#ItsOKToBeAWhore

*blink*

Oh, OK.

Hey, y’all?

“It’s OK to be a whore.”

#ItsOKToBeAWhore

In which one technology judges another. Also, there are pancakes.

I’m impressed with my suddenly seemingly stronger constitution, which did allow me to cry about my hurt feelings every chance I got for 36 hours, but then suddenly it was like, “Hey, you know what? Fuck you, Person Who Hurt Me,” and then there were pancakes and a new vibrator and everything was kind of OK again.

P.S. Oh, eat a dick, iPhone. You know good goddamn well what I meant, you judgey whore.

Science just validated my navelgazing.

Check it out, y’all, I’m not even a narcissist. This blog is for SCIENCE.

Via Inc.com: The Mental Health Benefits of Writing, Backed by Science:

That’s actually how the page started, as ersatz breakup therapy — I thought I could just write my way sane. As it turns out, I needed REAL therapy, but am still a filthy whore for those red “like” notifications, and the writing definitely helps, so I kept it up. Along with a private journal. And a Twitter. And a new blog where I work clean so I can put it on my résumé.

Don’t judge me. “I just have a lot of feelings.”

Busta Shonda Rhimes

Worth revisiting as I wrap up my Shonda Rhimes book review:

“You don’t get to call me a whore. You chose Addison. I’m all glued back together now. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what YOU broke.”

This construct really evolved by the time it got to Olivia Pope: “I am not a toy you can play with when you’re bored or lonely or horny. If you want me, EARN me!”

Goddamn right, ladies. Testify.

(BTW, this is not a one-sided notion. I certainly hope I’ve earned the men I’ve had relationships with and have never taken them for granted. Ha ha, GRANTed… See what I did there?)

Burning sage. Only mentally, because I can’t be trusted with fire.

I’ve stopped calling it decluttering at this point. I’m a writer, goddammit — these are “life revisions.” I’m deleting the parts of my story that don’t work, expanding and carefully editing the parts that do.

Remember when I was Slut Singleton? My email and cell phone no longer do. (OK, yeah, my brain totally still does, but I’m working on it.)

Sad Singleton apartment? I won’t let the door hit me.

Couch of Horrible Life Choices (AKA the whorecouch)? Out by the dumpster.

Lingerie I wore when making said bad life choices? Let’s call it what it was: Trash. Not the good lingerie, don’t be silly. Bad decisions got made in $12 Target shit…and also a $6 super-clearance dress from JCPenney. (Don’t judge.) I threw that out, too.

I’d throw out the mattress, but I think that was just ONE bad decision, and I can’t afford to buy a couch AND a mattress. I’m clearing my brain, not my bank account. Though I did order new sheets and a new mattress pad. That should cover the bad bed juju.

Oh…and I guess I should replace that bathmat. (Ahem… Shut up.)
P.S. I just have one more post about clutter/moving after this, and then I’m done, I promise.

Sephora, Se-whore-a.

Talking to a friend yesterday after Sephora did her makeup…

Friend: “It’s highly unnatural. I feel like a whore, which isn’t a far stretch since the lip color is called Hoochie.”

Me: “I don’t think you look like a whore, but no, it doesn’t look natural. Also, I don’t want anything called ‘Hoochie’ on my face.”