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.

Sundae fun-day!

When I finally indulge a weeks-long craving for a brownie sundae, I do NOT fuck around.

#EatingMyFeelings #ThisIsWhyYoureFat

H/T, George Carlin

George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”

And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…

The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.

The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.

The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)

The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.

The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”

The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”

In which Wendy’s betrays me.

My friends really know how to support me when it matters.

Exhibit A: this text exchange while I was endeavoring to stress eat…

Me: “‘Sorry, we’re out of chocolate Frosty, we only have vanilla.’ Oh. So you only have heresy? How dare you, Wendy’s? How. Dare. You.”

Friend 1: “What fresh hell is this?”

Friend 2: “BURN IT DOWN!!!!!”

Me: “They shouldn’t even be allowed to CALL that a Frosty. Hmph. (I’ve never had it, it might be delicious. Just not today.)”

Friend 2: “No. Vanilla? Fuck that shit. That’s not a goddamn Frosty. I love vanilla, but that is just blasphemy.”

Friend 1: “Frosty=chocolate. Anything else is a weird extra soft serve ice cream.”

Me: “I adore you both and will be blogging this discussion in the foreseeable future.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about. This all seems totally rational.

Dear Local Supermarket,

I realize you had no way of knowing I was coming to you in a blind, Tasmanian-devil-grade cyclonic haze of hormones and exhaustion. 

However… When a woman approaches you wanting only ice cream and cheese, that is a very urgent list. Her needs must be met, or the villagers shall perish. 

But you did not have the ice cream I needed. 

“Chocolate peanut butter,” you say? Blow me. I need chocolate, peanut butter, salted caramel, brownie bits, and some swirly shit. I don’t even care what the swirly shit IS, I just need it to fucking SWIRL. 

You did not provide me swirly shit, and for that, you are dead to me. You hear me? Dead. You are an ex-parrot. 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put salt on leftover macaroni salad from yesterday’s barbecue and call it dinner.

No love whatsoever and also go fuck yourself, 

Smug