“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.)