Conversations with myself…

“My friend’s teenaged daughter is on a date tonight and I’m at home watching ‘Catching Fire’ again and waiting for pizza delivery. I suck.”

“Do you WANT to be on a date?”

“Fuck no, that sounds exhausting.”

Right, then. That was easy.

Greasy like Sunday morning…

I called a Lyft to take me to Federal Donuts.

I think I just got fatter.

Bend it like “Oh, fuck you.”

Sure, children’s cereal box — it WAS pretty great how the MEN’S soccer team won the World Cup.

OH WAIT.

🖕🏼🖕🏼🖕🏼

I’m only HALF white trash.

I don’t have any actual dessert in my house, but I do have graham crackers, Hershey’s syrup, and a positive attitude.

Cognitive dissonance runs in the family.

My mother: “You really should watch your weight — too much salt and sugar will kill you.”

 

Also my mother: “Here’s a link to a bunch of pumpkin-flavored shit on sale at Williams Sonoma.”

 

👍🏼

Definitely not connecting these dots…

I mean, I GUESS these items could somehow be related…if I really thought hard about it…

“Whatever. I’m getting cheese fries.”

So, hey, ever get depressed about your weight and just think “Fuck it” and order a pizza AND cheese fries?

Ahem… Yeah, me, neither. I was just asking. Fucking ridiculous, right? What kind of dipshit-ass fake adult would do something THAT stupid…? *cough*

PMS: The Mother(fucker) of Invention

If my pizza place had any sense, they would sell my dinner tonight as some kind of PMS Special. Like a McDonalds combo — you could just ask for the PMS #5 and it’d be nachos and a chocolate milkshake. Or there could be a column system: one salty and one sweet, with an optional drizzle of our house-blended mansplainer tear reduction.

Yeah, this should definitely be a thing.

This is some “4-Day Workweek” shit, right here…

I have a Bumble crush on a chef, and it just occurred to me that dating a chef would be a very efficient one-stop shop for all the things I need in my body.

He’d be a timesaver, really.

Time for a new OS

I’ve posted about this before, but what’s SUPER fun about depression is all the ways it looks that I didn’t know about before I saw doctors for it. And apparently in ME, it looks a lot like being an exhausted, lazy asshole. And since I frequently AM an exhausted lazy, asshole, it’s hard to differentiate.

So basically any time I’m tired I get anxious that I’m depressed, and then I can’t sleep, which is just goddamn delightful.

And I’m still not convinced I even HAVE depression. I feel like there’s a diet or a vitamin I haven’t tried yet that would just fix me right up, and my doctors are just throwing pills at me because that’s what doctors do for middle-aged, middle-class white women. Maybe all I need is, like, less gluten and more St. John’s Wort or whatever the shit.

Human brains and bodies are stupid and obsolete. I demand an upgrade.