“The line is your belt.”

I had lunch with my dad yesterday and tried to explain where the line is between him calling our server “honey” because he’s old and that’s what old people do, and some random middle-age fuckface calling ME “honey” on the subway because he’s a cretin.

But this morning it occurred to me — the line is your belt, Dad. You call a woman “honey” with your brain or your heart (ie, the bits ABOVE your belt)? COOL — fatherly.

You call her “honey” with your dick? NOT cool — Molester Uncle.

It’s not the word. It’s the smarm.

The rare and elusive Psychoticunt…

Father’s Day is interesting when both you and your sister are mad at your father for being a passive-aggressive dumbass and — let’s be honest — for always choosing his other family over you. Especially when you don’t feel welcome in his home right now, anyway, because his wife is a psychotic cunt. (Psychoticunt?)

What’s good, Hallmark? Where’s my cute, clever card for this?

The therapist said it’s perfectly acceptable for me to just text him, so…score.

Sorry, man, but…ya know — cats, cradle, etc. For once I gotta choose me instead of keeping peace. You’re both already pissy with me — fuck it, I might as well get a relaxing Sunday out of it.

P.S. My therapist didn’t know “Cat’s in the Cradle,” and I’m honestly stunned they don’t teach that shit in therapy school. That and “Daddy Wasn’t There.” Y’all need to re-examine your curriculum. Music education is important.

See, THIS is why I shouldn’t be alone with my thoughts.

This is kind of a lot for a Saturday morning, but I need it out of MY head, so I’ll just vomit it along to you fine people!

I’m going to talk to my therapist about this on Monday, and I’m really not looking forward to it, because I don’t even know where to start in figuring it out.

I don’t know why I can’t just TALK to guys on dating apps. Every time I try to, I freeze up, get anxious, and run away. And I don’t know if it’s because I don’t actually want to date, or that I think I’d feel overwhelmed if I added that to my life (which often already overwhelms me — thanks, Anxiety!), or if I’m scared to…get hurt? To have something actually work out?

I’ve tried thinking about it and I got nothin’. Maybe I just believe I’ll meet someone in person like I always have — online dating has never gotten me anyone worthwhile, so maybe I’m convinced it’s not worth it. I don’t go out a TON, but I go out more than I used to, so it’s not like online is the only way I’m going to meet men.

Do I just really not want to shave my legs more often?

My guess is that it’s all of the above. But if I really don’t want to or don’t think it’s worth it, then I should just delete the accounts and stop wasting everyone’s time.

Ugh. Therapy is gonna suuuuuck. She’s going to make me…feel feelings. And ahhh, fuck, I BET she asks about my dad. 🤢

All my shit is so textbook that they can’t even PUT it in textbooks because it’s too easy. You could tell a toddler my business and they’d be like, “Well, yeah, obviously…”

Renewing my subscription to Daddy Issues

I’ve been meaning to get into the Big Family Dynamics discussion with my therapist, but we keep getting sidetracked by current issues. Today I mentioned that to her and said, “But somehow I think tonight’s hour-long discussion of my insecurities and relationship issues probably gave you some useful information about my family history.”

And her response was, “Oh, yeah. Any time we talk about your relationships, we’re talkin’ about your dad.”

…Goddammit. 🙄

I already know I’m an asshole.

This is one of those times I’m AWARE I’m an asshole. You don’t have to tell me. Cool? Cool.

My father emailed all his daughters to wish us a nice holiday weekend and he said, for the first time ever in my life, “Love you to the moon and back,” and instead of feeling touched and all a’squish with love, MY jackass brain went, “What the fuck does that even MEAN? Why is this a thing?”

In my defense, I’ve been seeing that phrase everywhere lately on, like, inspirational framed posters and shit and wondered the same thing. I guess I just get extra pissy when it’s aimed at me.

I mean no offense if you use this expression. I’m just on marketing overload with it, and I have questions. Like…why the moon? Why don’t you love me to Neptune and back? That’s some cold shit. Wait…is Neptune farther than the moon? And then, see, I have to realize how little I remember about the solar system and now I feel stupid. Your love reminds me I’m stupid — THANKS.

Can you love me to Italy and back? Bring me some gelato while you’re out.

Just sharing this for no reason at all whatsoever…

Via Reductress: Father’s Day Gifts that Say, ‘You’re the Reason Why I Don’t Trust Men’

Papa, don’t preach. (No, really. Stop.)

What’s great about having a dysfunctional family is that, between Dad, Stepdad, and Grandpa, this whole weekend was Father’s Day. So I’ve just been going house to house trick-or-treating for daddy issues.

“Yes, I should absolutely stay at my job forever and never pursue anything different, because I have ‘stability’ and I’m ‘not getting any younger.'”

“Nope, not dating anyone. No, not a lesbian, either, but thanks for letting me know that would be OK. I really, REALLY like dick, though.”

“Mm hmm, yeah — Whole Foods IS too expensive. I don’t know why I go there, either. I COULD get the same things at Walmart.”

“Yes, I’m sure he IS going to make America great again…”

Too much family. Not enough alcohol.

The gift of life. I guess…

I’m scheduling an appointment to donate blood, and my local options are “go before work next week” or “go before the whole-family Father’s Day lunch.”

So either way, I’m making an appointment to be drained of my literal life source before being drained of my figurative one.

“I can see clearly now, the Crazy’s gone…”

Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.

It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.

Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.

I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)

*deep breath*

It’s probably not ideal that I embrace this double standard…

You guys, Waffles Guy is trying to cocktease me! We’re going out again tomorrow, and I’ve been flirting, but he’s all “We’ll see,” and “Time will tell.”

Oh! Oh, honey! That’s adorable! But…hm, how can I phrase this politely…?

I look like Tina Fey’s and Zooey Deschanel’s chubby love child. (I call it “Fey-schanel.”) I have big boobs and bigger daddy issues. I’m pretty sure I can catch a dick anytime I want.

That’s not bragging, because it would be the wrong dick — there’s no ego trip in knowing a random dude would shove himself into me halfheartedly in a townie bar’s restroom. But I believe it’s within my scope of feminine wiles if I were so inclined. (Even better, lemme take my cleavage to Comic-Con and quote “Firefly.” I’ll be married by the end of the day.)

Besides, I’m not hinting at SEX, Presumpty Dumpty. I would just enjoy some kissing. I’m actually terrified to have sex, because it’s been so long I’m worried I’ll be terrible at it, or freak out mentally. So I’m perfectly happy to put off intercourse, but it’s pretty important I know I turn you on, and that your hand gets in my panties pretty soon, ‘kay?

Good talk. I’d high-five you, but I shouldn’t be able to, because WHERE have we just decided your hands should be…?