Do I have to feel EVERY feel?

Just to reiterate, feelings are stupid and I would really prefer to stop having them. 

Get on it, Science. 

White trash reco’nize white trash.

I saw a white-trash hoodrat outside a convenience store, and he was wearing a Nike shirt that said, “Damn, I’m good.”

First thought: “I bet you’re not.”

Second thought: “At what, evading child support?” 

I’m going to hell. 

“How YOU doin’?”

A happy bonus of working in a huge office complex is that, walking through the halls, I often see new people who work in other offices.

New, sexy people. With penises.

And sometimes I see them on casual Friday, when I did realize how clingy my outfit is, but it was too late to change it, so, “Hello, sir. Please behold all the best bits of my body — an hourglass with just the right amount of extra sand in it.” (“Allllll the right junk in allllll the right places.”)

I love my job.

Friendship Friday! (Shut up, it’s totally a thing.)

Happy Friday, people!

And thanks be, as always, to my bestests. I couldn’t surround myself with a more amazing and supportive group of friends. MAYBE if one of y’all had a unicorn or worked for a book publisher. But you’re still pretty goddamn great, so please enjoy this lunchtime dance party.

“I was so lost back then, but with a little help from my friends, I found a light in the tunnel at the end…”

Basic physics for basic bitches.

Goddammit. 

I’m not in my 20s, so apparently I just talk like an asshole.

Via Huffington Post: On Inside Amy Schumer, Bill Nye Confirms The Universe Exists To Guide White Women In Their 20s:

Re-blog: Olay Getting Women To Drop Guard With Few Nonjudgmental Ads Before Nailing Them With Body Shame

Via The Onion, Olay Getting Women To Drop Guard With Few Nonjudgmental Ads Before Nailing Them With Body Shame:

A brief history of dildos. As you do.

Via Bitch magazine:  

A day in the life of body image.

In a truly impressive body image shift (no doubt influenced by hormones), I started off yesterday all “I am Victoria’s Secret model SEXY,” and by the end of the day I saw this article and thought, “Huh. Well, I look like Lena Dunham in this lingerie. AND THAT IS FINE, TOO.”  

I don’t know what you’re talking about. This all seems totally rational.

Dear Local Supermarket,

I realize you had no way of knowing I was coming to you in a blind, Tasmanian-devil-grade cyclonic haze of hormones and exhaustion. 

However… When a woman approaches you wanting only ice cream and cheese, that is a very urgent list. Her needs must be met, or the villagers shall perish. 

But you did not have the ice cream I needed. 

“Chocolate peanut butter,” you say? Blow me. I need chocolate, peanut butter, salted caramel, brownie bits, and some swirly shit. I don’t even care what the swirly shit IS, I just need it to fucking SWIRL. 

You did not provide me swirly shit, and for that, you are dead to me. You hear me? Dead. You are an ex-parrot. 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put salt on leftover macaroni salad from yesterday’s barbecue and call it dinner.

No love whatsoever and also go fuck yourself, 

Smug

More Cherub. Less Angel.

Sometimes I wear Victoria’s Secret and feel like I could give a svelte blonde Angel a run for her wings.*

“You bettah WORK!”

*Other days I’ll wear it and feel like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but we’re not focusing on that today.