Science just validated my navel-gazing.

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 it 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."

How the Grinch Stole My Body Image

My friends who know how self-conscious I get about my body will enjoy that my hormonal influx/weight gain had made me quite puffy today. So my favorite basic white t-shirt is unusually snug, and I've been walking around all day feeling like I'm mostly made of breasts. I feel like they suddenly grew three sizes like the goddamn Grinch's heart.

They don't even MAKE music for how sexy I am.

Normally I listen to standup comedy while I get ready for work, but I noticed the entire notion of "morning," especially "rainy morning," offers much less "fuck this shit" when I have music on. So today I put my iPod on shuffle and heard:

1. An Amy Winehouse song called "Amy Amy Amy" about dolling oneself up for a workplace flirtation...while I examined a pair of jeans I pulled from the hamper to make sure they weren't the ones I dropped guacamole on the other day.

2. "The Thong Song," while wearing llama-print hipster briefs. 

3. "Hell on Heels," flip flops.

I am basically sex on a stick, you guys. I don't even know how y'all deal with me.

P.S. There was also "Shut Up and Drive" by Rihanna, which proclaims, "I got class like a '57 Cadillac," which...clearly with the guacamole and the llamas and the $2 Old Navy flip flops. But also, "got all the drive and a whole lotta boom in the back," which -- pfft -- is TOTALLY true. 

#NoWomanEver

Via Scary Mommy: #NoWomanEver Nails What It’s Like To Be A Woman

The gift of life. I guess...

I'm scheduling an appointment to donate blood, and my local options are "go ass-early before work next week" or "go before Father's Day lunch."

So either way, I'm making an appointment to be drained of my literal life source before being drained of my figurative one.

Tart Me Up

Oh, look -- there are my feelings.

Thanks, office vending machine!

‪#‎ThisIsWhyYoureFat‬ ‪#‎AndWhyYouHaveADDProbably‬

Eat a dick, dude. But make sure you dip it in this first.

A friend sent this to me, and I'm sharing it here as a public service for all y'all concerned your condiments aren't masculine enough.

Problem solved, people: Manly. Sausage. Meat. "STUFFED FULL OF MEAT," even. ("Engorged" with meat. "Swollen. Turgid." "Tumescent?")

Hell, just dip your dick directly into it.

That said? That shit sounds DELICIOUS. Too bad I can't eat it -- curse my troublesome vagina.

Also, blow me, sour cream is my spirit animal. But again, vagina. Woe. I'm just not MANLY enough to hang with this new concocktion, so I'm relegated to bitch-baby sour cream.