Perks of working on NYE: I can see how a guy is objectively attractive but not really be attracted TO him. But holy shit, there’s a man in my office who smells AMAZING, and now I wanna be all up in his bodyspace.
I think he’s gay, and I might weigh more than he does, but whatever. I don’t discriminate.
Gentlemen, never underestimate smelling good. I don’t even know the guy and I want to nibble his neck. (I may also be hormonal and bored and sexually pent up. But I think the logic holds.)
Happy New Year’s Eve, all. Be safe in your festivities. Cheers to you, for you are awesome. I love y’all. (Well, except YOU, because you’d make it weird.)
And hey, 2013? Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. Onward!
Hm. Maybe I don’t even need to take the coward’s way out of this “breakup.” I haven’t heard from him since Christmas Day, and that includes an uncharacteristically booty-call-free weekend — I think the first since I’ve known him. This is good, because I was frankly too goddamn tired to shave anything all weekend, let alone deal with the performance of sex. (Yep, “performance.” Go big or go home, people.)
Hurrah, avoidance! Hurrah, not shaving!
Observation: I HATE overly posed wedding photos. When’s the last time you actually stood like that, with your hands all stupidly, intricately entwined? Not never.
I’ve seen some amazing engagement/wedding photos from friends, and I’d hire their photographers, but no one whose work I don’t know personally. I might just trust my wedding guests to take enough good photos to assemble a decent album. In fact, I have a friend who takes such good photos of his kids that I might ask him to do my photos as a wedding gift. (Also, the wedding photo booth trend is one of my favorite things.)
Yes, I’m also massively cheap, but I can’t stand shitty, unnatural posing. My favorite photos of me and my ex were taken by our families or friends, usually while we weren’t even paying attention. All the pics taken by wedding photographers look like someone literally told us to say “cheese.” The best part of those is remembering how, behind the big, fake smiles, we were muttering about what a jag the photographer was.
Reading material while I mainline eggplant parm. Don’t judge me.
Emailing with a friend: “How was I supposed to respond to THAT? Everything I thought of sounded cunty and butthurt. (Which, BTW, could totally be one of those low-budget law firms that advertises on daytime TV. ‘Cunty & Butthurt. If YOU don’t get paid, WE don’t get paid!'”)