I Don’t Want To Complain About My Boyfriend. Am I Weird?
“But you know, when they go hang out with their girlfriends and complain about us or when we don’t do something basic in the right way, whatever. That way where you love us, but we’re idiots.”
“But you know, when they go hang out with their girlfriends and complain about us or when we don’t do something basic in the right way, whatever. That way where you love us, but we’re idiots.”
Oh Kelly Clarkson and Darren Criss, I worship at your altars.
I picture your heart like a series of doors. I unlock one and slip a little bit further inside, only to be greeted by another door and another lock.
Should you say it during sex? Should you declare it at a fancy dinner where he wears a tuxedo and you wear a ball gown? Write it in a note left on her kitchen table?
The Kinsey Institute wants to hear your weird, effed up, tragic or out-there sex stories.
Buy some sparkly, ridiculous temporary tattoos. (Maybe unicorns? Or American flags?) Put them all over yourself.
Was I supposed to die? And then chill in a coffin in the forest and wait for you to come back and kiss me and wake me up? Am I freakin’ Snow White?
Tell me the place we’re going is “Omg, so close. Like two blocks away seriously” when it’s actually seventeen blocks away and you have no concept of distance or time.
You Googled me and mistook me for a serial killer with my same name. I am not that serial killer!
Open Excel and start making a nonsensical spreadsheet or one of your favorite bars ranked by drink price and ambiance.