“OK, Google — when will you quit bullshitting?”

I often refer to Google as my religion, so I really hope they pull their heads out of their asses here.
‘Cause, yeah, I can have principles and change my email addresses and use different search engines and storage sites, but…it’s fucking Google. No one cares. I’d be like those assholes who tried to boycott “Hamilton” — sure, sweetie, good luck with that.

Also, I mean…you can’t get that data? Can’t you just Google it?

We’re both too awkward for sexual harassment.

My (male, straight) boss just emailed me with the subject line “available?” and asked me to do a work thing.

I replied and said I’d do it, and then he wrote back, “I also just realized that my subject line could get me in some HR trouble… ha… I’ll be more specific next time.”

Oh. It actually didn’t even cross my mind that my married, just-had-a-baby boss might be soliciting me for…whatever, until you pointed that out, but…well, NOW I’m uncomfortable.

I mean, aside from the “married, just-had-a-baby, boss” bit, I totally would, but all things considered, I’m incapable of perceiving anything you do as flirtation. Obviously don’t grab my ass or anything, but as far as hitting on me, you’d have to be pretty explicit for me to pick up on it. I can’t tell when eligible dudes are flirting with me.

Plus he has like five kids, so his sperm are far too industrious to be allowed anywhere NEAR my bits.

Buffy the Dry Skin Slayer

Elbows Guy emailed me back yesterday about the Elbows thing, and when I didn’t answer, he emailed again this morning to ask if I was “still alive?”

No, I am not alive, sir. My elbow skin overtook the rest of my body and I collapsed in a pile of ash like one of the slain vampires on Buffy.

(It’s Monday. I’m irritable. His initial response will be reported in detail later today, because it borders on brilliance.)

Wow, I’m even the wrong kind of asshole. 

I emailed him back, because I am an idiot. He’d clarified some things, so I wanted to do the same.

Aaand it turned out exactly as I thought it would.

One day I will learn to listen to my friends and just be an asshole when the situation calls for it, which is what I think he wanted — for me to keep quiet and stay away.

But at least I got it out. “The cold never bothered me, anyway.”

P.S. Fun fact: Gmail’s “block” feature is apparently about as useless as Facebook’s. Technology can kiss my dick.

P.P.S. Sorry, I’ll take the weekend off and stop buzzkilling your news feeds.

The Curious Incident of my Ability to Obsess

I promise I have other topics for later today, but in the meantime I’ll need one of you to come tie my hands together so I don’t end up responding to That Guy’s email to ask if he wrote me solely because he saw the “closure” post the other day.*

It’s TOO big a coincidence to be anything else.

And with that, fuck this. I have awesome to be. (Let’s see if that posturing is effective.)

*If you need to make the hand tying kinky, though, I can probably work with that. 

EDIT: Crisis averted! Never underestimate the healing powers of red lipstick, great hair, coffee, and music. (Bruno Mars, “Uptown Funk” and The Band Perry, “Done,” if you wondered.)

Putting the “act” in “disappearing act”

Snag in one of my new life goals: Turns out you can’t block an email address unless you have an existing email from the person you’re blocking.

It’s been maybe 6 months since I apparently VERY thoroughly deleted all that in an attempt at mental feng shui.

It’s also been about 6 months since this was even an issue, so I probably don’t NEED to do it. I was just going for a Rachel-Green-style “And THAT, my friend, is what they call CLOSURE.” (I realize that’s a bad metaphor; that turned out a lot differently than this is likely going to.)

And there was comfort in the idea, because there wouldn’t be anymore worrying about letting my guard down when checking email — let’s be honest, stupidly half-hoping I’d ever be worth more than a drunk-texted apology at 3 a.m.

I’d have disappeared, so my brain could be all, “WHAT?! Come at me, bro!” [/Jersey]

Alternately: “Nyah, nyah, you can’t get me!” [/inner child]

Defeating your purpose with drunk texts

A friend got a late-night drunk text from a guy last night (not even a booty call, ’twas about the feels), and I got one recently as well, leading us to a conversation about what people are thinking when they do this.

For me, the late-night drunk text will get you absolutely nowhere. In fact, it will set you back, because in addition to whatever the text says (which I automatically think is drunken horseshit because of the time, OR that you meant to text someone else), you’re also saying you don’t think enough of me to come correct soberly and say it by the light of day. It’s insulting, and pretty much makes you look like an asshole.

I can’t even imagine how much shit I’d get if I pulled that on a guy. I wouldn’t even get to defend myself — he’d probably just block my number, because it’s a dick move. If a chick did it, we’d get written off as your crazy psycho stalker. (Unless it’s a booty call, in which case I think we’d be cleared. Maybe… I personally have such a hard time sleeping that if anyone woke me up planning to penetrate me, I’d probably be pretty pissed. Don’t know how dudes would react.)

P.S. I AM, however, allllll about the late-night drunk email. It doesn’t wake anyone up, and I like waking up to long-form sexiness in my inbox…tee hee…

Fuck you, Mickey Mouse.

Disney Cruises just emailed me some offer and greeted me by my ex’s last name. I booked a Disney vacation with him and his family a few years ago, so it was like, “Ahoy there, Smith family!”

I thought I’d unsubscribed from their shit after the last time this happened, but I guess I didn’t hit the button hard enough. Let’s try this again…

Fuck you, Disney. Still feels like someone hit me. Thanks for that. Say hi to Mickey for me.


Today I was looking for something in my Gmail, and in the search results, I happened upon one of the emails I wrote but never sent to my crush. It was a list of things I liked about him, both mental and very, VERY physical.

When your brain is not in the porny place (ie, when you’re at WORK merely trying to ascertain the status of your running magazine subscription at lunchtime), finding that stuff is extremely disconcerting. Now I’m beet red. And also incredibly turned on.

Thanks, Gmail!