“Swallow my doubt, turn it inside out…”

I had far too many feelings yesterday resulting from being social, so of course now that I have a free day to myself, as soon as I woke up they all came rushing back, and it was like a team of squirrels took over my brain and started playing emotional volleyball — “Sad about this!” *pass* “Insecure about that!” *pass* “Oh, hey, what about having kids, wanna rehash that one?” *pass*

Right. So I’ll be here all day with a slow drip of coffee martinis, watching comfort movies. I dare you to be sad when Justin Timberlake is serenading Mila Kunis with Kris Kross’s “Jump.” (Plus…dat ass.)

Or, hell, this seems like a pretty solid state of mind to finally go see
Inside Out and just embrace it all. (Obviously with a venti spiked Starbucks and a big fuck-off tray of theater nachos. That’s just being prepared; I learned that shit in Girl Scouts.)

“Hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady…”

I am obsessed with this song — it’s my new Sassy Strut/car singing/Pull Yourself Together song. In addition:

a) Miranda Lambert looks better unkempt than I do when I bring my capital-A game. I need more eye makeup, like, immediately.

b) I’m pretty sure I’ve HAD this conversation with my mother.

c) You can write it off because it’s country music, but it’s a bawdy, curvy, big-haired blonde sangin’ ’bout drankin’, and that there is some of my favorite comfort music. (For obvious reasons.) This song is the twangy, guitar-driven equivalent of “Conceal, don’t feel” — Miranda Lambert is basically Elsa, and you KNOW that movie would’ve been way better with whiskey and pills.

Slutty von Slutwhore and the Blown Goat.

Recently a friend told me about a writer named Brené Brown, who I guess is a “self-help” author (I know, I rolled my eyes, too), and talks a lot about fear, shame, and vulnerability. I liked her approach, and have been mainlining her lectures on YouTube. (For someone who writes a sex blog, I have a LOT of self-slut-shaming issues…among others, obviously. It’s part of why I started writing it.)

Anyway, I reported back to my friend that I found Brown’s perspective helpful, and because my friends keep shit real, she said: “That’s great!…You know you still need to find a therapist, though, right? This isn’t a substitute.”

Yuuuup. Yup, I do. Bleh. Feelings. UGH. I’ve maxed out my coverage on “friends as therapists,” and Lexapro is lovely, but it’s probably not helping as much as it could if I would just stop being so…ME about this.

“I think I have a problem, and I just… I need some help. But here’s the thing — no family stuff. No childhood shit. I JUST need some strategies.”

(I’m not naive enough to think I’ll ever fix my Slutty von Slutwhore problem without discussing family/childhood shit. This is gonna blow, like, several goats. But it needs to be addressed.)


…Goddammit, I hate everything.

Man, bitches, though, amirite?

Have any of you ever been placated by a fucking frosted lemonade? Screw you, Chick-fil-A. Make it chocolate salted caramel and replace the wedding dress with the magically evasive unicorn of a tall boot that zips over my giant hamhock calves, and then MAYBE you’ll sell me something.

Johnnie Walker “Something Blue”

Wow. Way to target your email to my EXACT needs.

Fancy spa services for two?! Query, though: What kind of spa treatments can you give my life partner, Johnnie Walker? I mean, I’ll bring him, I just have questions.

And my “idyllic wedding venue?” So…there’s a courthouse inside your hotel? And Stephen Colbert is my officiant? And then there’s a dance floor my besties and I can tear up? And then pancakes after? Nice! Let’s do this! 


Home isn’t fun for me, because Jesus.


So I’m just gonna go ahead and ship copies of this book to everyone I know. (Myself included, because I’ve never even read it — I’m just pissy and spiteful.)

I wonder how many copies I’d have to buy along with a copy of The Bible for Amazon to say, “People who bought Fun Home often also purchased The Bible.” Probably more than I’m willing to buy. But that would be funny.

Freshmen skipping Fun Home for moral reasons

Introducing the new 2016 Mini-Cooper Sharp.

OK, sure, it’s POSSIBLE I’m eating cheese from the package while I drive because I have PMS. 

But I think a more plausible explanation is that “driving cheese” is an amazing idea and I’m a goddamn innovator. 

Look at that tray. LOOK AT IT. That is clearly destined to hold cheese. 


Fingerfucking my habitat.

Between the clutter blog and the “erotic gifs,” my Tumblr feed can be very disorienting first thing in the morning.

“Right. Make my bed. LIKE AN ADULT.”

“Oh, wait… A hand in my draw’s? Yeah, we’re doing that. Maybe I’ll make my bed after. (I won’t.)”

I think even the clutter blog would agree that particular excuse is not boring.