Greasy like Sunday morning…

I called a Lyft to take me to Federal Donuts.

I think I just got fatter.

Bend it like “Oh, fuck you.”

Sure, children’s cereal box — it WAS pretty great how the MEN’S soccer team won the World Cup.

OH WAIT.

🖕🏼🖕🏼🖕🏼

Soulmakeup

This is the most excited I’ve ever been by Bumble.

Parents shouldn’t have Facebook.

My parents have a habit of making my mundane Facebook posts SUPER weird, so I texted my friends about one post, like, “The fuck? They’re weird, right?” And then…

I’m only HALF white trash.

I don’t have any actual dessert in my house, but I do have graham crackers, Hershey’s syrup, and a positive attitude.

Ugh, I KNOW better than this!

A friend of a friend said Elizabeth Warren won’t be the candidate because she’s “crazy” and has “bad eyebrows” and he keeps calling the woman candidates “females” like a shitty Sir-Mix-a-Lot and I’m sorry but I have made a terrible mistake and argued about politics with a stranger on the internet, but also I want this man to get, like, six paper cuts later.

(Also, I don’t even CARE what Bernie OR Molester Uncle Biden look like, but if people can’t be president based merely on appearances and sanity, we wouldn’t have the current president and his caterpillar-ass eyebrows, and you damn sure can’t think Bernie looks calm, cool, and collected. Come the fuck on.)

“This is MY dance space!”

Dear Lyft Driver,

I will never be so flummoxed by a seat belt that I’d require your hand anywhere near my hip to unbuckle. I’m just uncoordinated and needed 2 seconds.

Stop that. Bad touch.

Best,

Smug

There is no human. There is only BED!

It occurs to me that if there ever IS a man in this bed, I am such a miserable shit first thing in the morning that I couldn’t let him spend the night. Or he’d have to sleep in another room and agree to leave me alone until the meds, coffee, and a hairbrush make me eligible for human contact.

“Sorry, man. ‘Cute and easygoing’ doesn’t show up ‘til, like, 11. Right now we’re at ‘bridge troll.’”

“Dying alone is fine.”

Therapist: “So, how’s dating? Have you written anyone back on the apps?”

Me: “Of course not, don’t be absurd.”

Therapist: “You know, if you don’t WANT to be dating…”

Me: “It’s not that I don’t WANT to. It’s just… Like we’ve talked about, I want someone who’ll fit into my life, which is pretty decent with just me — well, minus the depressive bits. And I’d SUPER like to have some sex. But about once a month I’ll hear something terrible about a man and I’ll think, ‘Ya know…I don’t really need one of those. Dying alone is fine.’ So I guess I’m just not in a hurry.”

Dead inside, sure. But not a MONSTER.

Y’all. He asked her AGAIN.

I’m not made of stone, for heaven’s sake — that’s a-goddamn-dorable.