Prioritize, people.

Eeewwww… Look, I can either focus on dinner OR vaguely threatening hairless douche-bros, but not both.

Feed me OR fuck me. My ADD can’t handle the multitask.

P.S. Fuck me first, so I don’t have to worry about birth control for food babies in addition to regular ones.


Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”
Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”
Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”
Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”
Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”
Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”
Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”
Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”
Me: “It’s not.”
Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”
Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”
She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”

Discounted snacks v. discounted dating

It probably speaks volumes about my romantic future that today I received email coupons from both OkCupid and Grubhub, and deleted the OKC one without reading it, but hopped on that Grubhub shit like white on rice. (Especially since I used it to order Indian food, so literal white rice is forthcoming. As is my true soulmate, paneer.)

My hair salon loves me and wants me to be happy.

“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.”

All the women, who independent, throw your hands up in frustration…

So, I haven’t mentioned that I’m moving again, probably in about 2 weeks. The rent in my generic, cookie-cutter apartment complex is going up to an amount that’s basically a mortgage. I COULD pay it, but decided to go see what else I could get for that amount or less.

Turns out, I can get the same amount of space but WAY cuter, a more walkable neighborhood, better food options, and closer to everyone I love, for about $400 less a month.

I made lists. I did math. I considered all my life factors and made a grownup decision. When I talked to my therapist, she told me it sounds like the perfect choice for everything I’ve said is important to me, including my budget and mental health.

NO one in my family is happy for me. Everyone got some shit to say.

Today my grandfather offered to let me move in with him, basically rent free, saying my new rent is “still a lot of money,” and my dad chimed in and said, “Yeah, can you imagine putting that amount in the bank every month? After 5 years you’d have, what, $60,000?”

Um…$60,000 for WHAT, exactly? My retirement to an institution because I haven’t had sex in 5 years and have gone insane living with a 90-year-old man who watches home shopping at full volume all day and lectures me about my sodium intake?

It’s a VERY sweet offer, honestly. I’m incredibly grateful. If I am ever in any form of dire life straits, obviously this would be a lifesaver. (Speaking of which, I’m not a total asshole — Granddad doesn’t need live-in help; his health is probably better than mine.)

But I know my family, and this is a goddamn trap. I love my grandfather, but dude IS the patriarchy. I’ve lived alone for 5 years, sir, sometimes unemployed, and the beauty of that particular soul crush is, you learn to fucking handle your bid-ness. I don’t know what kind of helpless, broke-ass princess they think they’ve raised, but I ain’t havin’ it.

I am going to live alone, and walk around naked, and stay up too late, and binge watch My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on weekends, and hopefully have noisy, raucous sex followed by salt-laden Indian takeout at the first available opportunity.

NOW. If you’ll please excuse me, I gotta go throw my hands up at Destiny’s Child.