The Smug Singleton Projection

See, look at me, understanding a bad workweek is influencing my inclination to say, “Fuck this, I’m going home, and why is this New OkCupid Guy getting all bitchface at me? [He’s not, at all, my brain is just breaking.] I’m never dating again. No one’s dick is worth me having to get Date Pretty, what with the showering and the shaving things and the being charming — I have no charm, I hate everyone. I am officially OK dying sexless, peach fuzzy, and alone with my blankets and books.”

I KNOW WHEN I’M PROJECTING, SHITDICK ELBOW HECKLER.

Ahem. I feel better now.

I bet Kate Middleton does the same thing.

I have reached peak white trash. No, literally — I overslept, so my “shower” consisted of five baby wipes, dry shampoo, and a metric shit-ton of powder.

(Oh, please. Like I have a threshold for “oversharing.”)

#ClassyAsFuck

Greetings from the Drakkar Vortex.

In a fog of a male coworker’s cologne this morning at work, I am reminded of how much I adore and completely get off on the smell of a man just out of the shower. Maybe wearing deodorant, if you had time to put it on before I grabbed you and had my way with you.

Gentlemen. You smell amazing. Ease back on the Axe. Those commercials lie — I can’t get it up for you if I feel like someone punched me in the chest. I’m not one to science, but I don’t think that’s how pheromones work.