I understand why this isn’t allowed, but I really think I could be trusted to judiciously self-administer maybe six Xanax per year — just one for every time I see my parents.
But fine. I’ll just eat too much at brunch. Pancakes and Xanax are basically the same. (Panax? OMG, no — Xancakes! GIMME.)
I’m impressed with my suddenly seemingly stronger constitution, which did allow me to cry about my hurt feelings every chance I got for 36 hours, but then suddenly it was like, “Hey, you know what? Fuck you, Person Who Hurt Me,” and then there were pancakes and a new vibrator and everything was kind of OK again.
P.S. Oh, eat a dick, iPhone. You know good goddamn well what I meant, you judgey whore.
I know it’s a common name, but it still amuses my brain sometimes when I talk to my coworker Rob and vividly remember a very different Rob who really (REALLY) liked hearing his name in combination with “Fuck me harder.”
I really wish I’d said that because I’m super smooth in bed and intrinsically attuned to my partner’s needs. But really, the first time I said it I was just bored. Thankfully most orders a woman gasps while hovering around orgasm sound fairly sexy — I could’ve said “Let’s get pancakes later, Rob” in that voice and it probably would’ve helped him along. But I’m glad he was happy, and it got me to my destination as well.
One more on last night’s yoga class:
It was all women in the class, and at one point the instructor had us rotate our ankles, because “a lot of your acupressure points for hormonal issues are in your ankles. Makes sense, doesn’t it? No wonder we have those issues, men make us wear those high heels!”
Ahem.
1. You don’t even wear high heels, Hippie, I can tell. You wear Birkenstocks if you wear shoes at all. You just walk around on a groovy hemp-based cloud.
2. No man has ever MADE me wear anything. I wear heels because I’m 2 feet tall and chubby, so if and when I CHOOSE put on heels, I’m taller, and my legs and ass look AMAZING, and they add bonus sway to my Olivia Pope strut. Do I wear heels to attract men by tricking them into thinking I’m sexy? Absolutely. But they don’t MAKE me. (And yeah, I know I’ve been raised by male-controlled media to think all this is true, but…I mean, it’s true. Heels make me feel sexy and bad-ass. Blow me, Birkenstock.)
3. Ever leave heels on for a guy? That right there is how you get pancakes after.
#HellOnHeels
I’m still in bed under a mountain of blankets — LIKE AN AMERICAN. But I’m listening to a Louis C.K. bit where he says, “Who wants to blow their husband? You want to blow a guy you’ve been dating. And he’s mysterious and you suck his cock and go home. Who wants to blow a guy and then go to IKEA with him?”
Um…*raising hand* That’s, like, my dream. You come here right now and add pancakes to that equation, you’ve got yourself a bride, my friend.
Oh, go fuck yourself, Pinterest. I just double-checked The Bible, and yeah — ain’t nothin’ in there about sinful pancakes. 
(OK, we all know my heathen ass doesn’t have a Bible around for quIck reference. But I’m pretty sure about this one. Gluttony, sure, but it’s not pancake-specific. How dare you sully the good name of pancakes? This is a pancake hate crime. That is NOT what Jesus would do.)
Also, now I want pancakes. FOR THE LORD.
Headline on Google News: “Six Phrases More Important than ‘I Love You.'”
Hmm…
1. “You look great today.”
2. “I brought you coffee.”
3. “I’ll keep going until you’re satisfied.”
4. “I’ll leave you alone to watch ‘Scandal.'”
5. “I cleaned up the house a bit.”
6. “Let’s get some pancakes.”
My needs are simple.
Smug Singleton 