Eventually I’m going to be blunt when family members, as they often do, say to me, “You look good, did you lose weight?”
“Oh, yeah, when I get stressed out, I don’t eat. Funny, starvation just MELTS away those extra pounds. Plus, I can count my ribs, so I’m like a walking party game. But I’m glad you approve. Tell me, exactly what kind of TLC-pseudo-documentary-grade fat-ass did you think I was before?”
Today I went to my bank’s ATM, and the machine’s screen wished me a happy 5-year anniversary of opening my account.
The account I opened because my ex and I were moving in together, and me switching to his bank would make household expenses easier to manage.
Fuck that ATM, seriously. Fuck it in its card slot.
This is shit I don’t even think about until it bitch-slaps me. I’m like Ross on Friends when he laments the first frost when he was with Carol. But my hair has less product in it and I know less about dinosaurs.
“I think I might have feelings for [him]. I don’t know what to do. We’re ‘bros,’ and I don’t want to ruin the friendship, which is really unlike me — I always ruin friendships.”
— Max Black, 2 Broke Girls
Friend: “What do I do with all of these feelings!?”
Me: “Well, you feel them, and process them accordingly, because you’ve been trained by your Jedi Master of a therapist. *I* choke them down until I find myself identifying far too keenly with Avril Lavigne songs. And then I eat fried cheese.”
I signed up for OkCupid the other night on a lark, figuring I could get some free blog material. (Example: One of the body types you can choose is “used up?!” Are you fucking serious?)
But I didn’t want to really DO it, so I didn’t add photos — who’s going to initiate contact without knowing what I look like?
Oh. Well, some dude, that’s who — I got a message this morning.
Pfft. I’m amazing. (Or he’s desperate. But I’m sticking with “amazing.”)
Talking to a male friend about an idea I’ve mentioned here before…
Me: “I’ve developed a theory that if you have a half-decent rack and know the correct response to, ‘Have fun stormin’ the castle,’ you can get at least one date with any man between the ages of 30 and 45.”
Him: “I find zero flaws in that theory.”
I’d love to bottle this feeling so I can have it ready when I need it.
Oh, wait. It IS in a bottle. It’s called beer.