Too cold, fuck you, don’t wanna.

It occurs to me that, to combat my seasonal bullshit brain, I may have to stop sleeping naked under 400 blankets. I live in a drafty old house and despise getting out of bed even more than usual when it gets cold outside, because I hate feeling cold air on my ass, so I just…don’t get out of bed. Too cold, fuck you, don’t wanna.

Oh, darn. Looks like I’ll have to go buy MORE adorable pajamas. Like…FOR MY HEALTH, really. FOR MORALE.

(Probably also window treatments and a space heater, but it’s more fun to focus on cute pajamas.)

iTherapy

I just had therapy via FaceTime, sitting in bed, still in pajamas, with bedhead, no bra, and fuzzy socks, because America is amazing.

I won’t do it often, because I think my discomfort at being trapped in an office with a psyche ninja helps me share, but it’s a nice option to have.

My new career as a stripper: It’s handled.

So I searched Amazon for “petite satin pajamas” and…

Damn. That’s a mighty bold interpretation, Amazon.

I wanted Olivia Pope, not Olivia POLE.

Kelly Bundy, Kimmy Schmidt, and the “Grey’s Anatomy” method of avoidance.

Wow. WordPress readers really love my anxiety, don’t they?

More years ago than I care to consider, there was a show called Married with Children that probably wouldn’t make it in today’s infinitely-more-PC TV landscape. I remember people being offended by it at the time, but it was the late ’80s/early ’90s and most people didn’t give a fuck.

So there was the dumb blonde bimbo daughter, Kelly (Christina Applegate). She’s more appealing than her sports-fan father, so she goes on a sports trivia show in his place. But she knows nothing about sports, so he fills her brain with trivia before the show, and for every sports fact she absorbs, a bit of basic life knowledge leaves her brain, rendering her dumbstruck (seen here) when asked to recall everyday knowledge.

That’s where I am right now. For every bit of bullshit my brain has encountered this week, I’ve lost knowledge and patience. This morning I stood in the shower with conditioner on my hair, and for just a second completely blanked on what the next step was. And I just snapped at my brother because he’s being a fucking asshole. (Though I do kind of love it when I finally give up on trying to be polite and just say what I’m thinking.)

Family issues, friend concerns, medication that’s ruining my appetite and dehydrating me, not sleeping, and additional things with That Guy, all in those 3 days of spiked blog stats… I’m out. I spent my workday NOT FUCKING WORKING, but rather ensnared in a texting clusterfuck with aforementioned brother.

Also, I know my friends love me and will listen to me, but I’m sick of being the Needy Friend — they’ve heard a LOT this week, I sent a goddamn list. (Subject line: “No advice needed; just FYI, everything is fucked.”) I’ve talked to friends, a therapist, my personal journal, and you people. I am tired of thinking and talking about my fucking feelings. I’m not even upset, per se — I just want to go home and sit there for a week or so and not talk to anyone or think about anything. Maybe just spend the whole week re-watching all of Grey’s Anatomy in my pajamas.

So yeah. I’m currently at a Bundy Brain grade 4. I’m gonna pull a reverse Kimmy Schmidt and put my ass into the doomsday bunker.

WordPress is watching you.

WordPress is kind enough to track the search terms that lead people to my page.

Here are a few:

• “Miranda Lambert slutty” (If by “slutty,” you mean “fabulous.”)
• “Kerry Washington receiving oral sex” (I wish I didn’t want to see this, but I’d totally watch for at least a few minutes.)
• “Anal smug” (Nooope.)
• “americanwomanfuck” (Yes, please.)
• “woman on top sex positions” (yes, please, pretty please?)
• “glad I don’t have balls” (Always.)
• “Netflix and chill pajamas” (THAT’S THE DREAM!)

I love you all, you depraved bastards.

In which Facebook suggests I die alone.

“Suggested Post” is apparently code for “Making sure you stay single.”

My body is NOT a winter wonderland.

 
Eh. I don’t know. Do you have the spring boyfriends in yet? I’m slightly crazier in the winter, plus there’s all that driving and family time and spending money on gifts and meals between now and Valentine’s.

My dating representative — Public Consumption Smug — is currently busy hermiting under a mountain of blankets. The only way I’d be down for “Netflix and chill” is in the literal sense — I have popcorn and bourbon cider, you bring the movie. I will wear my finest pajamas and will even locate MATCHING fuzzy socks.

This is my game at this point, y’all.

Joking aside, were there a man on this couch, I’m pretty sure I could summon the energy to have ill-advised sex with him, assuming he could get it up on spec for the presumptive bounty lurking beneath the Temple hoodie and yoga pants. #SexyAndIKnowIt

I love the implication that it’s just THAT easy to “claim” a man who’ll deal with me, and me with him, long enough to get promoted to “boyfriend.” See, what you have here, Hinge, is applicants for the “seasonal help wanted” sign on my vagina. That’s not a boyfriend, sweetie, that’s a temp — he’d be filling an opening. Like at the Gap (heh). Stop trying to make it all rom-com.

#TGIT! Let’s do this, People!

“Work helps. So does exercise. Stuff that numbs you, keeps you from thinking too much. It also helps to remember that he hates you, and it helps to try to hate him too.”
— Olivia Pope

White pajamas, wine and popcorn at the ready. Less than 2 hours until I no longer have to #CopeWithoutPope!