It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Lists of Things

A partial list of things your ungrateful friend might want.

As I was walking home from the gym this afternoon, a pair of woman walking just ahead was having an animated, angry conversation. Quoth woman-on-the-left:

“I got her the fucking golf balls; I don’t know what else she wants.”

Which led me to wonder: what more does she want? Some ideas:

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., To Hell In a Handbasket

Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees, possibly because your giant racist head is blocking the view of the forest.

Americans, demand better of your media.

Here is an actual thing that an actual person said on television today, in reference to the Charlie Hebdo attack:

Bream wondered how police would be able to identify “bad guys” if they had ski masks and couldn’t “even know what color,” what “the tone of their skin was?”

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Jesus H. Christ

Western religion, as explained by my dog.

(Please note that the dog is significantly cuter than he is smart. Although he cannot actually read, write, or speak, we believe he is Jewish. Yes, we anthropomorphize the dog to a problematic degree. We are in our mid-late thirties and childless. Shut up.)

Translated from the Dog by my husband.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

I am shocked at Buzzfeed’s lax editorial standards.

There’s an article on Buzzfeed at the moment about the improbably-named Benedict Cumberbatch, who appeared in a fashion magazine wearing a t-shirt declaring, “This is what a feminist looks like.”

(Yes, I sometimes look at Buzzfeed articles that have been shared on my Facebook wall. Yes, I still use Facebook. Shut up.)

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

Happy Columbus Day! If you’d like to celebrate with me, meet me tomorrow at the southeast corner of 21st Street and 5th Avenue, 10AM. We’ll pick a direction to walk in, enter the first store we come across, and take whatever the hell we want.

Discovery! So exhilarating.

If anyone tries to stop you, just shove ‘em out of the way.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

TERRIBLE IRONY: By the time you finish paying off your educational debt, you are too old to engage in drunken shenanigans on a weekend when you’re already exhausted from moving to a new apartment, and you settle for a nice dinner out at your favorite Jersey red sauce joint and a good milkshake. I mean, I like a milkshake as much as the next debt-free gal, but COME ON. Twenty-three-year-old me weeps.

Higher education: at what cost?

It’s like 10,000 spoons, when all you need is a fifth of gin.

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It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Jesus H. Christ

And forgive the Bearded Lady, Amen.

Did you know? The patron saint of carneys is also the patron saint of murderers. His name is Saint Julian the Hospitaller, and he once hallucinated that a deer told him he was going to kill his parents. (FYI, he did kill his parents. Don’t worry, though: he was really sorry, and did penance by building a hospital by a river to care for sick travelers. He also “rowed travelers across the river,” which sounds like another famous ferryman, not that I am suggesting anything untoward.)

The carney/murderer thing can’t be a coincidence is all I’m saying, and I thought you should know. I love a goddamn saint.

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