Hey, Jealousy.

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.)

Don’t even try it — Jesus knows you’re petty.

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.

“Of course, that’s just my opinion. I could be wrong.”

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
Screen Shot 2016-07-29 at 10.36.02 AM.png

Letting sleeping assholes lie. 

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.

Jay-Z therapy

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.

In which I am at one with everything and everyone…

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.