Dead inside, sure. But not a MONSTER.

Y’all. He asked her AGAIN.

I’m not made of stone, for heaven’s sake — that’s a-goddamn-dorable.

Sweet Home Anxiety

I’m watching Sweet Home Alabama, and even when I saw it in the theater, when he takes her into Tiffany and tells her to “pick one” engagement ring, I got anxious. That’s too many choices, I’ll be here for 14 hours. YOU pick one. I’m-a go get a pretzel.

(And by “YOU pick one,” I mean pick one at Kohl’s and use the rest of the money to take us to Italy.)

(OK, fine, not really Kohl’s — I’m not THAT bad. But he’d know which friends to call.)

“Diamonds are a girl’s best…wait, is that cake?”

I’m listening to Michelle Obama’s audiobook, and she’s describing how Barack proposed to her in a restaurant. The server brought the dessert plate and lifted the fancy lid, and there was “a dark velvet box where the chocolate cake was supposed to be.”

And, OK, fine — yay, congrats, mazel, etc.

But also, um… You’re still gonna bring my cake, right? It’s just backstage somewhere?

I feel like she really glossed over the important part.

What could you POSSIBLY want from me?

If there’s something weird that CAN happen with an ex-boyfriend, that weird thing is going to happen to me.

“Hey, what’s up, we never actually DATED 15 years ago, we just slept together, and never spoke again after I told you that needed to stop. But sure, by all means, send me a Facebook message request (because we’re not FB friends) that’s just the automated wave.”

I dated…SO many weirdos, you guys. And it’s ALWAYS the weirdos. No ex I WANT to hear from ever contacts me.

Also, I should mention that HIS WIFE has viewed my LinkedIn profile at least three times over the years. Maybe I’m in the running to be their guest star. (🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼!)

Dude is a hoarder of the LADIES, amirite?

Wait a second…

How am *I* dying alone while this dipshit walrus-lookin’ Hoarder with an old-school Nokia clipped to his belt is not only married but also has a sidepiece?

Motherfucker got ladies lined UP for that mustache ride, damn.

Petty with a Chance of Fiddles

I get a lot of (good-natured) ribbing for liking country music, but I don’t know how I could possibly NOT adore these lyrics paired with three sassy ladies, rollicking GUI-tars, and some motherfucking fiddles.

(Pistol Annies, “Got My Name Changed Back.” Catchy as fuck.)

Emotional spackle.

In happier news, there was no fondling at the wedding last night, but there was this, so…I mean, holes were filled.

Seeking thoughts and prayers—the dirty kind.

I’m going to yet ANOTHER wedding by myself tomorrow.

Please send thoughts and prayers I end up AT LEAST getting drunkenly fondled in a coat closet this time.

This is still true.

Oh, hey! Something not awful!

Signing this for an office wedding shower. Nice work, Carlton Cards (and my rad, progressive workplace)! 💕🏳️‍🌈