Tonight I’m going to a party where I may or may not see Guy I Dated for a Minute, and I officially hate my brain and its tendency to overthink. Mostly because it’s overthinking the fact that HE’s likely not overthinking a goddamn thing.
I should mention: I am fully aware he tapped — heh — into some things in my brain he couldn’t POSSIBLY have known about. I could’ve behaved differently, so I know it’s not totally his fault that he’s a giant bitch-baby.
A friend sent this to me, and I’m sharing it here as a public service for all y’all concerned your condiments aren’t masculine enough.
Problem solved, people: Manly. Sausage. Meat. “STUFFED FULL OF MEAT,” even. (“Engorged” with meat. “Swollen. Turgid.” “Tumescent?”)
Hell, just dip your dick directly into it.
That said? That shit sounds DELICIOUS. Too bad I can’t eat it — curse my troublesome vagina.
Also, blow me, sour cream is my spirit animal. But again, vagina. Woe. I’m just not MANLY enough to hang with this new concocktion, so I’m relegated to bitch-baby sour cream.
New Jersey’s gettin’ a li’l hurricaney this weekend, so yesterday I got an email from the Inflatable 5K I’m supposed to run tomorrow and they’re like, “Fuck you, we’re still doing it, unless there’s lightning.”
And I thought, “Eat a dick, you blowup doll of races.”
But then they emailed today and said, “OK, FINE, you little bitch-baby, you can transfer races and do another one. Coward.”
Procrastination for the win!
#MoreBounceToTheOunce #RockMeLikeAHurricane
I almost feel bad about how quickly my panties STILL melt when he says this. Almost.
#TeamJake #FuckFitz #EwButNotThatWayGross #BitchBaby #Scandal
Ah, there’s my “reset” button. (Well, that, a bourbon cider, an orgasm, and some friend therapy.)
Smug Singleton 