“Drugs, man, capital D, Drugs.”

10:30 a.m. and already the kind of day I’m just going to take whatever pills are in my purse and hope for the best.

(Relax. There’s only Advil, aspirin, and allergy meds. The good shit’s at home.)

In honor of Hump Day…

Friend: “I’m reading an essay on Britney Spears (don’t you judge me) and I don’t think I’d ever seen the cover to ‘Oops, I Did It Again.’ She’s got a cameltoe about four blocks long.” 

Me: “I’d never seen it, either, but Jesus Christ, I just Googled it. You’re not wrong. Those lips are more prominent than the ones on her face.”

Friend: “I feel I may have done myself a disservice by not delving deeper (heh) into her oeuvre (heh).”

Me: “I can’t believe we’re adults.”

Upon further reflection, I think an underappreciated benchmark of adulthood may be working the word “oeuvre” into a cameltoe joke. That’s craft, right there.

Hump Daaayyyy, indeed

I’d been thinking about asking my friend Mike to be my friend with benefits.

But every time I think about saying his name during sex, I can’t help thinking of that Geico “hump day” commercial — “Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike!” (And also, ’cause…well, humping.)

I may never fuck anyone named Mike again. If we ever had sex on a Wednesday, I don’t know that I’d be able to stop myself from laughing, or at least panting, “Hump daaayyyyy” during my orgasm. It’d be really tough to keep me focused.