Introducing Amazon Prime’s Asshole Plan…

An acquaintance shared this on Facebook:

I only bothered reading the first 20 or so comments, so maybe someone said it beyond that, but I didn’t see anyone suggest maybe, um…NOT lying to your spouse about your spending habits?

One of the comments LEGIT advised using Amazon’s lockers so the husbands wouldn’t see.

*sigh* You go enjoy your very healthy marriage. I’m single, so what the shit do *I* know?

Also, “HA HA HA, we’re women and we love to shop and we do so irresponsibly and then lie about it, HA HA HA FUNNY HA HA.”

(I know, I know — it’s a joke and I’m a buzzkill.)

Friends/Fluffers

I’ve been discussing career goals with a friend, because I’ve been feeling totally stuck in what I’m doing, and I feel seven kinds of shitty** about it, just allllll the self-doubt/loathing, staring down the barrel of a TON of work and thought to figure out what my next move should be, because I have no idea. 
Friend’s response:

“I have always thought someone should pay you lots of money just to be you and write what you already write. I don’t know exactly who that should be — Cracked, Bustle, Jezebel, The Mary Sue, various advertisers for your personal blog? — but I very much want it to happen. I know you do too, I just thought you should know that I read a LOT online and I would read all your stuff even if I didn’t know you. Just saying.”

Awwwww! You guys! ❤

I mentioned this predicament to another friend, and SHE complimented my writing, too!

“I know you’re not fishing for compliments, but I LOVE reading you. Anything you write is super smart, quick, and has so much relatable stuff with large dose of humor and humility. You seem like you have a treasure of stories you could write about family, men, and relationships. WRITE!!! For me.”

I was not fishing (nor am I now), but DAMN, I should’ve done this YEARS ago! Ego. Boosted. My friends are like my self-esteem fluffers!

** There actually does exist a chart ranking the seven kinds of shit. The reason I know this is not as disgusting as you might think, but, I mean, possessing that knowledge is really never IDEAL… I’m going to stop talking now.

Get off our collective lawn!

My friends are better than your friends. (Unless my friends ARE your friends. In which case, lucky you.)

A little birdie told me it was time to fuck up some shit.

My unedited Twitter feed: Just the swift kick in the ass I needed to sign up for the March to End Rape Culture in Philadelphia next month.

Pop Psych Tart

My therapist is sick and had to reschedule tonight’s session. (Or she actually hates me and just can’t even with my bullshit today so she’s playing hooky. Hard to say.)

Either way, I’m home eating Pop Tarts and drinking wine instead, which…kinda feels the same as therapy, but with less talking of feelings, more eating of feelings. 

Why don’t I do this every week? It’s a fuck of a lot cheaper and I don’t have to think about a damn thing except how delicious Pop Tarts are.

Coming soon: Dr. Kellogg’s patented (frosted!) therapeutic process for basic white girl problems (TM).

Mansplain as can be

I don’t like the word “mansplaining.” I don’t think it’s a clever enough blend to have caught on the way it has, unless I’m misunderstanding. But I also can’t come up with anything better.

“Dicksplaining” at least gets the sound right, and mansplainers ARE often dicks, but it’s probably too late to win this battle.

Anyway. This is still a solid joke I saw on Twitter.

Tell me what I want, what I really, really want…

My OkCupid profile says I’m “essentially looking for friends with benefits, but actual FRIENDS, with potential for something more if it eventually evolves.”

Today I get this first message: “Hey Smug..I tried fwb,..it doesn’t work. There’s always problems with feelings..someone always loses control.”

That’s the whole message.

Um…OK. See, what you wanted to say there, quietly and only to yourself, was: “This woman wants different things than I do. I will proceed calmly to the next profile.”

Not, “This woman is wrong. I must tell her why she is wrong, and that will be ALL I write, because SHE HAS TO KNOW SHE’S WRONG!”

What’s your endgame here, sir? What am I supposed to say?

“OMG, you’re right, Internet Stranger Who Clearly Has No Issues At All! I never thought of that! Tell me, Marlon Rando, what do YOU think I should want instead? Eagerly awaiting your wisdom, Smug.”

I need men for many things.* Explaining my needs to me is not one of them.
*Their hands. Mouths. Voices. Arms. Teeth. Body weight on me. Hips and the ability to thrust them…
Wait, sorry, what was I saying?

I’d feel guilty but there’s no blood in my brain.

Hey, would you guys mind if I objectified a man for like one second?

Didn’t think so.

DAY-UM.

Wall-a-palooza

Writing about therapy in my everyday journal:

“She told me I’ve ‘built up walls,’ but I think I’ve actually constructed some sort of castle. A fortress, really. There might be a moat. Perhaps turrets. Obviously a panic room.

“Pfft. You say ‘guarded and distrustful’ like it’s a BAD thing. Lemme ask you: How many times have I sent money to an online Nigerian prince? That’s right, NO times. See? I don’t have ‘issues,’ I’m just smart.”

The MySpace Matchmaker

Around 6 years ago I introduced my Male BFF to one of my Female BFFs via the final flickering embers of MySpace. I thought they’d get along well and HAD to meet, even if only to screw each other senseless and call it a day. When your prudish friend tells you, “OMG, you two need to fuck,” I think you HAVE to. That’s a thing, right?

And fuck they did! But as I’d hoped, they also liked each other.

So last night I had the privilege of being among the friends and family invited to be there when he proposed to her on the beach, under a starry sky and accompanied by the sound of the waves rolling in nearby.

She accepted. I did good, you guys.

And because all roads lead to Friends — “I just thought you guys were doing it, I didn’t know you were in love!” ❤️

Now, moving on to what’s really important: Which of the groomsmen am I going to bang in the coat room at their reception? Instead of a finder’s FEE for my matchmaking, I should get a finder’s fuck, no?