No one’s looking at my face today.

I woke up sick, and literally the only thing getting me out of bed is the plans I had that provide higher-than-average odds for meeting and mingling with sexy nerd boys.

Thankfully no one I really want to hang out with would care if I do my hair and put on makeup — just a low-cut shirt should cover it. (Or not, I suppose is the point.)

Nerds. NERDS!

When nerds argue: “How is it helpful for either of us to NOT talk and just let our presumptions fester? You were quiet because you thought I needed space, and I was quiet because I thought you were happy I was out of your life — that’s like a really shitty Gift of the Magi.”

“I’m just a girl, oh, little ol’ me…”

The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”

1. Fuck you.

2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.

3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).

Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.

Or I’m just a bitch.