“Oh, honey. We know your hair is a goddamn disaster and you’ve had a tough week. Welcome to our salon. Here are some feelings to eat. Do you want some morning wine? We also have morning wine. We got you, girl.”
1. Salad is stupid. Fuck off with your leaves, salad. I’m not a goddamn giraffe.
2. Trying to solve problems without burying them in fried cheese is like trying to count to purple.
3. Jesus turned water into wine because even HE knew water is some bullshit.
The other day I told my therapist that I think the country is fucked beyond repair, and she had no counterpoint, and THEN all this shit in VA happened so… yeah…
Drink up, y’all. Humanity’s had a good run. Cheers.
I’m going to my scheduled therapy session tonight, but only because if I bail last-minute I still have to pay them. But my brain is being super bitchy about it, presenting a compelling argument that it’s currently preoccupied with “too-busy-at-work stress” feelings, and we don’t talk about those, we eat and drink them, and frankly don’t even care to hear your stupid “healthier coping mechanisms.” Yoga won’t help, blow me.
For the money I’m ’bout to hand this broad, I could consume my weight in froofy martinis and fried food. I’m just saying, from a cost:benefit standpoint, we better fucking solve some big shit this session. I better leave with, like, NO abandonment issues.
Bring it, lady.
Y’all enjoy your green beer and shamrock shit. I’ll be over here reppin’ OG Irish: whiskey, writing, and misanthropy.
Here lies Smug Singleton: She died of cramps, which is totally a thing that can happen.
Don’t send flowers, flowers are bullshit. You spend that money on fried cheese and whiskey. That’s what she would’ve wanted. (YES, fried cheese and whiskey at 10 a.m. Christ almighty, do you want to honor her or not?)
Rest in petty, Smug.