My needs are simple, but very specific.

One of my dating matches asked about my “guilty pleasure” entertainment choices, and aside from “I never feel guilty about pleasure,” which just sounds filthy in a way I’m not yet going for… I dunno, I’m pretty open about the lame shit I like. I’m not trying to make a guy go to a Pistol Annies show with me, or watch “Jane the Virgin,” or go see “Legally Blonde: the Musical” the 47 more times I’M totally gonna go see it before it leaves Philly. I don’t need you for that.

I mean, I AM gonna need you to like John Mulaney so I know you’re not a goddamn soulless monster, but I don’t feel guilty about that at all. A lady has to have standards, sir.

Ugh. It’s like my therapist wants me to feel…BETTER.

Tonight I told my therapist I’m going to a doctor for a yearly checkup. She said, “Suppose the doctor says your bloodwork is fine, and your only prescription is more exercise — that a consistent workout regimen would definitely make everything better. Would that motivate you to make it a more regular habit instead of just once in a while?” And I told her no. I wouldn’t take a “real” doctor’s order any more seriously than my therapist’s. I know hippies will sing the praises of exercise until the goddamn grass-fed, rainbow-raised cows come home. But I’m waiting for the day they say it’s all horseshit, like they just did with flossing. Dentists have been up our asses with floss for, what, 50 years? Then suddenly they’re all, “NOPE, it’s just minty string.” (I don’t necessarily believe that, I’m just being petulant.)

But I get it: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”

Fine, I’ll add more exercise. Fine. FINE.

Then again, maybe I won’t.

I’m doing that thing where you write a text but then delete it without sending it because you’re too cool. But then I write it again. And delete it again. Because I’m cool.

I’m not cool, you guys. I’m a goddamn spaz.

(Have we taken “spaz” off the politically correct table yet? I feel like we should, but Paulette called herself “spastic” in “Legally Blonde,” and we all know “Legally Blonde” is basically the law. So I’m allowing it.)

Supporting the Arts. With Nudity!

So I went to a sex shop last night. Like ya do.

And I think I figured out what I want for my next birthday. And how I want to decorate my apartment.


This is amazing. It’s like a Color Run. But instead of running, you get to roll around naked, which is just SO MUCH BETTER than running! You’re naked, and you throw paint on each other, and you tussle around on this blank canvas, and then it’s ART.

Fuck you, Degas — your silly little dancers totally should have done this.

Da Vinci, you bush-league bastard! Why didn’t YOU think of this?! Mona Lisa would have had a WAY bigger smile!

If you guys get this for me, and then also bring me a playmate (Wait! Make that an “artistic collaborator!”), I’ll SHOW you “Expressionism.” My birthday is in a couple of months. Make it so!