My “craft” is more like Kraft — cheesy and fun, but of little substance and questionable taste.

A man sent me a first OkCupid message that alternated between asking me out and asking me for writing advice (my profile says I freelance, he’s trying to).

Well, your message was 407 words, so I’d start with revisions. People are busy; make it snappy. (This entire post is 100+ words shorter than his message.)

Second, I don’t know SHIT about writing. I vomit out whatever’s in my brain, then shorten it – that’s my “process.” Sometimes I consult a thesaurus. I can’t advise you when I don’t consider MY writing a skill. I haven’t honed any craft — I write what happens. Anyone can do that. So…do that. Start a blog. Ask to contribute to sites you like. Apply for writing jobs.

His profile says he’s starting over, mentions being “codependent and childish” in the past, and now, at age 43, really trying to man up. His message said he probably shouldn’t even be dating yet, but his discomfort tells him he should.

Dude… Respect, for sure, but I am also codependent and childish, starting over, trying to man up, and dating when I probably shouldn’t be.

I can’t date myself when I hate myself.

I’m not posting his whole message because it was honest and took courage, so I can’t mock him. But seeing those issues laid bare straight away is, for my own issues, overwhelming. I know he’s not asking me to help fix his life, but that’s what it feels like. No can do, man — I’m working on my own. Only one of us can be the fixer-upper.

Underground Railroad, Above-Ground Stupidity

The shit we BITCH about… She’s not SMILING?!

I can’t imagine why. The Underground Railroad seemed like a real hoot.

It IS a shame she’s not smiling, since all those white dudes on my money are happy as fuck. They’re ALL whimsy and shenanigans, sticking out their tongues, one’s got a friend doing bunny ears behind his head. And OMG, it’s totes hilar-balls how Franklin’s got one of those moustaches on a stick on the $100 — motherfucker was so jolly, Santa Claus asked him for pointers. In fact, Franklin advised Santa to get the reindeer. *nod* I think I read that somewhere.

Via The Guardian: ‘Cheer up, love’ – why is Harriet Tubman being told to smile 100 years after her death?Screen Shot 2016-04-29 at 12.53.09 PM

The Elusive Self-Esteem Boost and a Therapeutic Three-fer

tumblr_nxv8fb4zS71r3iw3do1_500.gifIf you’ve never had a day where you look in the mirror and think, “GodDAMN, I look good,” I highly recommend it.

Spring and summer clothes and weather really are my wheelhouse. I’ll also be buying more of this new makeup (aptly made by Tarte) and thanking the gods of hair for blessing my rolled-outta-bed coif today.

Sometimes a plan just comes together, and today it did, in the form of my unplanned FINE ass.

“Give it up, boys and girls. Admit it. I look GOOD!” (Don’t judge me, Bette is my jam.)

P.S. I went to therapy tonight, and one of the first things she said to me, unprompted, was, “You look wonderful!” So there you go, y’all — my cuteness is verified by a licensed professional. (My brain went full Cady-Heron-in-the-black-dress: “I KNOW, right?!”)

P.P.S. Tonight’s agenda: Therapy, takeout food, and Scandal. So basically a therapeutic three-fer.

Not OK, Oklahoma. Not even a little.

Nice job, Oklahoma.

I’ll go start re-working the lyrics in your musical to include your jaunty, whimsical attitude toward sexual assault.

Oklahoma court rules that forced oral sex is not rape if victim is unconscious from drinking:
OK

Make America Masturbate Again

Sometimes you’re in a bad emotional place.

But then your friend who works at the adult boutique texts you to report that a man wearing a Trump t-shirt bought a giant, veiny dildo, and suddenly everything else seems pretty insignificant by comparison.

P.S. If you wondered, the toy IS made in America. Because America’s ALREADY fucking great. (Literally, apparently.)

Smother, Brother!

I emailed the OkCupid guy and canceled our first date, which had been tentatively scheduled for Saturday.

I’d already gotten antsy about how often he’d been contacting me — I really don’t need to talk to you EVERY day when we haven’t met yet. I feel like a dick because he’d told me repeatedly how much he was enjoying talking to me. But my brain did its “Jesus Christ, PLEASE stop talking” thing that happens when I feel overwhelmed and smothered. Whether that’s valid or just inferred, it’s really hard for me to come back from.

I know I get weird, but this one was honestly, legitimately, not on me. I maintain that if one of the other red flags is something I’m not comfortable sharing here, THAT is a big, fuckoff red flag. I told y’all about that time I blew a guy in a Zipcar — it’s not as if I have a ton of boundaries.