“Wait…that’s not normal…?”

I swear my brain hurt so much less before I realized how weird my family is.

Frankly I blame my friends. Fuckin’ Normies.

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Well. There’s my answer…

I’ll be moving to a new apartment in a couple months, and my therapist asked if I’d want her to refer me to someone closer to the new place.

1. Now I think my therapist wants to get rid of me.

2. I said, “I don’t know, unless you think I don’t even NEED to be in therapy…?” and she raised her eyebrow damn near off her head, and I laughed, and she laughed, and so… yeah. Guess I’m gonna keep going.

Let’s make my ass great again.

Today I learned that my mother weighs herself every day, writes it down, and SAVES IT. I told her that sounds a little unhealthy, and she said, “It’s fine, it’s just that’s one of the only things I can control.”

NOT HELPING YOUR CASE, MA!

They weighed me at the doctor yesterday and it’s more than I’ve ever weighed, by, like, a LOT, so I made the mistake of telling her I need to lose some weight.

“Maybe you and I can do a contest and see who can lose the most weight!”

“Nope. Nooope. Hard pass.”

“Why? I thought that’d be motivation!”

“I am not contributing in any way to you doing that.”

You guys… HOW am I not in an institution?!

BTW, I feel like it’s no coincidence that I’ve gained 25 lbs since January. But fuck THAT — my ass will be great again.

Profane in the membrane

My parents give me grief about being “educated” but using profanity, asking if that’s “the best I can do,” and “can’t I find a better way to express myself.”

Well, first off, fuck you.

But also? I’m a writer/editor, like, for money, so accurate use of language is kinda my thing. And there is no more accurate language for the world we’re currently inhabiting than a constant blue streak of every swear word I know, and likely some I don’t. I’m grateful I found Archer, because I don’t know how people CAN express their feelings effectively without saying things like “son of a shit-snackin’ whore.” SO glad I learned that one!

Plus, I’m sorry, WHO let me have the George Carlin and Denis Leary albums at age 12? Pfft. This is on y’all.

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.

Subtext Messages

Therapist: “So, if you’ve been able to decide you don’t care what your family thinks about your life, why can’t you apply that thought process to your romantic relationships, rather than reading War and Peace-complex subtext into every interaction?”

Me: “Ummm… because my family are Birthers, and the people I date are not, so it’s not that simple? Divide my bill into minutes — I want a refund for that question.”