My memory is just fine, Facebook. THANKS.

You know those Facebook Memories where it shows you what you were doing on this day however many years ago?

The one I just saw might as well have said, “Ha ha, remember that time you were about to fuck up your whole life? MAN! Good times,” and then punched me in the stomach.

Eat a dick, Facebook.

All things considered, my life has turned out pretty well, but damn — between careers and homes and relationships and assholes, that was a lot of progress to process before I even finished my coffee. This probably explains why I’m so hesitant to change very much in those realms right now.

Unless Robert Downey Jr. calls. Then all bets are off. And so are my panties. (Joking. I would never have on underwear if I were anywhere NEAR Robert Downey Jr. I would always wear dresses and trampy nightgowns and go commando, so he could have a 24/7 all-access pass.)

Iron Man 4: In My Pants.

I think if I can sincerely text a guy and say, “I’ve been switched on specifically for you ALLLLL day. It’s starting to hurt a little. Come do unspeakable things to my willing, naked body,” that the recipient should be contractually — nay, morally! — obligated to come service me. (Funny, “come service” is exactly what I had in mind.)

To that end, someone please send me Robert Downey Jr.’s phone number.

You’d think he’d have advisers for this kind of thing.

Finally watching Iron Man and wondering sincerely why Robert Downey Jr. wears a shirt, like, ever.

You have a gift, sir. Share it with the world.

Marvel! At my ladybits.

Discussing celebrities with friends…

Me: “I hope Robert Downey Jr.’s addictive personality traits apply to my vagina as enthusiastically as they did to cocaine.”

Friend: “I’m sure they would. I mean, how could he fail to keep you up all night? He’s Ironman.”