Putting the “men” in “entitlement.”

A 27-year-old on OkCupid sent me an intro message the other night, and I wasn’t interested, so I deleted it without responding.

This morning he sent a followup message: “You’re too pretty to give up on. I’m very persistent!”

Sweetie? This brand of “persistence” does not end with you getting the girl. Please don’t make me get all J. Lo in Enough — no one needs to see my midriff, I’m too lazy to learn boxing, and I would look absurd with that haircut. So maybe just quit being a dick.

I’ve also noticed many profiles that say things like, “If I send you a message, it’s rude to just ignore it and leave me wondering. The least you can do is write back to say you’re not interested.” Um, no, actually. The LEAST I can do is ignore you. It’s one click to delete a message. Writing you back adds the effort of keystrokes, so… that’s more I’d have to do, not least. See how words work?

And boo hoo, a stranger finds me “rude?” Not polite and acquiescent like a proper lady should be? I’m sad. No, really. This is my sad face.

If a guy doesn’t respond to my message within a day or two, I don’t wonder — he’s not interested.

Via Body For Wife: She Doesn’t Owe You Shit

My friendship with Internet science is decidedly NOT magic

Well. That is excellent.

I mean, I already knew, from that clusterfuck with That Guy and a few experiences since — I’m going through one now, actually. I am clearly a shit judge of friendship, but knowing there’s science afoot doesn’t make it any less depressing.

Thanks, Internet. You are NOT my friend. At least I know that.

Sad Study Shows Most of Your Friends Don’t Actually Like You

The elephant in the room.

Quick acknowledgment: I am not a complete asshole. I’m aware of the fucked-up shit happening in the world right now. I am not trying to be insensitive. Quite the opposite, actually — I am so OVER-sensitive that if I tune into the news too much, I will end up on my living room floor in a ball, weeping for humanity.

It happened after 9/11. It happened after Newtown. It happened after the Boston Marathon. It’s why I’ve had bitchface all day today and am currently hiding from the world with spiked cider and a book.

For the most part, my goal here is to make you guys laugh if I can. So that’s what I’m going to keep trying to do. You have enough anger and sadness on your social media — I have nothing to contribute you haven’t already heard a million times. And my thoughts on world events are more than likely not why you’re here reading the po’ folks’ Carrie Bradshaw.

So. I’m gonna go on making my little jokes and trying not to end up in The Weepy Floor Ball, which is the world’s shittiest yoga pose.

I love y’all.

As you were.

“Genie…I wish for your freedom.”

If I’d known about Robin Williams earlier, I definitely would’ve stopped for ice cream on the way home from my stressful workday. I haven’t enjoyed a Robin Williams movie since Goodwill Hunting, which was 1997, so I have no real explanation for why my Twitter feed had me in tears tonight. But these feelings could definitely stand to be eaten.

But for those of you who remember the pistachio story, rest assured, I’m still not sad enough to eat that shit. (Yes, it’s still in the freezer. Yes, I KNOW.)

I love you guys, though. And rest in peace, my Captain.

In which the Universe can eat a dick because I can’t.

Dear Universe,

I realize your goal in screwing up my non-romantic world this week may be to make me realize I should stop thinking so much about men.

But the joke’s on you, Asshole — all I want is to have the men hug me, or alternately have them fuck the holy hell out of me so I can feel something else besides sad. And then I realize no one wants to do those things, and it makes me sadder. So you? Can go fuck yourself.

No love,
Smug

P.S. Yeah, yeah, I’ll learn that I’m stronger than I think and can get by with a little help from my friends and all that happy horseshit. FINE. You’re still an asshole.

P.P.M.S. It’s possible this may be hormone-driven.