You’re not the boss of me! Oh…wait…

It’s funny when my brain tries being an asshole like it doesn’t know I have access to pills, bourbon, cheese, chocolate, and pictures of baby animals.

Not today, fuckface.

All about that baseline

I don’t remember where I heard that the way you bring in a new year sets the tone for the entire year. And I know, the way some people celebrate New Year’s, that would be ridiculous: “I want to spend 2016 drunk and freezing my balls off in Times Square, wearing a stupid corporate-branded hat and squished against a bajillion other people!”**

Still, if that idea is even a little true, I’m kind of OK with spending this year employed (two jobs, even), well rested, well sheltered and warm, reasonably attractive, and having a group of bad-ass, supportive people who love me.

See also: coffee, bourbon, hugs from friends’ kids, lipstick, and cookies.

Sure, there are elements of my life I’m trying to change. But if the above is my baseline, I’m not mad at it.

Happy official new year, you guys. I’m glad y’all are here.

** From a less snarky perspective, “I want to spend 2016 having memorable, once-in-a-lifetime adventures in exciting places with people I love” isn’t such a terrible plan.

Those hats are still the worst, though.

This holiday season, give the gift of kissing my ass.

During holiday seasons I love to torture myself by looking at those bullshit “for her” and “for him” gift recommendation lists.

For instance, BN.com recommends “for him” all this sweet Star Wars and Doctor Who stuff, Rodin “Thinker” bookends, and cool beer/gin kits. And “for her,” a bunch of fucking candles and tote bags and tea sets, and what looks like every pink gift item they sell.

Kiss my dick, Barnes & Noble.

I will admit, I love candles and pink stuff. But I also like beer and gin, dammit, and I do, um, THINK, at least often enough to enjoy “Thinker” bookends. Plus I know tons of ladies who’d enjoy Star Wars/Doctor Who swag. Hmph.

Mad props to LivingSocial, though. Their “for her” gift guide has bourbon tastings, distillery tours, photography lessons, and race car experience packages. (And Brazilian waxes, but eh, it’s still a good list of options. And, um… I’ll just go ahead and add that wax to my cart along with the bourbon tasting. That’s gonna be a weird day.)

 

Bourbon cures all.

Weirdly, I’m feeling MUCH better…

And also feeling as if every shelf in my home not dedicated to bourbon is a shelf wasted.

 (Bourbon & Branch, Philadelphia.)

A fun post to balance the feels…

When I did the burlesque class a couple weeks ago, apart from being inherently rigid and prim, I also couldn’t really get into any of the music. I’d never heard any of the songs before, and the instructor kept looking at me like, “Bitch, what music do you need to relax your stupid, uptight hips?”

THIS. I needed this. Bring me back that chair — I’ll make it my bitch. I could burlesque the shit out of this.

“Run your fingers through my hair,
I want you to touch me there,
But I will not open up my thighs
When you’ve got bourbon in your eyes,
You’re the one that makes me smile,
And I know you’d make it worth my while,
But she’s waiting for you and I think she cries,
When you’ve got bourbon in your eyes.”

Or, hey, if we’re going for something more (incredibly) obvious, can I get a little Aguilera up in here?

“You’ve been a bad bad boy
I’m gonna take my time, so enjoy
There’s no need to feel no shame
Relax and sip upon my champagne
‘Cause I wanna give you a little taste
Of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy…”

COME ON.

New plan for the evening: My own burlesque playlist and workout. I have Sex Kitten capacities, dammit. I am a WANTON, SULTRY STRUMPET! HMPH! (Just…you know, don’t look at me or anything. Because then I just get awkward. And not in a cute, Deschnanelly way — it’s got a li’l Gollum on it, frankly.)

Limited time only, family two-fer value pack!

I’m spending the day with my family.

Perhaps this is just coincidence, but I’m also repopulating my entire Amazon wishlist with Xanax and bourbon.

Nobody’s bitch baby

Ah, there’s my “reset” button. (Well, that, a bourbon cider, an orgasm, and some friend therapy.)