1.
Blowjobs
are really difficult when your nose is stuffed up. Your will-to-live is like,
“STOP! WE’RE DYING!” but your libido is like, “WHO NEEDS AIR?!?!” Very odd.
2.
Mix
estrogen, six glasses of wine, half a bowl of cereal and five french fries and
you get a completely bat shit crazy woman who thinks every man is a cheater.
But has impeccable tastes in movies (see Sharknado shirt) and dances like a
stripper. I try to avoid this girl at all costs.
3.
The
best thing about alcoholic druggies is that they never remember who you are or
that they hate you. Whew! They also call you beautiful, ask you for a threesome
and smoke cloves. They are awful creatures.
4.
I
always talk about deserving only the best. And it’s true, I really do. But once
I have something good, I am incredibly talented at smashing it to shit and
blowing it up for good measure. Healthy relationship? (kicking it to pieces)
TAKE THAT! Decent man? (smashing it against the wall) NEVER! Someone who makes you happy? (pounding it with a sledge hammer) MWAHAHA! So yeah… that all happened yesterday. But I’m a cute
violently destructive bitch, right?
Ok! On to the Blog! Confession: I read Dear Sugar. Why would I ever do such a thing? Because, kiddies, it’s an advice column about masturbation and sex. My two favorite topics. Isn’t that reason enough?
Usually, I love Dear Sugar’s advice. She’s snarky and smart
and in-your-face. Today, however, I came across this gem of a post.
Dear Sugar,
I’m 29 and dating a man
that I adore; we’re planning to move in together soon. I have a stable job that
I hate, but I hope that I’ll one day find something I enjoy. I have family and
friends and hobbies and interests and love. So much love. And I’m desperately
afraid that I’m going to have cancer.
I’m terrified that
sooner or later, I’ll be diagnosed. My mother had breast cancer when I was in
college. She survived hers, but in some ways, she didn’t. It broke her, Sugar.
My father died of liver cancer when I was in high school—he was never lucky
enough to be counted “a survivor.” My grandmother had a brain tumor when I was
a newborn; she didn’t live to see my first birthday. As much as I take care of
my health, as much as I try to be careful, I have this niggling doubt that my genes
are setting me up for failure.
I know you can’t tell
me whether or not I will have cancer, and I know you can’t tell me when. But
what I’m struggling with—what I need help figuring out—is how to make the
decisions in my life while keeping this possibility in mind. You know the
decisions I mean: The Big Ones.
How do I decide
whether or not to get married? How do I look in to the face of this man I adore
and explain to him what he might have to go through if I am diagnosed? And
worse, if I don’t make it? I’ve already decided not to have children. How can I
saddle a child with something that I don’t even think I can face myself? How do
I plan for the future when there may be no future to plan for? They say “live
your life to the fullest because there may be no tomorrow,” but what about the
consequences of “no tomorrow” on the people that you love? How do I prepare
them for what I might have to go through? How do I prepare myself?
Scared of the Future
How do you even answer this madness? Well, Dear Sugar did it by trying to calm her
down with the ‘no one knows when they are going to die’ spiel and some babble
about all of us having a crazy lady living in our heads.
What a terrible bit of advice. And not at all helpful. Here’s how I would
have responded:
Dear Dead Girl Walking,
Whoa! You have so many problems that finding a place to start is overwhelming. I guess I’ll begin at the top your letter and work my way down.
I’m 29 and dating a man
that I adore; we’re planning to move in together soon. – Don’t do it! You’ll
lose all TV remote privileges, your laundry chores will double, you’ll have to
shit in the same bathroom at some point, singing punk songs naked while
standing on your couch will be out of the question, and all those dances you
make up for your ever changing moods… he will only find them cute for about a
week. Then the dancing is over. Oh, and you know how when you are finished with
half a bag of potato chips and you put them in the pantry and come back later
and the potato chips are still there? That will never happen again.
And I’m desperately
afraid that I’m going to have cancer – You probably already do. You should just lie on the floor and wait
for death. Wear something cute (no one likes ugly dead people) and be patient. You
can lie in bed if you wish, it is more comfortable, but floor death is much
more dramatic and memorable. I know, I know. It sounds a little crazy. Why?
Because it is fucking crazy! You know the best time to worry about cancer?
When you fucking have it! For now, see a therapist and start drinking straight vodka.
It’s your only hope.
How do I decide
whether or not to get married? – I’ll decide for you. Don’t.
Here’s what will happen… no. more. sex. I know what you’re thinking; you
think it is the woman who stops putting out. No, ma’am. Guys just use that line
to protect their sexual ego. The truth? Nothing makes a man’s dick repel at the sight of you like
a ring on your finger. And romance... it dies at 'I do'. Remember those flowers and compliments and back rubs? Done. Trust me. Also, you’ll never agree on toilet paper
and people will start calling you by a new name (even if you keep your old one).
And nothing is worse than being re-named. Besides maybe ebola, or human trafficking,
or genocide.
How do I look in to
the face of this man I adore and explain to him what he might have to go
through if I am diagnosed? – You don’t. Because that’s insane. You wait until you’re
actually diagnosed and then send him a card like a normal person.
I’ve already decided
not to have children. – Thank fucking god.
How do I plan for the
future when there may be no future to plan for? – Plan for a future? People still do that?
Wait, maybe I would be brilliant at this.
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