessed with Scandal. I MAY have binge-watched Seasons 1 thorough 3 online in the past week. Can’t wait to see a new episode tonight!

“I am not a toy that you can play with when you’re bored or lonely or horny. I am not a fantasy. If you want me, earn me! Until then, we are done.”
— Olivia Pope

Can’t close the deal, can’t open my legs.

I’m growing a little weary of having to tell grown-ass men to use their words.

Gentlemen, this is not cute. You’re trying to get a date, not nuclear secrets. If I didn’t want you to ask, I wouldn’t have said I was free. But you actually have to ask, not just pussyfoot around. Don’t establish we’re both available and then stop talking and make ME take the next step.

I should have held out to see how long it would take him to ask an actual question. I waited about half an hour to see if there’d be a followup text. No dice.

Yes, I’m a modern woman, but goddamn, come correct. Pitch some woo. What you’re doing is worse than a seventh-grader asking a girl to a dance using a “yes or no?” note — at least that’s an answerable question.

Quotable feminism.


Quotable Jessica Valenti:

Tweeting the event for Texas Women last night got me a TON of replies calling me a whore. What’s funny is that being called a ‘slut’ is part of the reason I became an activist as a young person. So keep it up assholes – every time you call a girl a whore, a feminist gets her wings.

From the Department of Unintended Sexist Irony

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE this video: “I Like a Girl Who Reads Is the Anthem Every Bookworm Needs to Hear.” An adorable British chap waxing poetic about his love of literate women? Adorbs.


Fuck you, Huffington Post, for introducing it with some BULLSHIT about how shameful it is that our culture so often sexualizes and objectifies women, and then slapping together such a ludicrous headline. I “need to hear” that men like a girl who reads?

Look, I’m not even gon’ front — it fucking well BETTER be hot that I read. He should read, too, because I’m not abiding illiterate dick. But I don’t “need to hear” that men find it sexy. If he doesn’t find it sexy, he can step off, and that’s his loss, not mine.

Eat a dick, HuffPo. Men find that hot, too.

Oral Sex and Nachos.

I don’t have strong feelings about Adam Levine either way, but I laughed a lot reading this article: Adam Levine is Not the Sexiest Man Alive. Adam Levine is the Worst.

Also, forget celebrities — the “sexiest man alive” is whichever man is making me come and then making me snacks. I’m starting my own magazine for sexy men. I just need a name. What’s a shorter version of “He’ll go down on you ’til you’re a mere shell of your former self, and then he’ll make you nachos?”

Macho Nachos magazine? (Crotchos would just be vulgar.)

Culinary COMEfort magazine? (You could do Cumfort, but I’ve always hated that spelling.)

Eat Allllll the Things (Including Me!) magazine?


Just so we’re clear? I’m an asshole.

I am the only woman in the WORLD with such rampant mental issues that I can’t decide if I’m touched or annoyed when a guy shows up at my door unannounced to surprise me by delivering the exact breakfast I’d mentioned I was craving.

And my expressive face is great in bed but apparently not so good when surprised, because he texted me after he left and said he didn’t mean to overstep.

I’m an asshole.