The City of Brotherly Leave Me the Fuck Alone

I wonder how many men have ever felt the need to re-route their walk home because, while it’s LIKELY the creepy subway dude who’d referred to them as both “honey” AND “baby” had the same simple, innocuous thought they did, and decided to walk the mile back to their mutual neighborhood rather than wait another half hour for the next bus, the fact remains he WAS walking a short distance behind them for a bit, and they can really never be SURE…

Also, what the hell? My therapist ASSURED me my emotional walls were so high that men couldn’t even see me. Aside from that one dude, I’d been walking no more than 5 minutes before two other men felt the need to say “hi” to me.

Um… Did I get hotter? Or, more likely, did my self-esteem dip a little lower today and y’all can just smell it? Jesus Christ, leave me alone.

My needs are simple, but very specific.

One of my dating matches asked about my “guilty pleasure” entertainment choices, and aside from “I never feel guilty about pleasure,” which just sounds filthy in a way I’m not yet going for… I dunno, I’m pretty open about the lame shit I like. I’m not trying to make a guy go to a Pistol Annies show with me, or watch “Jane the Virgin,” or go see “Legally Blonde: the Musical” the 47 more times I’M totally gonna go see it before it leaves Philly. I don’t need you for that.

I mean, I AM gonna need you to like John Mulaney so I know you’re not a goddamn soulless monster, but I don’t feel guilty about that at all. A lady has to have standards, sir.

Sure, yeah, vacations TOTALLY reduce anxiety…

Today is Day 9 of my 10-day vacation, and it’s the only day I don’t HAVE to do anything.

But I started thinking about getting my apartment in order while I have time, and then about what kind of decor and furniture I want, which led to remembering I have zero sense of style, and to wondering HOW I have such a wide spectrum of things that appeal to me, like how I equally want my apartment to look like Olivia Pope’s but also just bought groovy yoga art and hot pink mixing bowls, and to “Do I want to stay in my tiny apartment or get a bigger place so I can have other rooms to play with different styles, AND an office and a dishwasher?” and to “City or suburbs?” and to “East Coast or West?” and to “What do I want from my fucking LIFE?!”, which led to a headache, and now I’m going back to bed.

That is what I want from life.

See also: Replacing this cup of coffee with water, and perhaps also Valium.

This should be the next #VisitPhilly campaign.

I went to check in at my hair salon on Facebook, and I had not previously been aware of the nearby options, but this sounds like the itinerary for an excellent day.

(The middle one is a Mexican restaurant.)

I’m no geography buff, buuut…

Sorry, man. I can’t date anyone who doesn’t know where they live.

I think what you’re looking for in a username is “NotPhillyNotEvenTheSameState,” but I guess I can see where that would get unwieldy.

Get your dickets now!

Man, Facebook’s algorithms are really getting good at zeroing in on my interests. #AllStarCock #BrotherlyLoveIndeed

🎶 Fly, Eagles, fly, on the road to man-splain-ing… 🎵

I know a few men who will see me on Facebook offhandedly saying I don’t understand something and then JUMP to explain it to me in my DMs, 1) as if I don’t have Google, and 2) as if I care.

I don’t need to understand everything, especially sports. I do not care how the Eagles won the game last night. And no one is rewarding me with orgasms or snacks for pretending I care, soooo I’m not gonna. Run along.

“Will you remember meeee…?”

Forgotten Bottom: Philadelphia neighborhood, or title of my forthcoming autobiography?

P.S. “Search here”…in Forgotten Bottom… <Beavis laugh>

Dude, God don’t like ugly…

Holy shit, when did Philadelphia become part of the Bible Belt?

“Everything hurts and I’m dying.”

Last time my body was being weird with my menstrual cycle, my doctor told me to stop taking my birth control pill, let my body menstruate for a few days, and then go back to taking it as prescribed so it stops. That was maybe a year ago, and it worked. Cool.

 

Now my body is being weird again, so I did the same thing, and…Jesus Christ, now I remember why they prescribed the pill to make it stop. I really did not miss having a period.

 

Between this and the ballsack-y humidity in Philly, I MAY actually be dying. Every part of me feels puffy, and like it weighs 100 pounds. Everyone and everything is SO much more annoying. Getting out of bed this week has been like a goddamn Ironman. And there is just NOT. ENOUGH. SALT.

 

If I can’t make as much money as a man, can I least get a few days off for THIS horseshit?

 

Fuck you, Nature, seriously.