I already know I’m an asshole.

This is one of those times I’m AWARE I’m an asshole. You don’t have to tell me. Cool? Cool.

My father emailed all his daughters to wish us a nice holiday weekend and he said, for the first time ever in my life, “Love you to the moon and back,” and instead of feeling touched and all a’squish with love, MY jackass brain went, “What the fuck does that even MEAN? Why is this a thing?”

In my defense, I’ve been seeing that phrase everywhere lately on, like, inspirational framed posters and shit and wondered the same thing. I guess I just get extra pissy when it’s aimed at me.

I mean no offense if you use this expression. I’m just on marketing overload with it, and I have questions. Like…why the moon? Why don’t you love me to Neptune and back? That’s some cold shit. Wait…is Neptune farther than the moon? And then, see, I have to realize how little I remember about the solar system and now I feel stupid. Your love reminds me I’m stupid — THANKS.

Can you love me to Italy and back? Bring me some gelato while you’re out.

Oh, no, “O”…

Based on my limited experience, it’s not usually his heart that’s cheating, is it, O Magazine?

I’ve never had a cheating man ask me to stroke his heart. They don’t text at 3 a.m. looking for deep, penetrating…heart-to-heart conversation.

But I guess “his cheating dick” was kinda inappropes for the supermarket checkout.

(Again, limited experience. My heart has cheated, I’m sure others’ have, too.)

Just one day of asshole amnesty

I don’t do the “America, fuck yeah!” post, and I don’t do “Where I was on 9/11,” because no one cares where I was. It’s even more narcissistic than “thoughts and prayers” — “I mean, yeah, thousands died, but here’s what *I* was doing!” 

I realize even doing THIS is self-centered.
But I take today as an opportunity to let the people I love know I appreciate them, so… Hey, guys. I appreciate you. Thanks for following my silliness. 💕

Here’s hoping you don’t encounter any dumbass online anger or terrible people today. Hug someone cool.

And hey, if you’re a dick and I don’t realize because I don’t know you, maybe take the day off and don’t be a dick? Try it, see how it goes. You can always go back to dick tomorrow. (Wait, no…not what I meant…)

The MySpace Matchmaker

Around 6 years ago I introduced my Male BFF to one of my Female BFFs via the final flickering embers of MySpace. I thought they’d get along well and HAD to meet, even if only to screw each other senseless and call it a day. When your prudish friend tells you, “OMG, you two need to fuck,” I think you HAVE to. That’s a thing, right?

And fuck they did! But as I’d hoped, they also liked each other.

So last night I had the privilege of being among the friends and family invited to be there when he proposed to her on the beach, under a starry sky and accompanied by the sound of the waves rolling in nearby.

She accepted. I did good, you guys.

And because all roads lead to Friends — “I just thought you guys were doing it, I didn’t know you were in love!” ❤️

Now, moving on to what’s really important: Which of the groomsmen am I going to bang in the coat room at their reception? Instead of a finder’s FEE for my matchmaking, I should get a finder’s fuck, no?

You are funnier than me and I hate you for it: a love story.

One of the books I read while on vacation was So Sad Today by Melissa Broder.

I remain faintly annoyed at how good and funny it is, because I didn’t write it.

(This is just from one chapter; the whole book isn’t lists of “love stories.”)

“I’m not trying to land him, I’m just using him for sex.”

I don’t know what it says about me that I officially lost interest in a man when he said the hooker-client relationship was too impersonal: “There’s no love there, no little notes on your car windshield.”

So…your degree is not in rocket science, is it? That’s the POINT — professional fucking and no ridiculous feelings. Not all of us enjoy romance via vehicular litter.

Star-Kris-Krossed Love

Happy Valentine’s Day, my loves. Have a splendid and safe day.

I’ll be spending mine orally fixated on a trough of manicotti, and later making sweet, sweet love to an irresponsible number of Godiva salted caramels. (Candy-based promiscuity is the best promiscuity.)

See also: watching Friends with Benefits again, because Justin Timberlake singing Kris Kross is EVERYONE’s Valentine.

Love and many kisses,
Smug  

Floral Sex

A horrible ad has been popping up on my Pandora Radio lately, telling me, “This Valentine’s Day, give your man a not-so-subtle hint: Tell him to order flowers from Such-and-Such Place.”

Tell…TELL HIM?!

Wow, what a spontaneous and romantic gesture that’ll be for me. Should I go select the exact bouquet I want and just send him a link, or does he at least get THAT much credit? Because OMG, men are SO clueless, amirite, ladies?!

I once had an ex tell me I “hint with a hammer,” because I usually just say what I want, but I’ve never pulled THAT shit.

Jesus Christ, if Valentine’s Day is that important to you, your Person should know to get your fucking flowers.

I like Valentine’s Day. When in a relationship, I personally like to spend it at home with a movie, pizza, and nudity, because I’ve generally felt loved every day in my relationships and don’t feel the need to make it such a Thing. (I am also cheap and lazy.) But still, I like love and celebrations thereof. I like flowers and hearts and pink crap and on-sale candy the next day.

But I hate the implication that all women are whoreticulturists and all men are inept.

…It’s possible I have too many feelings about this.

All about that baseline

I don’t remember where I heard that the way you bring in a new year sets the tone for the entire year. And I know, the way some people celebrate New Year’s, that would be ridiculous: “I want to spend 2016 drunk and freezing my balls off in Times Square, wearing a stupid corporate-branded hat and squished against a bajillion other people!”**

Still, if that idea is even a little true, I’m kind of OK with spending this year employed (two jobs, even), well rested, well sheltered and warm, reasonably attractive, and having a group of bad-ass, supportive people who love me.

See also: coffee, bourbon, hugs from friends’ kids, lipstick, and cookies.

Sure, there are elements of my life I’m trying to change. But if the above is my baseline, I’m not mad at it.

Happy official new year, you guys. I’m glad y’all are here.

** From a less snarky perspective, “I want to spend 2016 having memorable, once-in-a-lifetime adventures in exciting places with people I love” isn’t such a terrible plan.

Those hats are still the worst, though.

Merry Muddling!

Merry Christmas, you guys. May your liquor, ham, and patience be plentiful.

And remember, even if Jesus is the boss of you, this day isn’t. So if you’re just muddling through one way or another, high-five, ’cause we’re muddling together. Let’s make today our bitch. (“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”)

Have fun and be safe. I love y’all.

Kisses,
Smug