Kelly Bundy, Kimmy Schmidt, and the “Grey’s Anatomy” method of avoidance. 

Wow. WordPress readers really love my anxiety, don’t they?

More years ago than I care to consider, there was a show called Married with Children that probably wouldn’t make it in today’s infinitely-more-PC TV landscape. I remember people being offended by it at the time, but it was the late ’80s/early ’90s and most people didn’t give a fuck.

So there was the dumb blonde bimbo daughter, Kelly (Christina Applegate). She’s more appealing than her sports-fan father, so she goes on a sports trivia show in his place. But she knows nothing about sports, so he fills her brain with trivia before the show, and for every sports fact she absorbs, a bit of basic life knowledge leaves her brain, rendering her dumbstruck (seen here) when asked to recall everyday knowledge.

That’s where I am right now. For every bit of bullshit my brain has encountered this week, I’ve lost knowledge and patience. This morning I stood in the shower with conditioner on my hair, and for just a second completely blanked on what the next step was. And I just snapped at my brother because he’s being a fucking asshole. (Though I do kind of love it when I finally give up on trying to be polite and just say what I’m thinking.)

Family issues, friend concerns, medication that’s ruining my appetite and dehydrating me, not sleeping, and additional things with That Guy, all in those 3 days of spiked blog stats… I’m out. I spent my workday NOT FUCKING WORKING, but rather ensnared in a texting clusterfuck with aforementioned brother.

Also, I know my friends love me and will listen to me, but I’m sick of being the Needy Friend — they’ve heard a LOT this week, I sent a goddamn list. (Subject line: “No advice needed; just FYI, everything is fucked.”) I’ve talked to friends, a therapist, my personal journal, and you people. I am tired of thinking and talking about my fucking feelings. I’m not even upset, per se — I just want to go home and sit there for a week or so and not talk to anyone or think about anything. Maybe just spend the whole week re-watching all of Grey’s Anatomy in my pajamas.

So yeah. I’m currently at a Bundy Brain grade 4. I’m gonna pull a reverse Kimmy Schmidt and put my ass into the doomsday bunker.


Feeling all the feelings.

Oh, good, ’cause it’s been some time since a tiny, mundane incident has caused me to feel All the Feelings at once.

No, really, it’s great. I’d missed it.

Fuck you, brain.

Cockblocking my “art.”

Here’s the thing about putting my dating life on the Internet… For me, fiction is rarely funnier than the truth. I’d love to change certain details to protect the innocent, but nothing I conjure is as funny as what really happens. I’m not that good a writer; funny shit just happens to me. I write it down, y’all laugh — easier than me after two martinis!

But as much as I want an audience, I don’t want to hurt anyone who might see this page. So I grapple with optimal hilarity vs. not wanting to hurt feelings.

Example: My latest New Lad story isn’t as funny if I change the details, but it’s seven kinds of snort-laugh if I tell it how it happened. I’m still friends with him, though, and I don’t want him to end up on this page somehow saying, “Wait…that’s clearly me.” Of course, if it weren’t for Facebook, I wouldn’t even still know the guy, so maybe that’s not an accurate definition of “friend.”

See, this is why I need a book deal. The ones who yield the best stories don’t read books.