Um, no, YOU have a Giles fetish.

Seen in an OkCupid profile: “I am definitely a stereotypical academic in the sense that I love wearing corduroy blazers and holing up in ivory towers.”

*blink* OMG. Take me, sir. Take me hard.

The only things we have in common are burritos, mushroom hatred, High Fidelity, and grammar, but let’s be honest, I’ve based relationships on less. I dated a guy for 8 months because we could both quote George Carlin.

Plus, another of his favorite movies is Josie and the Pussycats, so he clearly also enjoys dumb, fluffy things.

Hello, Professor. I will be your dumb, fluffy thing.

Self-care

How to Care for Your Smug, page 17, section 6:

“In the event of a bad workday, allow your Smug to Ugly Cry alone, because she is emotionally stunted and can’t cry in front of people.

“When she calms down, apply one steak burrito with extra dairy products, and an order of Wendy’s fries with barbecue sauce. Repeat as needed.

“If possible, sit your Smug down in front of any Shonda Rhimes show (new or old) with any vodka-based beverage(s). This is her cognitive behavioral therapy. (See also: “Dance it out.”)

“Put Tipsy Smug to bed immediately with a George Carlin audiobook playing.”

I blow at my job which is thankfully not giving blowjobs.

I had a shit day at work and had finally calmed down enough to debate numbing my pain at the burrito restaurant, and actually thought to myself, “I highly doubt you’d be the first tear-streaked woman to walk in there and demand a hillock of cheesy goodness.”

Nothing major, I’m just terrible at my job and at everything and I should probably just go sell shrimp out of a van except I’m allergic to shrimp and am bad at math as well, so I’d always give people the wrong change and then my van would get shut down.

You know…typical Thursday.

First, do no harm. But DO have Xanax and burritos.

Emailing a friend: “‘Xanax and burritos’ should be the beginning of every prescription. It should be pre-printed on the prescription pad with the doctor’s name and contact info.”

Hi. No, I really mean that. Hi.

For someone who’s so into words, you’d think I’d be less anxious about merely introducing myself to some dude on a dating site.

I have no line. It’s like, “Hi. I’m saying hi.”

This is what I get for mocking guys with prosaic intro messages. Because really, every “hi” is just short for “Hello. I share your affinity for burritos, and I would like our genitals to become acquainted in the not-too-distant future.”

I’m not UNattractive, but I’m not, like, autopilot hot — I’m not one of those absurdly gorgeous women who can just say “hi” and have a guy fall at her feet. I’m like Tina Fey hot — I’m cute and I have good hips, but I still have to rely on my wit. Except I can’t FIND my wit, because I am so tremendously awkward.

*deep breath*

It’s cool. It’s like any other piece of writing: just keep drafting, saving, revising, until I end up with something that doesn’t make me feel like a talentless hack. (Except in this case, my photo is with it, and my personality in the form of my profile, so if he doesn’t respond, I will also feel hideous and boring. So that should be fun…)