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

Iron Man 4: In My Pants.

I think if I can sincerely text a guy and say, “I’ve been switched on specifically for you ALLLLL day. It’s starting to hurt a little. Come do unspeakable things to my willing, naked body,” that the recipient should be contractually — nay, morally! — obligated to come service me. (Funny, “come service” is exactly what I had in mind.)

To that end, someone please send me Robert Downey Jr.’s phone number.