No-talent assclown, never even won a Grammy…

Me: “My scale still hasn’t moved, but I can see and feel changes in my body, so I know the scale is just being a jerk.”

Therapist: “I’m glad you blame the scale. Some people blame themselves, thinking they have to exercise more often or restrict their diets more.”

Me: “No way. Why should *I* change? He’s the one who sucks.”

Aaand that’s how I decided to name my scale Michael Bolton.

My pH is as imbalanced as my brain.

So…this is WAY more than anyone needs to know, but frankly I blame the most recent episode of Crazy Ex Girlfriend for my sudden freedom… 

I often get frustrated because my body doesn’t just tell me what it needs, like maybe I don’t even HAVE depression, maybe I just need vitamin D or iron or something. I’d like a little alert system, is all.

But damn — you can always count on your vagina to let you KNOW when some shit is up. When you go to apee and think, “What the HELL is that smell?!” That is your lady garden, girl, and you are dehydrated as fuck. Maybe also pop some preemptive probiotics, because that’s definitely not ideal.

Just let me lick him. Just once!

Scott Foley is going gray and my body was not ready for these feelings.

UNF.

Let’s be honest, I just wanted to see the dog.

On one hand, canceling plans IS my favorite. Very little in life is better — dogs, sure, but not much else.

On the other hand, meeting dudes at my friends’ huge parties has been the only successful route to nookie I’ve had in recent memory, and I’m kinda pissed I’m too sick to go prowlin’, because I am cute as fuck in Christmas garb.

Plus there’s definitely a dog there.

Fuck you and your betrayin’ ass, Body. This is NOT the bed I want to be in.🖕🏼

“Everything hurts and I’m dying.”

Last time my body was being weird with my menstrual cycle, my doctor told me to stop taking my birth control pill, let my body menstruate for a few days, and then go back to taking it as prescribed so it stops. That was maybe a year ago, and it worked. Cool.

 

Now my body is being weird again, so I did the same thing, and…Jesus Christ, now I remember why they prescribed the pill to make it stop. I really did not miss having a period.

 

Between this and the ballsack-y humidity in Philly, I MAY actually be dying. Every part of me feels puffy, and like it weighs 100 pounds. Everyone and everything is SO much more annoying. Getting out of bed this week has been like a goddamn Ironman. And there is just NOT. ENOUGH. SALT.

 

If I can’t make as much money as a man, can I least get a few days off for THIS horseshit?

 

Fuck you, Nature, seriously.

I wouldn’t be allowed in Hot Sundae. But I could totally EAT a hot sundae.

I told a coworker I couldn’t run a mile if I tried, and she said, “Really? You look like you’re in shape.”

“Nooope. I’m SHAPED fine [as fuuuuuck*], but I am not IN shape.”

* [/ego trip]

“What Not to Wear” — THAT. Don’t wear THAT.

Aunt: “You look good, your outfit looks like an Ann Taylor ad.”

Me, aloud: “Thanks!”

Me, mentally: “Your outfit looks like ‘I have questions.'”

Praise be to any/all deities for providing me so many years of What Not to Wear, and other external influences to counteract an apparently genetic inclination to hide one’s body in giant clothes, or wear sweatpants to family parties.

P.S. I am a petty and small person. 

I could totally sit with you.

I wore a halter top to work today because I am classy as fuck.

But at least I can wear halters, because I don’t have man shoulders.

My pores are huge, but my hairline isn’t weird and my nail beds don’t suck, and I think my breath is OK in the morning. (I mean, obviously it’s not ideal, but no one’s ever run away or anything.)

So I think I’m orbiting the plus column today, appearance-criticism-wise.

P.S. Oh, and it’s Friday, so I’m wearing jeans, of course. It’s not like I’d wear the ugliest effing skirt you’d ever seen. I didn’t even buy that skirt; my friends weren’t around to ask if it looked good on me.

P.P.S. I’m not wearing hoop earrings, either—she told me those were her thing.

The new All-Wheel Drive Honda Singleton.

I’ve had a shitty week — just too much stupid all coinciding: relationships, finances, PMS, change in prescription drugs (I don’t think they’re supposed to make you feel worse), and ball-sacky weather. It’s mangling my body, my sleep, and my attitude.

I wish our bodies had more obvious gauges for things. A red light should come on to let you know you need to eat a vegetable because your body requires, like, riboflavin or whatever. Or, *ding ding* “Oh, OK, I have to exercise more and maybe I’ll stop feeling as if I’m constantly dragging my body through sand,” or, *BEEP* “Says here this drug is fucking me up. The gauge just told me to call the doctor and get THIS drug, and it’ll fix you right up.”

Or even a green light: “You’re OK, it’s just the heat. Crank the AC and drink more water.”

We need a more specific human schematic.

We should be able to upgrade our bodies like car models. I’d like the Sport features, please. 

Can my body get nav?

You’re not even a good fragrance of douche.

A few months ago I posted about a man from a neighboring office in my building. I pass him in the hall sometimes and we exchange workplace pleasantries. That day, though, he asked if I’d been dieting, because I looked “really good” and “like I’d lost weight.”

I’ve seen him a few times since, and we were back to, “Good morning, how are you?”

But I just saw him again and he said, “That’s a REALLY nice dress, it looks great on you!” And elevator-eyed me.

Dude, did you skip an HR seminar or something? The last time anyone looked at me like that at work, he and I were screwing around in office closets.

I feel like a hypocrite, too, because I wouldn’t have minded the compliment on my dress coming from a man I was attracted to, or even a man I knew. The phrasing of his weight loss/diet comment was unacceptable from anyone, though — was I previously too much of a heifer to look good?

*sigh* I need another shower.