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