I just had therapy via FaceTime, sitting in bed, still in pajamas, with bedhead, no bra, and fuzzy socks, because America is amazing.
I won’t do it often, because I think my discomfort at being trapped in an office with a psyche ninja helps me share, but it’s a nice option to have.
I often refer to Google as my religion, so I really hope they pull their heads out of their asses here.
‘Cause, yeah, I can have principles and change my email addresses and use different search engines and storage sites, but…it’s fucking Google. No one cares. I’d be like those assholes who tried to boycott “Hamilton” — sure, sweetie, good luck with that.
Also, I mean…you can’t get that data? Can’t you just Google it?
I emailed him back, because I am an idiot. He’d clarified some things, so I wanted to do the same.
Aaand it turned out exactly as I thought it would.
One day I will learn to listen to my friends and just be an asshole when the situation calls for it, which is what I think he wanted — for me to keep quiet and stay away.
But at least I got it out. “The cold never bothered me, anyway.”
P.S. Fun fact: Gmail’s “block” feature is apparently about as useless as Facebook’s. Technology can kiss my dick.
P.P.S. Sorry, I’ll take the weekend off and stop buzzkilling your news feeds.
Via MTV News:
“When Cristina McAllister was growing up, it was hard to find a science kit for girls that wasn’t just a make-your-own make-up or soap kit. Meanwhile, the kits marketed to boys had all kinds of cool and complicated experiments just across the toy store aisle.
“Years later, McAllister is working hard doing real-life science as a biologist and … decided to make Stembox, a monthly-subscription box of real science-y goodness delivered right to your door. Think Birchbox meets Bill Nye.” 
I went on LinkedIn, and looked at who’s looked at my profile. (Because I am narcissistic.)
Um, yeah. You know who’s looked at me? The wife of some guy I used to work with and sleep with back in 2003. The job I met him at isn’t even listed on my LinkedIn profile, it was that long ago.
Why does weird shit with people’s husbands always happen to me on the Internet?
(By the way, he was single back then. I wasn’t fucking anyone’s husband.)
The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”
1. Fuck you.
2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.
3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).
Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.
Or I’m just a bitch.
Smug Singleton 