We’re not even dating in any official capacity, but I still wanna know who this bitch is posting on his Facebook, and why, EXACTLY, she knows his cat’s name.
(I may or may not be hormonal.)
(I also may or may not think she’s cuter than me and wonder why he’s not dating her instead.)
(Shut UP, I’m already IN therapy.)
During Easter dinner conversation, my aunt said political protests are pointless because, “The election is over. These people just need to move on with their lives.”
Um, BITCH, you’re still salty about some shit my mother said about your potato salad in 1987, so you better hope the new healthcare plans cover legs to stand on.
My bad, you guys. Maybe Bad Moms ISN’T a funny movie. Maybe I’m just an immature idiot and a terrible feminist.
*shrug* I still liked it. Was it a highbrow intellectual feminist statement coming from the dude-bros who gave us The Hangover? Certainly not. Was it a silly, fun movie you can see with your lady-friends? I maintain it was.
When I looked up the details write my review, I was a little disappointed, but honestly surprised, to learn wasn’t written by at least one woman. And Bradley Cooper notwithstanding, I HATED The Hangover, so I was especially surprised it came from those guys.
That said, my sense of humor did stop evolving circa Beavis and Butthead, so here’s the smarter side of it.
Via Bitch Media: Bad Moms Is Even Less Funny than You Could Possibly Imagine
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.
Just in case it seems like I let one measly “relationshit” with some boy land me in a therapist’s office, that was only my “just the tip”ping point.
It was like a Jay-Z situation — I already had 99 problems, and then added a bitch.
I MAY have just called the yoga DVD lady a bitch out loud, and told her that if I’m spreading my legs that wide, I better have at least one orgasm as a result.
So I’m glad to see I’m responding to the spiritual nature of regular practice.
In my defense, I’m in my living room and menstruating, and she’s doing yoga on a beach in a white bodysuit, so fuck her right in her third eye.
Ahem. Namaste.
Email to friends:
“Do we remember the friend of my brother’s I ‘dated’ more than a year ago? The one who left my birthday gift at my door while I wasn’t home 6 months later because after we ‘broke up’ I kept avoiding seeing him to get it?
“He just texted me a Wonder Woman thing, and I figured the unknown number was a Facebook friend (which he isn’t) who’d seen the Wonder Woman thing I just posted. I responded asking who it was and he said, ‘It’s Ben, but thanks for losing my number…again…lol,’ (I’d deleted it before and we had the same discussion), and then, ‘We have to catch up sometime.’
“Christ, I thought *I* couldn’t take a hint. At least when someone used ME for sex and then stopped talking to me, I went AWAY.
“This is why I refuse to date any more family friends. Catch up on what? We were never friends. We didn’t have conversations, we had sex, and I don’t feel the need to catch up on that.
“How do I always end up picking the guys who aren’t just happy to get their dick wet a few times and move on?
“To save you the time typing your (much appreciated) advice, I already blocked his number.”
Look, I know, I’m a coward and an asshole. I should be honest, but I really don’t know how other than the ‘I can’t date you anymore’ conversation we already had, and he reminds me of a time in my life I’m working really hard to get past.
Do you know why we’re no longer sleeping together, sir? I couldn’t get it up for you anymore because we didn’t have good conversations. The only thing we had in common was binge eating, and during the month we hung out, you disrespected the only, like, TWO boundaries I have. We didn’t start as friends, and I can’t BE friends with someone whose only redeeming quality is being good at oral sex. Don’t get me wrong, that’s a fantastic skill — I will endorse you for it on OKCupid or whatever. But we can’t go get coffee like we’re long-lost besties.
(Again, I know. I’m a dick. In my defense, I told him up front I had issues, and he thought it was all quirky and cute and Deschanel. No, it’s bitchy and irrational. Fine line.)
I apparently have a lot of feelings today…
I hate women’s magazines, and Self in particular — it’s basically Marie Claire wearing sneakers — so I’m enjoying watching this tutu debacle unfold.
I don’t like running. At all. But part of the reason I still do it, and the main reason I pay to do races, is that runners are (generally) some supportive sons of bitches, and it makes me feel awesome to be part of that camaraderie.
And this? Is bullshit. I don’t give a baker’s fuck what that woman is wearing — she’s out there running. (While, I might add, SURVIVING CANCER.) I personally don’t do the tutu, but I’ve run in a tiara. Why? Because I CAN. I like running because you can do it in a tutu or tiara, or in high-tech running gear, and it’s all good. I know there are some judgey panda “real runners” out there, and you know what? Whatever. I’m having fun, and being active, and feeling good about ME.
As long as I’m wearing clothes, my friends who run aren’t gonna go all Regina George on me: “That is the ugliest effing tutu I’ve ever seen.” Because my friends aren’t assholes. And from what I’ve seen, particularly in this case, a lot of runners aren’t assholes, either.
So screw you, Self. And by the way, on Wednesdays, we wear pink. Pink tutus.
Texting with a friend:
Me: “It’s not even ‘resting bitch face’ at this point. I have active bitch face.”
Friend: “And it’s only 9:15. Not a good preview of what today could entail.”
Me: “I have applied lipstick and coffee to the situation. (Bitchuation?) Results pending.”
Smug Singleton 