Letting sleeping assholes lie.

This is probably a story that would’ve been more useful before Christmas, but maybe we can all carry the concept into the new year…

One of the best things my ex ever did for me was help me realize I shouldn’t let it bother me when assholes behave like assholes.

Years ago, my aunt said something REALLY hurtful to me on Facebook. I was at work, and had to leave my office and call my ex to cry about it in the parking lot. (I rarely cry. It’s one of many unhealthy points of pride. But she’d hit a nerve.)

And my ex said, “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“Because she’s horrible. Who would say that?”

“Well…an asshole would say that. You think she’s a dick, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you value her opinion? Do you want your life to be like hers?”

“No. She’s awful.”

“So why are you upset about what an awful person thinks? She’s an asshole. Why are you letting an asshole make you cry?”

“…Well, shit…You are absolutely…goddamn right…”

I was fine for years after that, but recently had a wonky emotional time in which I was letting her get to me again. It helps so much to keep that conversation in mind — how obvious it seemed, what a glorious turning point it was for me to finally see it, and also to know other people see it, too. It helped a LOT this past Christmas.

You go ahead and make your snide little comments, dearie. I don’t know what made you such a miserable jag, what made you so unhappy with your life, but you’re damn sure in no position to judge mine.

Namaste. Bitch.

Vodka made me do it.

One more on this, and then, sweet baby Jesus willing, I think I’m done.

Possibly (erm, make that probably) inebriated conversation with a male friend…

Friend: “Does That Guy know you’re the one writing these posts when he likes them on Tumblr?”

Me: “Yep. I told him about it before I fucked everything up.”

Friend: “Before HE fucked everything up. Don’t get it twisted.”

Me: “Mutual destruction.”

Friend: “That’s weird, though.”

Me: “What, that he knows? Or that he’ll like posts about my body but turned down my many offers to do any naughty little thing he wanted to it?”

Friend: “Both. I mean, he made his choice, right?”

Me: “Eh. It’s fine. He doesn’t read often. If I don’t want him to like the posts, I’ll just keep writing about feelings. He never did like my feelings.”

Cheers to a year.

I know it’s Wednesday, but I’ll have more pressing things to think about tomorrow. So here’s a little pseudo-#TBT to celebrate me accomplishing a goal I set LAST New Year’s. It’s one I never thought I’d be strong enough to accomplish: taking the space I needed, identifying unhealthy (read: masochistic) behavior, and realizing that even in a friendship, I’m worthy of effort, especially in a friendship that would’ve required effort to survive.

Since I’ve been forced to think about my “accomplishments” over this past year, let’s hear it for progress. And in the new year, let it continue, along with my other accomplishments/goals.

Let’s do this, Year.

Online dating may cause tiny brain seizures.

This happened the last time I tried online dating, too: After the initial ego boost, once I actually read what people are saying and how stupid most of it is, my brain has this tiny seizure, like, “What the fuck am I even doing? I belong with my Ex. This is absurd, he is my Person, and I’m never finding anyone better. I am going to die alone, or worse, under some 24-year-old townie-fuck douchebag with a naked-except-a-hand-over-his-junk mirror selfie** as his profile pic.

So. There you go, Therapist. Take my money, let’s work this one out.

Kidding. I don’t really need her for this one. I just have to keep reminding myself I don’t have to answer anyone I don’t want to, or do anything I don’t want to. They can’t come GET me, they live in the computer.

Onward. (Or if you prefer, “Excelsior.”)

** Yep, that’s a thing. I’d been on the site for 24 hours and saw three of these tykes, along with several merely-shirtless mirror selfies. Don’t get it twisted, I’m not mad at it — those guys SHOULD be shirtless at all times. But they’re looking for “DTF” girl. (I mean, I AM, but…not like that. I’m a lady, motherfucker. I’ll see you naked when I am jolly good and ready…which, in the grand scheme, really doesn’t take that long. If you can’t wait ’til the second or third date, you’re more than welcome to go fuck yourself. But although I’m not always the most confident in my sexual prowess, I can pretty much guarantee I’m more fun than fucking yourself.)

In which my squad won’t give me goals.

Email to Friend: “The therapist asked me to write about my accomplishments this year, and goals for the upcoming year and beyond. I’ve been struggling with it because I genuinely can’t think of much. (I assume ‘Keep breathing’ and ‘Stay employed’ are implied. Maybe ‘Don’t sleep with anyone dumber than me?’)

“But I’m finishing Judy Greer’s book, and coincidentally she’s talking about how she has an always-evolving list of goals, what’s important to her, etc., that she reads and revises as needed.

“And then Kelly Sue DeConnick sent this text yesterday to the Bitches Get Shit Done list, so it’s pretty much law now, right? List ahoy, Little Shark!”  

Friend: “I can think of at least three things you should be proud of yourself for, but I’m not telling you because you have to look back and be proud of yourself. You have to look in the mirror and see the good.”

Me: “THREE?! Shit. I’m pretty rad. (I think I had two. Will continue considering.)”

Popular. I’m gonna be pop-uuu-lar…

I filled out the wordy bits of the OkCupid profile first, no photos.

When I added pics, in the 10 minutes it took to arrange them, I got something like 18 “likes.”

Pfft. I’m adorable.

P.S. A half hour later, four intro messages, one from a faceless stranger who called me “beautiful” and added “take it anyway you want.”

#BasicallyGisele

Is there another way I could take “beautiful?” Do I have less of a command on English than I give myself credit for? I guess it could mean, “I want to put my parts in your parts, and I assume calling you ‘beautiful’ will help. I smell the needy.” Oh, wait! Did you mean I should take your dick “anyway” I want? Yeah, that’s how I’m gonna interpret that.

P.P.S. The end of my self-summary: “I don’t take this site seriously enough to pay for it, so if you ‘liked’ my profile, I can’t see it, sorry! (But at least I’ll be able to tell who actually reads the profile and who’s just hot for impish eyes on a bottle-blonde.)”

Oh, sweet Jesus…

I think I did a thing.

I think it was a healthy thing.

I think I may vomit.

Results pending…

Not OK, Cupid. Not OK.

I’m infinitely amused that OkCupid won’t let me re-open my account, at least not right now. There’s some kind of error, so they told me to check back later.

It should be a more detailed error, like, “Are you sure? Remember all those unsolicited offers of butt stuff?”

Yes, OkC, I do, but I need to at least make out with someone soon before I die from lack of kissing, which is a thing that can totally happen, shut up.

Life Lessons from Small Ponies.

You could probably tell I didn’t have the best emotional time over the weekend (fuck the entire Venn diagram of the holidays and PMS, seriously). Male BFF was concerned and invited me over for alcohol and merriment with him and his lady, one of my Female BFFs.

I declined but texted my thanks, and man, I tell ya, the My Little Ponies are right — friendship IS magic: 

 

I am the greatest feminist in the history of feminism.

I have things to post, but nothing as important as this: 13 Reasons Masturbation Is a Feminist Act.

As you were.