The “P” in “PMS” stands for “pugilistic”

Apparently I’m so much of a flirt that men think it’s my default setting?

I’ve been texting with an OkCupid guy for a couple weeks. Today’s conversation began with him saying he hadn’t texted yesterday because his work life had been turned upside down, and then he found out his friend had been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic.

I told him I was sorry, that sucked, and I hoped the weekend treated him better. He asked how my week was going, and I said, “Pretty good, no complaints,” because that is the answer to that question.

Then he asked if I was “still being a proper lady,” a joke I’ve been making about trying not to flirt too much before we actually meet.

Uh… Sorry, my bad. Didn’t know “paranoid schizophrenic” was supposed to affect my panty places. Should I have said, “Bummer. So, hey, how’s your dick doing?”

I told him it seemed odd to respond with smut, and he seemed pissy and said, “I was just explaining why my attentions had been elsewhere. But the turbulence has cleared and I’m back to blue skies now.”

OK. Well, sorry again. I didn’t notice the sun shining out of your ass, and didn’t know I was obligated to taste your rainbow whenever you feel like flirting.

I started composing a response, but everything I typed just sounded cunty. I put the phone down so I could think before I spoke.

My level of irritation caused me to go do the math on my menstrual cycle, because this bitchface felt prescient. And yep, should be any day now.

When I hadn’t answered an hour later, he followed up with, “Did I offend?” Yes. Yes, you did, but I don’t know if it makes sense that you did, or if I’m projecting issues from a previous “relationshit.” I need a minute. Plus, hi, there’s this new thing called work? I waited a day, you can’t wait an hour? No. That’s not how this is gonna go. <– Oof. Yeah, now that I write that, it’s related to past events, for sure. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be offended, but I should take it into account.

When I told him I was, “Just confused, and also working,” he said, “You’re supposed to stop working when I text you. I thought you knew that. 😛 Sorry if I confused you, though I’m not sure how. I hate text, you can’t convey tone well.” Hey, you know what didn’t just help your case, even with that bullshit “:P” after it…? (<– And that’s different baggage.)

He asked if he should stop texting me, and I said, “I might not respond right away, but you’re welcome to if you want.” He said he was afraid to, that the conversation was “colder than the air outside,” and that he was going to “retreat” and I could text him whenever I was free and felt like it. Again, the fuck? And again, Bitchface McMenses.

Also? I give ZERO fucks if you don’t text for 24 hours. We haven’t even met. You’re under no obligation to communicate with me every day, nor to explain yourself when you don’t.

I’ll stop this saga now. I think I just need to get some sleep. And maybe take my Midol before I come to class.

Sorry, Folgers: Happy lady parts are a far better part of waking up.

Via HelloGiggles: This alarm clock wakes you up with an orgasm.

In the immortal words of Elle Woods, “Excuse me. I have some shopping to do.”

And in the words of the friend who sent this to me, “I don’t see how it would prevent me from falling back asleep.”

Truth. Orgasms are how I GET to sleep half the time.

Still, we agree we should try it for research. For SCIENCE. FOR THE SISTERHOOD.
 

Kelly Bundy, Kimmy Schmidt, and the “Grey’s Anatomy” method of avoidance.

Wow. WordPress readers really love my anxiety, don’t they?

More years ago than I care to consider, there was a show called Married with Children that probably wouldn’t make it in today’s infinitely-more-PC TV landscape. I remember people being offended by it at the time, but it was the late ’80s/early ’90s and most people didn’t give a fuck.

So there was the dumb blonde bimbo daughter, Kelly (Christina Applegate). She’s more appealing than her sports-fan father, so she goes on a sports trivia show in his place. But she knows nothing about sports, so he fills her brain with trivia before the show, and for every sports fact she absorbs, a bit of basic life knowledge leaves her brain, rendering her dumbstruck (seen here) when asked to recall everyday knowledge.

That’s where I am right now. For every bit of bullshit my brain has encountered this week, I’ve lost knowledge and patience. This morning I stood in the shower with conditioner on my hair, and for just a second completely blanked on what the next step was. And I just snapped at my brother because he’s being a fucking asshole. (Though I do kind of love it when I finally give up on trying to be polite and just say what I’m thinking.)

Family issues, friend concerns, medication that’s ruining my appetite and dehydrating me, not sleeping, and additional things with That Guy, all in those 3 days of spiked blog stats… I’m out. I spent my workday NOT FUCKING WORKING, but rather ensnared in a texting clusterfuck with aforementioned brother.

Also, I know my friends love me and will listen to me, but I’m sick of being the Needy Friend — they’ve heard a LOT this week, I sent a goddamn list. (Subject line: “No advice needed; just FYI, everything is fucked.”) I’ve talked to friends, a therapist, my personal journal, and you people. I am tired of thinking and talking about my fucking feelings. I’m not even upset, per se — I just want to go home and sit there for a week or so and not talk to anyone or think about anything. Maybe just spend the whole week re-watching all of Grey’s Anatomy in my pajamas.

So yeah. I’m currently at a Bundy Brain grade 4. I’m gonna pull a reverse Kimmy Schmidt and put my ass into the doomsday bunker.

Defeating your purpose with drunk texts

A friend got a late-night drunk text from a guy last night (not even a booty call, ’twas about the feels), and I got one recently as well, leading us to a conversation about what people are thinking when they do this.

For me, the late-night drunk text will get you absolutely nowhere. In fact, it will set you back, because in addition to whatever the text says (which I automatically think is drunken horseshit because of the time, OR that you meant to text someone else), you’re also saying you don’t think enough of me to come correct soberly and say it by the light of day. It’s insulting, and pretty much makes you look like an asshole.

I can’t even imagine how much shit I’d get if I pulled that on a guy. I wouldn’t even get to defend myself — he’d probably just block my number, because it’s a dick move. If a chick did it, we’d get written off as your crazy psycho stalker. (Unless it’s a booty call, in which case I think we’d be cleared. Maybe… I personally have such a hard time sleeping that if anyone woke me up planning to penetrate me, I’d probably be pretty pissed. Don’t know how dudes would react.)

P.S. I AM, however, allllll about the late-night drunk email. It doesn’t wake anyone up, and I like waking up to long-form sexiness in my inbox…tee hee…

REM – Rogue extranenous mammaries

Quotable friend: “I need to contain my breasts somehow when I sleep. Otherwise I worry I’ll give myself a concussion.”

#MeanGirlsParty #October3

Congratulations, Masturbation!

I’d planned to eat a cupcake once I’d calmed myself down with some therapeutic masturbation, but I did too good a job and now all I want to do is sleep. Good job, Self.

Plus, now I can have the cupcake for breakfast tomorrow. Wins all around!

Everything is delightfully hazy.

I only slept for two hours last night but oddly feel the most “normal” I have in a while.

Could just be the exhaustion talking, but I’m gonna run with it.

Goodwill Hunting had nothing on me.

Sudafed + melatonin = shut the fuck up, brain, it’s bedtime.

Winnie Cooper was right — math doesn’t suck.