Just spoonful of sugar helps the childhood trauma go down…

Thirty minutes into Saving Mr. Banks, it seems to be about an uptight, controlling spinster with daddy issues.

Well! ‘Bout damn time! That’s my kind of Disney Princess. Proceed.

Weight a minute…

It was probably intended as flattery, or dude is just bad with dimensions, but in the course of normal conversation last night, a guy asked me, “How much could you possibly weigh, like 110?”

Oh.

Oh, honey.

Hair and breasts alone, you can’t possibly believe that.

I’m not complaining about my weight, I’m adorable. But I’m not 110.

Wait ’til you witness the reverb when you spank my ass, sir — adjust your numbers and report back.

See also: salty goodness

Like everyone else, I’ve been trying to eat better in the new year, and to that end, I’ve been trying to make sense of kale.

Kale and I have a lot in common: Rub us the right way and we become delicious, and far more inclined to bend to your will.

Facebook foul

New rule: You don’t get to say you miss me because I haven’t been on Facebook. That’s not how life works. I have a phone. Email. Texting. We have cars. There’s no reason for you to lament not being in touch with me if you want to be.

If a Facebook break is what makes you say you miss me, I don’t believe you do. If I miss you, I talk to you. I don’t wait for you to spoon-feed me carefully edited bits of your life in a stream of 200 other people I don’t care about enough to keep in real touch with. No.

I am more wary of saying “I miss you” than saying “I love you,” which is probably fucked up. I love lots of people, but rarely miss any. I miss, like, five people, sometimes, and then I make an effort to interact with them. It’s not that hard. At all.