Whoring for whiskey and melted cheese

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!”

Radical feminist 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.”

“Swallow my doubt, turn it inside out…”

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.)

Zen and the Art of New Moon Nachos

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.

“Thin-spiration” doesn’t work on me. 

Headline: “Khloe Kardashian’s abs are the inspiration you need to make it to the gym today.” 

Um… no. No, they’re not.

Also? Fuck you. MY abs are the inspiration you need to make dough. So they’re WAY better. 

I looked at the photo, and I still don’t want to go to the gym. I am inspired to go home and make nachos. So there.

Oral Sex and Nachos.

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?