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.
You know those Facebook Memories where it shows you what you were doing on this day however many years ago?
The one I just saw might as well have said, “Ha ha, remember that time you were about to fuck up your whole life? MAN! Good times,” and then punched me in the stomach.
Eat a dick, Facebook.
All things considered, my life has turned out pretty well, but damn — between careers and homes and relationships and assholes, that was a lot of progress to process before I even finished my coffee. This probably explains why I’m so hesitant to change very much in those realms right now.
Unless Robert Downey Jr. calls. Then all bets are off. And so are my panties. (Joking. I would never have on underwear if I were anywhere NEAR Robert Downey Jr. I would always wear dresses and trampy nightgowns and go commando, so he could have a 24/7 all-access pass.)
This is probably a story that would’ve been more useful before Christmas, but maybe we can all carry the concept into the new year…
One of the best things my ex ever did for me was help me realize I shouldn’t let it bother me when assholes behave like assholes.
Years ago, my aunt said something REALLY hurtful to me on Facebook. I was at work, and had to leave my office and call my ex to cry about it in the parking lot. (I rarely cry. It’s one of many unhealthy points of pride. But she’d hit a nerve.)
And my ex said, “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”
“Because she’s horrible. Who would say that?”
“Well…an asshole would say that. You think she’s a dick, right?”
“Yeah…”
“Do you value her opinion? Do you want your life to be like hers?”
“No. She’s awful.”
“So why are you upset about what an awful person thinks? She’s an asshole. Why are you letting an asshole make you cry?”
“…Well, shit…You are absolutely…goddamn right…”
I was fine for years after that, but recently had a wonky emotional time in which I was letting her get to me again. It helps so much to keep that conversation in mind — how obvious it seemed, what a glorious turning point it was for me to finally see it, and also to know other people see it, too. It helped a LOT this past Christmas.
You go ahead and make your snide little comments, dearie. I don’t know what made you such a miserable jag, what made you so unhappy with your life, but you’re damn sure in no position to judge mine.
Namaste. Bitch.
Charlie Brown really was “friends” with mostly assholes.
Linus just learned not to fuck with a woman and her candy.
Sally, meanwhile, got her first bit of tragic foreshadowing re: men disappointing her.
Taken from the A Mighty Girl Facebook page: 
I always thought “boys will be boys” referred to more innocuous stuff like, I don’t know, leaving socks on the floor or citing sports stats.
When used to laugh off harassment, it shifts to the “don’t be a dick” philosophy. I’m not trying to take away your manhood, I swear. I WANT you to be all grunty and take me. Just…you know, try to be cool about it. You’re not getting to “grunty” without basic decency (my entire 2013 notwithstanding).
Animal urges aside, we’re humans, not apes. We deserve and should expect better. Not just women, but HUMANS — don’t be an asshole.
Sorry, no, Aunt Buzzkill. Me NOT being an asshole to a little kid is a far cry from “great maternal instinct.”*
My 2-year-old nephew asked me to hold his hand to help him down the stairs and I did. That’s not “instinct,” that’s…not being a douchebag. What else was I gonna say? “No way, fuckface, you’re on your own.” It’s also just part of a social contract — I would really prefer not to explain to his parents how their child ended up tumbling down the steps.
If If anything, that’s the KID’S instinct: “Hm. I require assistance navigating these stairs. Perhaps I should request some help from someone with marginally superior motor skills. You there! Lumpy! Take my hand!” That is me taking direction from a child who knows his needs better than I do.
I’m good with toddlers because all I have to do is play Mr. Potato Head, tickle tummies, and make sure no one explodes. Fairly easy in 1-day increments, but I wouldn’t call it “instinct.” Once they get fussy, I hand them back to Mom or Dad: “This one’s broken, fix it.” I don’t know what the hell to do with these kids. My instinct is to give him 20 bucks and a bus pass and tell him to figure his life out.
* I am quite sure this was intended merely as a compliment, and not as any sort of pressure to be fruitful and multiply from someone who’d never even see my hypothetical spawn. Well, I’m MOSTLY sure that’s how it was intended…probably… She IS kind of a dick…
Smug Singleton 