Effed-Up Shit

FYI, this is an actual thing that is possible:

“One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, ‘this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid’… She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.”

I just thought you’d want to know. Explore the horror: “The Itch,” by Dr. Atul Gawande, in the New Yorker.

An Open Letter, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead, You've Built a Crawl Space Under Your All-Time Low

Got a second, racist white dudes?

Of course you don’t; not for me. But just in case…

I recognize that white dudes generally do not feel a need to protect me, avenge my honor, or care if I’m sexually assaulted at all; after all, I’m a hairy-legged, unabashed feminist. Shrieking harridans are not high on the damsel-in-distress-o-meter.

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Building teh Interwebz, Jesus H. Christ

More like “50 Shades of Gray For Me to Poop On,” amirite?

I used to write a food blog. It wasn’t too shabby, if I do say so myself, which I do say, right now.

At the time, I got a lot of PR pitches from people looking for publicity for their clients’ new cookbooks, cooking shows, or food products. And although I haven’t published anything new on that blog since January 2013, I continue to get pitches. Many pitches. A plethora of pitches.

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Goings-On, New Jersey

Maybe we don’t want to live in Amsterdam right now, but we’re still hankering for a change. I am therefore pleased to announce that we are opting to go FULL JERSEY, and as of July 1, you are all invited to our huge, awesome loft four blocks from the beach in Asbury Park whenever you would like to visit. Please note that “Born to Run” will be playing on a 24-hour loop, so be prepared for that.

We don’t do things by half-measures in the King of States.


To the people who took the time to read and say embarrassingly kind things about this post, thank you.

To the people who shared their own stories of struggle and loss: I’m so sorry.

To the people who are worried about themselves or someone they know, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US and Canada) is at 1-800-273-8255. Use it.

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.

Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

On survival, and enough.

It’s two-thirty in the morning. I’d like to be sleeping. Instead, I’m propped up on a corner of the sofa, bleeding like a stuck pig and trying not to whimper audibly as I wait for this horse-tranquilizing doze of Advil to quell the menstrual cramps that feel like a dozen animated claw hammers trying to escape my uterus from within. I’m tired, and I’m cranky, and it hurts, and this sucks.

But I’m alive.

Connie’s not.

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