Jesus, Amazon — I KNOW I’m fat.

Oh, hey… Kiss my dick, Amazon. Capture.PNG

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Coming soon to a bookstore near you…

Text to a friend: “I didn’t know that was weird until my therapist told me.”

This should be the title of my debut novel.

Hope and bedsprings eternal

There’s a Chris Rock bit where he talks about men talking too damn much and ruining a woman’s desire to fuck them — “You say the wrong thing, them panties are comin’ up mighty fast. A woman wants to fuck you? Shut up, let it happen.”

(I’m QUITE sure this also happens when women talk too much to men — I have most assuredly DONE it, I know my own.)

But I went out tonight to see a friend’s band play at my local townie bar, and immediately wanted to bang one of the singers — hot, glasses, tattoos, super muscle-y arms that could throw me all around… UNF.

But then dude started talking. And during the course of his performance, he said someone had “killed hisself,” and he also dabbled in some light “jokey” homophobia AND as a bonus, mocked his friend for saying something kinda intellectual-like — you know how we hate all that book learnin’.

Also, he swore so much that even *I* was like, “GodDAMN, man. You wanna fuckin’ dial that back?”

So. Alas, tonight was not the night I lured an unsuspecting male back to my lair. But hope springs eternal!

Maybe she should’ve added some knock-knock jokes?

“I’m just sayin’, this audiobook about sexual assault didn’t have enough laughs for me. And MAN, she talked SO much about sexual assault! What about the GOOD things in life, huh?!”

What the unwieldy hell?

(Hunger, if you wondered.)

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