Pimpin’ ain’t easy.

Is #FF still a thing? #FollowFriday? You kids today and your Internets, I can’t keep up.

But just in case you don’t feel like you follow me on enough platforms, here’s an updated list.

• Facebook
• Twitter
• Blogspot
• Instagram
• Tumblr
• Aaand in case you’re Amish, LIVEJOURNAL. (That’s right. Because I care.)

Flashing for fries

It is ass hot and 6000% humid, so obviously work clothes need to come off as soon as I walk in the house. But I had just taken off my bra when I realized that if I want dinner, I have to have it delivered. I prefer to have a bra on if I’m human-facing, but I’m not putting that damn thing back on, leading to this actual thing I just said to myself out loud: “Fuck it. Deal with my breasts, delivery guy.”

Think I could get the fries for free? I like to pretend I’m better than that, but…I’m exhausted and hungry, so I’m really not.

Quotable Kaling

“That’s the one nice thing about being a dork about men: you can sometimes play it off as restrained and classy.”– Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?

There’s a time and place for “The Naked Man.” Wait. No, there isn’t.

New rule: Body acceptance be damned, if *I* can’t be naked, YOU can’t be naked, and I am way the fuck cuter than you naked. 

By the way, I didn’t write this — I wish I had, but it’s a friend of a friend. I just love the wordplay that accompanies the incredibly valid point. “Ambushed.” Tee hee. (I know, I’m 12.)  

Mental health day, or possibly getting muffins for Jesus

One of the reasons I don’t consider myself an atheist is that I get the kind of menstrual cramps that make me see Jesus.

And when I see Jesus, I stay home. Because you never know, He might need me to do things. Maybe I’m an emissary. That’d be sweet — “I’m Jesus, get me a muffin!” Who knows? Mysterious ways and all. I should be prepared.

Right now it seems He just wants me to drink coffee in bed. I always knew Jesus was cool.

#MentalHealthDay

Dirty Swedish birdies.

*snort* C’mon, Ikea… You did this on purpose. Now I NEED bottles that were “mouth blown by skilled artisans.”

How, pray, do I become a skilled mouth-blowing artisan? Professionally, I mean — obviously I’ve been dabbling in the craft for quite some time already on an organic, grassroots level. But I’d like to explore the option of going pro.  

What the fucking fuck, man?

I know I’m a half-ass “lady” at best, but…

A man in my office, who’s old enough to be my father, was just making small talk with me, and he said, “I have jury duty next week. What a pain in the ass, I have to take the fuckin’ train in…”WHOA. Watch your fucking mouth, motherfucker! This is a fucking place of business, and I am a fucking LADY!

Do you, like, smell the hoodrat on me? Is there something about my face that makes you think this is acceptable? It’s not even that I’m a woman — it’s just bad manners, and you KNOW you have bad manners if I’M the one pointing it out. But also… yes, as long as wage gaps and thigh gaps are things I’m just expected to deal with, I do expect a base level of civility and etiquette until you get the all-clear that I’m cool with that kind of rapport, especially at work, especially when you’re a grown-ass man, shitdick.

(I had a similar reaction when a 21-year-old female assistant used “fuck” during our second at-work conversation. BITCH, I am old enough to be your mother, and I will knock the “fuck” right out of your FACE.)

Residual effects of being raised by the Wakefield twins.

OK, look, I try my best to be all body-positive rah-rah. I’m working on it, and I do think I’m…cute. I do OK — I’m not hideous, I give enthusiastic blowjobs, and I don’t make my men watch The Notebook. So yay, me.

But sometimes… Goddammit, there’s a woman in my office I would make a weird Twilight Zoney pact to look like. She’s tall, but not TOO tall, and lithe and blonde and her hair is perfect and her nose is adorable. She’s a woman you’d watch The Notebook for, just so you can sit near her and bask in her beauty. In fact, maybe I just use that Notebook thing as a defense mechanism to compensate for my averageness. And oh, God, what if my blowjobs are enthusiastic but AWFUL?!

Ugh.

I know, I KNOW. I’ve already told myself that we’re all special lady snowflakes, blah blah blah. I understand my brain is not currently accepting logic — all those Sweet Valley books I read as a kid can still infiltrate occasionally. In the time it took me to type this, I kicked that gremlin in the face, put on some lipstick, and charged ahead like the fine-ass lady I am. Still not 100% on my blowjobs, but…men keep letting me do it, so I can’t be THAT bad at it.

“Think Birchbox meets Bill Nye.”

Via MTV News:

“When Cristina McAllister was growing up, it was hard to find a science kit for girls that wasn’t just a make-your-own make-up or soap kit. Meanwhile, the kits marketed to boys had all kinds of cool and complicated experiments just across the toy store aisle.

“Years later, McAllister is working hard doing real-life science as a biologist and … decided to make Stembox, a monthly-subscription box of real science-y goodness delivered right to your door. Think Birchbox meets Bill Nye.”  

Unwanted babies are terrible at grammar.

Taken from the car during my travels today.

I realize this baby is trying to make me think about my stance on abortion, but its grammar isn’t really helping its cause.