I’m signed up for a heated high-intensity interval training class this morning, but I let a different doctor tell me I “have to” have a period once in a while, so that’s also happening, and now I’m far more interested in lying on the floor and actually dying.
Aaand this is why the FIRST doctor told me to take the pill so I don’t menstruate. You don’t have to. I KNOW you don’t have to. I don’t know why I let her tell me otherwise, but I am never doing this bullshit again if I can help it.
It takes a lot out of me to pay too much attention to people being terrible and angry, but based on the high-level information I’ve seen, this kid is garbage human. I hope he gets his first STD very soon, and that it’s one of the suuuper itchy ones.
I haven’t actually seen the Gillette ad, but this amused me.
I would’ve let it keep going just for the stories, but good for her.
There’s something so gross about dating profiles in which men say they want to spoil their girlfriends. Or even better, “spoil my lady.” 🤢
Fuck you, dude, I can spoil my damn self. I need YOU to go down on me and do the dishes.
Obviously I’d be a couple weeks late on a New Year’s resolution, but…*sigh* I’m a little tired of being fat.
So I joined a 60-day challenge group thing at my gym, and they weighed me, and…*sigh* Yeah.
So…*sigh* Fine. FINE!
I’m eating fruit, and you know what? Fuck fruit.
Honestly, I don’t mind fruit, but my brain is being a COMPLETE asshole about everything I’m doing. So fuck fruit. And fuck exercise, which I did last night, and it was a bunch of goddamn horseshit — all red-faced and sweaty, no orgasm to show for it. Just…WHY.
Also, fuck my Fitbit for being a judgy asshole. I’ll walk when I WANT to, you dick!
(I also have PMS, in case that wasn’t clear…)
So…this is WAY more than anyone needs to know, but frankly I blame the most recent episode of Crazy Ex Girlfriend for my sudden freedom…
I often get frustrated because my body doesn’t just tell me what it needs, like maybe I don’t even HAVE depression, maybe I just need vitamin D or iron or something. I’d like a little alert system, is all.
But damn — you can always count on your vagina to let you KNOW when some shit is up. When you go to apee and think, “What the HELL is that smell?!” That is your lady garden, girl, and you are dehydrated as fuck. Maybe also pop some preemptive probiotics, because that’s definitely not ideal.
I hate when I have a fairly non-eventful therapy session, and then less than 24 hours later something dumb happens with my family and I’m like, “Ooh… Well, I am ready to unpack ALL of this right now. Can I schedule a bonus session? Erm…actually, can we make a double?”
My brain on online dating: “Have I told you lately that you’re an undateable garbage monster?”
Also my brain on online dating: “Mm hm, sure have — several times, actually. Also, shut the fuck up, I’m trying to get us laid here.”
My dad thought it’d be hilarious to point out a typo in my Facebook post, and HA HA HA, I hope it’s still funny when I forward you the therapy bill.