Y’all, I may be dead inside and stuck in heinous rush hour traffic, but even *I* can’t keep this dipshit look off my face listenting to Michelle Obama recount her early courtship with Barack. JESUS, people, I’m not made of wood. This shit is cuter than a Hallmark movie about kittens wearing tiny sweaters. COME ON. #IAMBECOMING
Me: “He texted and told me he could still smell my perfume on his pillow and I melted like a little bitch.”
Friend: “Of course you melted. That’s fucking baller.”
I don’t know what it says about me that I officially lost interest in a man when he said the hooker-client relationship was too impersonal: “There’s no love there, no little notes on your car windshield.”
So…your degree is not in rocket science, is it? That’s the POINT — professional fucking and no ridiculous feelings. Not all of us enjoy romance via vehicular litter.
A horrible ad has been popping up on my Pandora Radio lately, telling me, “This Valentine’s Day, give your man a not-so-subtle hint: Tell him to order flowers from Such-and-Such Place.”
Wow, what a spontaneous and romantic gesture that’ll be for me. Should I go select the exact bouquet I want and just send him a link, or does he at least get THAT much credit? Because OMG, men are SO clueless, amirite, ladies?!
I once had an ex tell me I “hint with a hammer,” because I usually just say what I want, but I’ve never pulled THAT shit.
Jesus Christ, if Valentine’s Day is that important to you, your Person should know to get your fucking flowers.
I like Valentine’s Day. When in a relationship, I personally like to spend it at home with a movie, pizza, and nudity, because I’ve generally felt loved every day in my relationships and don’t feel the need to make it such a Thing. (I am also cheap and lazy.) But still, I like love and celebrations thereof. I like flowers and hearts and pink crap and on-sale candy the next day.
But I hate the implication that all women are whoreticulturists and all men are inept.
…It’s possible I have too many feelings about this.
I just learned Netflix lists Don Jon under “Romance.”
I guess they’d be getting too specific if they started doing categories like “Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s fine ass.”
Email to a friend while finally watching Wall-E:
“A big aircraft just fucked up Wall-E’s wasteland, and he was scared and sad-eyed under rubble, and I may have felt terrible for him and started to cry, and now Girl Wall-E just landed. I might not be able to handle this movie while on a hormonal ‘I’m gonna die alone and sexless’ bender.”
I sent the disc back to Netflix and will be replacing it with Despicable Me 2. Minions don’t require romance, only shenanigans. (I promise to try Wall-E again some day.)
But I can’t be the only person who thinks that, in a certain state of mind, Pixar movies could easily lead you down a severe depression rabbit hole. I’m definitely not the only person I know who wanted to jump off a building after watching Up!, and that was when I was in a happy relationship. And Jesus Christ, the first 10 minutes of Finding Nemo, I was on the floor in tears.
Pixar movies should come with Prozac. Best tie-in ever, even better than the free-refills vat of soda my theater offered with the purchase of a Hunger Gamescollectible cup.
HuffPost blog: Tips for the “Summer of Flirtation.”
“We are flummoxed as to how ‘playing it cool’ became the standard for anything, especially in romance, where the whole point is passion… It can feel vulnerable to express joy because it signifies we really care, [and] we run the risk of being disappointed or disheartened. But this is precisely why your uninhibited, un-self-conscious expressions of joy are so sexy! They display your fearlessness, your lack of self-consciousness, and your giant heart.”
I’m usually like this, but I’ve been kind of on mute lately. Mostly because I’ve realized there IS such a thing as too much flirting, and openness isn’t always sexy. Or, rather, I suppose it’s not sexy when you’re open with the wrong people. When you find the right ones, it’s insanely hot and delightfully refreshing.