Grief Is One Heckuva Son Of A Bitch...

My husband went to bed hours ago, and I can hear him snoring as I type. I should be in there with him, his bear arms wrapped around me, me playing the (not-so-)little spoon to his big(ger) spoon. But the clock struck midnight hours ago, and I am waiting for the dread to descend. Fourteen years ago, on this day, my eldest sister, Dawn, died. She choked on her own vomit at a house party where she was working as a prostitute. Some cocktail of alcohol and drugs left her unconscious, and when her client noticed that she

10 Reasons the Stargate Series is Better Than Your Stupid Game of Thrones

Whenever my husband needs proof that I love him more than hipsters love the Hamilton musical*, I remind him of our engagement story. We took a lovely stroll through a historic city at sunset, looked lovingly at each other over candle light at a fancy restaurant, and then went home to enjoy some, ahem, romantic adult activities. And then, Chris left. No ring. No proposal. Nothing. All flash, no bang. Well, I mean, there was some bang(ing), but you get my drift. The next night, I was sitting on the sofa in my ratty PJs, slurping leftover spaghetti, and

A Presidential Nominee Forced Me To Eat Fried Chicken...

I just wanted to do my fucking job. And my job required that I sit on this damn passenger bus for several hours to get to some big work thing. So there I was. Me and two guys. And those two guys' assistants. They were pleasant enough, in that they didn't openly pick their noses or grab my ass. Still, something about the larger of the two dudes made me feel... well, pure revulsion. But we had to be on this bus together for HOURS, so I figured I needed to at least be polite. The big dude came right

I Don't Need My Purrnie Sanders Mug Anymore, And That Is Making All The Cats Weepy...

Today has been a cross between feeling this like this poor sucker of a kid: And this woman's nether regions: I've never tried to hide my creepy love for Bernie Sanders, as evidenced in this post about his orgasm-inducing powers and this post about my efforts to get my husband involved in some political role-playing. So when all of the primary election results started rolling in last night, granting Hillary Clinton the Democratic nomination for President, I screamed, "I AM DONE WITH YOU, WORLD!," and went to bed, because I couldn't face the bad news. I was all like: And

Brock Turner Is A Hairy Sphincter Pimple, And If The World Were Just, He'd Rot In The Dumpster Behind Which He Raped His Victim

The pictured zit above is the most true-to-life image I could find of rapist Brock Turner. And unless you've been living under a rock (is that an option? are there these huge rock mansions available for those wanting to opt out of reality? because people would pay big bucks for that...), then you know that this douche bag sexually assaulted an unconscious woman behind a dumpster, and instead of getting the minimum sentence of three years jail time as punishment, this festering pile of moldy pig excrement was only sentenced to six goddamned months behind bars. I'll repeat this, because

Some Stranger in India Thinks I'm Sexy, And I'm Alarmingly Okay With That

Apparently Mark Zuckerberg wants me to practice online abstinence. How else can you explain why he kept me from receiving the following message: "Hey, i'm from india, read some post on the (Humans of New York) page, saw your coment on the post, immediately had to msg you to tell u look so cute with those glasses, its like your beautiful eyes and smile is out of the world, you dont even have to accept the request if u think its creepy, trust me even i m wondering y i m messaging a random stranger to tell her she looks

The #1 Reason I Need A Kid Is...

A few weeks ago, my little sister, Carrie, and I got into a sick text fight. Lest you are confused and mistaking "text fight" for "text battle" (which, obviously, would be like a rap battle, but with awesome rhyming texts), let me clarify right now. It was not a badass virtual versification. It was an actual fight. Like, a mean one. Where the involved parties write to wound. I don't remember exactly how it got started... Okay, that's a lie. I'm a petty bitch, so I obviously recall every detail of my sister's offenses. She and I disagree on a

This One Time, In The Middle of the Night, A Lovely Thing Happened...

I've been in one of my funks lately. It started small, and then it swelled, and last night the bubble burst. I woke up in the middle of the night, panicked, frightened, and distraught. For some reason, my mind had convinced me that I have no good memories. I tried to think of my wedding day, but my brain kept diverting me to how my beloved grandfather was diagnosed with terminal cancer only days after our big party. I tried to think of my nieces and nephews, but my neurons fired in the direction of my infertility and how long

I Just Disappointed My Mother-In-Law AND Famous Singer Josh Groban...

I'd barely exchanged brief pleasantries before the mustachioed man named Ivan roughly pressed a gun against my flesh, drawing blood. My husband, Chris, unchivalrous shit that he is, froze and didn't say boo as I sat there, hyperventilating. And then, five minutes later, Ivan said, "We're done," and I unclenched my eyes, and there it was: my first tattoo. I've never been particularly drawn to the idea of having ink injected into my skin. In fact, I always thought tats were sorta trashy. But that could just be because my first real exposure to the art form was when my

All I Want For Valentine's Day Is A Labiaplasty (And Maybe Some Doritos...)

You know the worst thing about growing up? No. It's not paying bills. Although that sucks. And no, it's not your body's sudden and alarming decay, although that super sucks, too. And no, it's not the myriad of responsibilities, societal expectations, and lack of nap time, although those all suck, as well. I don't remember where I was going with this, but I definitely don't want to adult anymore. Can I teenage? That was fun, right? Or maybe tweenage? Yeah. That one. I want to tween. Or twerk. I'm not really clear on the distinction here. Anyway, I was going