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.

Move along, Family, nothing to see here...

One of the worst things about having my whole family on my personal Facebook is that, in the past 24 hours, at least one of them has likely seen me "like" four different wineries, the Philly chapter of a suicide prevention organization, multiple rape counseling centers, and a national association for depression and mood disorders.

Um...it's research?

Honestly, I just want to tour the wineries; I'm doing a 5K to support the suicide prevention group because I think it's an important cause; I'm looking for a job at the counseling centers; and...well, I'm a depraved bastard who's interested in mood disorders. *shrug* Y'all raised me.

I don't know what you talk to YOUR friends about...

Discussing life with a very pregnant ladyfriend:

Her: "We still have 10 days to go. The baby seems content to stay there forever, so who knows. Someday, I won't be pregnant. So they tell me. It's weird. Everywhere I go I'm like, 'I could go into labor RIGHT NOW and that would be acceptable. Like, the baby would be fine.' Pregnancy is a total mindfuck (brought about by an actual fuck, I suppose, haha)."

Me: "That really IS a mindfuck, now that I think about it. 'Cause eventually the kid just decides,, 'Aaand my work in this womb is done. Comin' at ya, Ma! Wheeeeee!' And then she swims down like Nemo, and that 'Y'all Ready for This?' song plays like it's a sports game."

Her: "OMG, I wish 'Y'all Ready for This' would play whenever anyone went into labor. Vaginas should come equipped with that pre-recorded. Also could be useful during sex?"

Me: "I'm not sure how it would work, science-ly, but I would Kickstart the shit out of technology that would enable my vagina to welcome its visiting team with a jaunty tune. Vaginal Jock Jams. Yes. Shut up and take my money."

Family, Food, Facebook, Fat, Fuck.

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Tragedy Circlejerk, Round #376

Post-tragedy checklist:

• Add overlay to profile photos
• Tweet "Thoughts and prayers"
• Create hashtags
• Watch 24/7 reports of speculation with no information
• Snipe at each other online
• Observe powers that be pondering publicly if THIS will be the one that prompts action
• Wait for next tragedy

"I'm gonna dress you up in my [self] love..."

And speaking of party dresses...

Whenever you put on a piece of clothing, look in the mirror, and think, "Is that MY body? GodDAMN, I want to have sex with myself!", you need that garment in your life.

Perfect mindset for tonight's family party, no? (Hush, there'll be other people there.)

Note to self...

Via Reductress: Party Dresses That Say, ‘It’s My Birthday And Someone Has To Fuck Me’

Visine Vigilante

OK, so...I'm glad Joe Biden wrote this. Really. I'm not trying to make light of the gesture in any way.

But, um...

You're the Vice President -- you're kind of a big deal. Couldn't you...DO something? Yell at someone? Kick that entitled douchewang rapist in the 'nads? Throat-punch the judge, or maybe just pay one of his clerks to sneak some eyedrops into his coffee?

Don't even tell me Biden can't make some shit happen on the DL.

Via Buzzfeed: Joe Biden Writes An Open Letter To Stanford Survivor

More wisdom from people funnier than me.

"The whole world could be cured with enough cake and antipsychotics."
-- The Bloggess, Furiously Happy

I need to see your face before I sit on it.

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Pretzel party in my pants?

Looking at a map, I just realized Friday night's family graduation party for my cousin is at a party hall right next to one of my favorite bars.

Clearly this is a sign that after the party I should toddle my fancy-dress ass on over there and get me some townie strange.

If that plan fails, the bar also has bangin' cheesy pretzels, so the situation looks to be a win either way.

You spelled "rape" wrong.

One more on this...

Hey, USA TODAY?

It's a rape case. Not "sex" -- rape.

Please understand the difference.

"One Tweet Destroys the Stanford Rapist’s Dad’s Disgusting Defense of His Son"

I'll just leave this here.

One Tweet Destroys the Stanford Rapist’s Dad’s Disgusting Defense of His Son

I just learned the true meaning of "Sploosh."

I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my repeated spontaneous orgasm.

Via IndieWire: Archer Live Action Movie: Why Producers Want Jon Hamm For the Title Role

You are funnier than me and I hate you for it: a love story.

One of the books I read on vacation was So Sad Today by Melissa Broder.

I remain faintly annoyed at how good and funny it is, because I didn't write it.

(This is just from one chapter; the whole book isn't lists of "love stories.")