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

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"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

Congrats, OkCupid Guy: You made a woman cry. RESULT!

FIRST message from a man on OkCupid: "If you change your mind about the kid thing let me know. You do seem like a riot! :D"

*deep breath* A few things...

1. Thanks a bunch for that cheery kick in the uterus. Much appreciated.

2. So your sole criterion for a baby mama is that she's...funny? That's outstanding, I can't wait to see how your kid turns out.

3. Kids are the only thing you'd need me to change my mind about? So no worries that your profile says you "want to settle down with someone who's in it for the long haul!" but my profile says, "I'm not looking for a relationship, just casual dating." I want to know how you arrived at the decision to message me implying I should consider becoming broodmare to a total stranger -- show your work. Or do you mean we'd default to "long haul" once I accepted my role as your cum dumpster?

4. 'Cause surely YOU'RE gonna be the guy to change my deep-seated commitment and trust issues quickly enough to plant your seed before my last, shriveled egg fades to black? Sure, let me change my not-at-all carefully considered decision about growing a PERSON in my body, raising him/her for 18+ years, shaping them into a decent human being, getting them to school by Ass Early a.m., going into MORE debt for their basic needs and education and...Artisanal Self-Actualization camp or whatever the fuck, all so I can...what, exactly? Spend my life forever tethered to a 46-year-old fuckstick in Morgantown, PA, who's grasping at wombs as he stares down the barrel of his spawn-less mortality? Drive 90 minutes and pay Turnpike tolls so you can jam your half-flaccid cock into me and hope one of your sleepy, disoriented sperm has enough energy to sashay its way into my Danger Zone? PASS.

*exhale*

We'll just ignore the fact that reading the message, and writing this post, legitimately upset me, and now I have to go hide in the ladies' room until I can Irish down this ridiculous rush of emotion brought on by some aging dickhead in the boonies.

P.S. There's nothing wrong with 46, and I know that, science-ly, y'all could knock me up just fine. I just went with impotence because I'm an ass and it's an easy target.

I scream, you scream, we all scream, "You're an asshole!"

*sigh* Just...just... UGH. Go fuck yourself, seriously. Hard. With one of the scarier, more invasive dildos.

I don't give a single kitten's dick who you're voting for -- no one would have asked a man that question. No one.

Hmm... OK, wait, MAYBE someone would've asked Chris Christie. And whoever did would still be a total fucking asshole. But I'd wager they wouldn't, because Christie probably could and would slap the Massengill outta ya for that kinda bullshit.

A friend of mine had a better reaction: "If you watch closely, there's a split second where she turns and looks at someone who clearly GETS IT and her face just says, 'FUCK THESE ASSHOLES. FUCK THE PATRIARCHY.' At least, that's what *I* saw. Then she visibly squared herself to take on the bullshit sexism of the world and had another bite of her fucking sundae."  

I hate everything except Samantha Bee

Oh, for fuck's sake.

A plea for smarter sexism

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Just what Christmas needs: Another bloated bastard snarfing cookies.

Um, no, YOU'RE getting your period for Christmas. 

(See also: Fuck you, body.) 

  

'Tis the season to be anxious, fa la la la la...

Oh, right. Seasonal anxiety and depression are real things, which means, until probably January, I can't be in a Target unattended for more than 15 minutes unless I want to feel like I may actually have a nervous breakdown.

Fuck you, Target. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Can I get my goddamn laundry detergent and a new yoga mat without getting punched in the feels by your bullshit B-squad reindeer? (This has also happened in grocery stores, card stores, and on one very special occasion, a CVS.)

I don't do well in stores to begin with, but the seasonal shit started post-breakup and clearly hasn't dissipated at all. My ex helped me slowly stop hating Christmas after many years of retail work and unbearable family gatherings, aaand now that hatred is back, with a little extra special flavor -- like a lovely smoked sea salt for mood swings.

The Asshole Files, Entry (...ew...) 1.

OK, so remember yesterday's "asshole" warning? Let's start easing into some of that...

I know this is partly my fault for letting so many "little things" go and stifling my feelings and then exploding (go Irish!), but I wish people who claim to know me understood how far they had to push me and how much they had to hurt me for me to NOT talk to them.

I WILL talk, eventually, because I'm generally too lazy and forgetful to hold a proper grudge -- I have better uses for brain space. But for the moment, something you've done has shut me down, and I Basic Bitch "just can't" with you. You broke me; I need to "breathe and reboot," to think things through before I blow up on you. And that's always the time people are in my ass, setting up tent cities and trying to talk like we're just cool now.

No. You should've talked before. Right now, fuck you. You're picking a scab, making the wound worse, and giving me, like, emotional MRSA. I just need a minute.

(Or, OK, in extreme cases I've needed...10 months and [not-that-I'm-]counting, but A. That person should've known better, and nudity/trust were in play, and B. Right now it's just my family I'm having issues with.)

Chick-fil-HEY.

...Goddammit, I hate everything. 

Man, bitches, though, amirite?

Have any of you ever been placated by a fucking frosted lemonade? Screw you, Chick-fil-A. Make it chocolate salted caramel and replace the wedding dress with the magically evasive unicorn of a tall boot that zips over my giant hamhock calves, and then MAYBE you'll sell me something.