Tonight I went to a Beyoncé-themed “Frisky Friday” striptease dance class at Philly Dance Fitness, and the 7 months’ pregnant instructor wore kitten heels and twerked circles around my tragic ass.
It was awesomely mortifying and I highly recommend it.
So, hey, here’s a hella gross billboard I saw on my way home.
My therapist compared letting assholes get to me with the cops greasing the light poles in Philly after the Eagles won the Super Bowl so dipshits couldn’t climb them: “How do we make it so assholes’ comments slide off you a little easier?”
I tried to convince her that’s what I’m doing with all the mozzarella sticks and stromboli — greasing my psyche — but I don’t think she bought it.
Good morning. Work is canceled, today is for masturbation now. If Shaun T doesn’t work for you, feel free to look elsewhere — you do you (literally).
I ordered vitamins and they sent a shipping confirmation that said “Track your box” and I am 12.
Eating cereal from the box so I won’t have to wash a bowl. #TheRealBachelorette
Saw this on the Women at Forbes page and…sorry, I had to…
I’m done being shitty about Mother’s Day, though, I promise.
Yesterday my mother implied that I’m gonna die if I don’t watch my weight, so I’m not really feelin’ all this “wind beneath my wings” bullshit today.
I AM, however, feelin’ this cream cheese layering a glorious, salty spackle over my hurt feelings.
Happy Mother’s Day!