Ah, the annual conundrum of the office Cinco de Mayo party: not loving the racism, but REALLY loving the nachos. #ConscientiousGuacamole
Emailing a friend who’s been to this bar with me a bunch of times…
“This guy’s OkCupid profile says he owns a ‘craft beer and whiskey bar in Philadelphia.’
[screenshot pic of guy wearing bar-branded t-shirt]
“DUDE. Will fuck for whiskey and nachos!”
I saw a shirt online that said “Ask me about my radical feminist agenda,” and I think I need it, mostly because if anyone actually asked, I’d probably just say “Nachos.”
I guess maybe “nacho equality.” Like, “I want 100% nachos, not 78% or whatever it is. I want as many nachos as a man. And extra cheese. For, um…restitution or whatever.”
I had far too many feelings yesterday resulting from being social, so of course now that I have a free day to myself, as soon as I woke up they all came rushing back, and it was like a team of squirrels took over my brain and started playing emotional volleyball — “Sad about this!” *pass* “Insecure about that!” *pass* “Oh, hey, what about having kids, wanna rehash that one?” *pass*
Right. So I’ll be here all day with a slow drip of coffee martinis, watching comfort movies. I dare you to be sad when Justin Timberlake is serenading Mila Kunis with Kris Kross’s “Jump.” (Plus…dat ass.)
Or, hell, this seems like a pretty solid state of mind to finally go see
Inside Out and just embrace it all. (Obviously with a venti spiked Starbucks and a big fuck-off tray of theater nachos. That’s just being prepared; I learned that shit in Girl Scouts.)
Note to self: Go to yoga. You like yoga. You need yoga.
Ahem… I SUPER don’t want to go. It’s “New Moon yoga” at 7:45, but because I am 100 years old, that might as well be midnight.
Can’t I just welcome the new moon, like, at home in yoga PANTS?
Besides, the new moon already happened this month, and I honestly don’t even know what a new moon signifies. I know it’s about cycles, so…does it have to do with my period? When you Google “new moon,” “Twilight” movies come up, so fuck the new moon.
How ’bout I just go home and make new moon nachos? Nachos are HELLA zen. I bet I can find all my inner peace with nachos.
Headline: “Khloe Kardashian’s abs are the inspiration you need to make it to the gym today.”
I don’t have strong feelings about Adam Levine either way, but I laughed a lot reading this article: Adam Levine is Not the Sexiest Man Alive. Adam Levine is the Worst.
Also, forget celebrities — the “sexiest man alive” is whichever man is making me come and then making me snacks. I’m starting my own magazine for sexy men. I just need a name. What’s a shorter version of “He’ll go down on you ’til you’re a mere shell of your former self, and then he’ll make you nachos?”
Macho Nachos magazine? (Crotchos would just be vulgar.)
Culinary COMEfort magazine? (
You could do Cumfort, but I’ve always hated that spelling.)
Eat Allllll the Things (Including Me!) magazine?