This year I am thankful for Netflix and pajamas.

Texting a friend after a chat with my boss…

Call Me By Your Name

Jesus Christ, book I’m reading. Just call me out by name next time, damn…

 

(The Year of Less, by Cait Flanders, if you wondered. I wasn’t expecting to feel so personally attacked by a book about saving money and getting rid of clutter.)

Professionally insecure

I had an insecure day at work, and I’m attempting to reason with the cunt-y part of my brain that’s telling me I’m complete shit at the ONE marketable skill I allegedly have.

But the thing is, the bitch in my brain doesn’t run on logic. So, “Hey, you still HAVE the job, and you just had a good annual review and got a raise!” And she’s like, “NOPE, doesn’t matter. You suck at everything and should just hole up in your hermit fortress and stare at the walls forever. Oh, and you’ll do that ALONE, as long as we’re planning.”

This part of my brain should be in Congress. Can’t tell that bitch SHIT.

But also, fuck you, Brain. I’m gonna give you sleep, then baked goods in the morning, and tomorrow will be better. You go ‘head and try talkin’ trash with a face fulla scone. Wench.

Seeking thoughts and prayers—the dirty kind.

I’m going to yet ANOTHER wedding by myself tomorrow.

Please send thoughts and prayers I end up AT LEAST getting drunkenly fondled in a coat closet this time.

You can just fuck right the hell off, actually.

This was Facebook’s suggested post for me today, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m-a go find me a window to jump out of. Not because I’m dying alone, I’m fine with that, but because this bullshit exists.

Sick Singleton

I was going to say it sucks being sick when you’re single, because I want someone to bring me fuzzy socks and juice, but then I realized anyone I’d date would probably be at work right now. So I think I just need a monkey butler.

Exhibit A…

H/T, George Carlin

George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”

And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…

The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.

The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.

The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)

The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.

The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”

The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”

Consummating someone else’s marriage.

Best text ever from the groom of the wedding I’m going to next month: “Just found out Groomsman Mark is newly single. You totally have my permission to drag him into a closet at the wedding. No judgment. :)”

My friends are better than your friends.

Note to self: wax all the things.

Accepting my fate as a sexless wonder.

Finally, officially put the “single” back in “Smug Singleton.”

Praise be to the universe for forcing me to finally do the right thing, and to my friend/spiritual adviser for yelling at me to gather my ladyballs and stop being an asshole. I’d rather know than wonder; he’s entitled to the same.