Between hormones and holiday stress, I just ended up Ugly Crying over something incredibly stupid, and now my brain is convinced I am unlovable and will die alone. So that’s always fun. I think these particular feelings will need to be handled via pizza.
I almost never cry, so storing it all up for the twice-yearly Ugly Cry is sort of like when I finally get laid — I never realize how long it’s been since I’ve done it, so I just explode from the catharsis of it all. It generally works out much better during sex, but the result is the same: I end up collapsed in an exhausted, lifeless heap. And I feel a lot better. And I demand snacks.
I think if I can sincerely text a guy and say, “I’ve been switched on specifically for you ALLLLL day. It’s starting to hurt a little. Come do unspeakable things to my willing, naked body,” that the recipient should be contractually — nay, morally! — obligated to come service me. (Funny, “come service” is exactly what I had in mind.)
To that end, someone please send me Robert Downey Jr.’s phone number.