I’m totally that cool, chill, down-to-earth girl who looks forward to and loves every aspect of Super Bowl parties, just not in the sense that I understand the game or know any of the players or rules or terms or know which teams are playing or understand point systems or want to be included in pools/boxes/betting of any kind or get why anyone would find any aspect of football interesting or entertaining.
What I’m trying to say is that I fucking LOVE mini hot dogs.
“Come on, Em– if Bruce Jenner can be a woman, so can you!”
#positiveselftalk
#asscrater #winter
A stubbed toe is God’s way of reminding you that you’re not nearly as cool as you think you are.
Never ever ever EVER give up.
Unless that doesn’t work. Then give up and be SUPER dramatic about it.
Anonymous friend (on the phone– with her voice): “I was going to email you to tell you not to blog about me, but then I was afraid you’d put the email in your blog.”
I don’t think I deserved that.
As a government worker, I often get alerts on my phone during emergencies, providing me with instructions for how I can help. For example, during Hurricane Sandy, I was sent alerts for volunteer opportunities at local schools and shelters. I really appreciated this, even though my response to these alerts (doing absolutely nothing, and carrying on with my day) might indicate otherwise.
So last night, my phone was on the table and I saw, from a distance, something about a blizzard alert. Being the concerned citizen that I am, I immediately got up and ran to my phone to see how bad things were.
Well. Turns out they’re pretty fucking bad.
Meteorology: Making my Magic-8 Ball seem legit since 1982.
From your lips to God’s ears, China.
Last night at dinner with my whole family, we discussed the various reactions to my post “I Should Fucking Curse Less.” My dad said it made him feel that he should have cursed less around the house when we were young. This made me think two things: 1) If that’s your takeaway, you missed the point entirely (classic Dad) and 2) That actually does remind me of a funny story that may or may not make you feel better:
I distinctly remember, at around age 10 or 11, being on the sidelines of my soccer game (on this particular state-champ team, I was almost always on the sidelines and not in the game because….well…I sucked.). It was a big, end-of-season game and we were tied. In the very last minute, the other team scored a goal, so I muttered (loudly) “God damnit!”
The father of another girl on my team was standing next to me and looked at me, horrified. “Excuse me?”
I looked back at him, genuinely thinking he wanted me to repeat myself, as I saw absolutely nothing wrong with what I had said. I looked him straight in the eye and said it louder, “I said ‘GOD DAMNIT.'”
“You better watch your mouth.”
“But…I did.” I replied, genuinely confused (after all, I had wanted to say “FUCK, we are SO FUCKED!”, but I kept it perfectly clean with “God damnit.”)
Again, he stared at me, clearly disgusted and assuming I had been raised by wolves. He walked away shaking his head.
That guy’s daughter went on to become a huge whore.
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