Remember that set of questions from every single college party, ever? Remember answering them so often that occasionally a waitress would ask how you wanted your eggs and you’d say “Tulane Chris, Texas, history” like a parrot? Remember that odd little silence after you’d all answered those questions because, really, they didn’t give you much conversational opening?

“So, Texas, huh?”


“Do you ride horses to school?”

“Not since about 1890.”

“Yeah, huh. Did you vote for George Bush?”


“I thought everyone in Texas voted for George Bush.”

“Evidently not.”

“Eat a lot of barbecue?”


“So, history, huh?”

Eventually, you started to think of people by their descriptors. I’d be by the drinks table with Rachel Olympia History, watching Berg Baltimore Human Sexuality Studies and Sean St. Louis Undeclared try to coax Audrey Tulsa Evolutionary Biology into a threesome, because hey, we’re in college. It got especially bad after the hurricane. Since a lot of people left, some cliques had to consolidate to save money and to ensure a large enough breeding population, so there were always all these people around who you sort of knew, handing you Natty Light and obviously kind of wanting to have sex with you but not being willing to put the effort into it. I was the same way; it would have been nice to get laid, technically, but unless I happened to fall directly atop someone it was just too much… talking. Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your major? (My last year of college was essentially a big depressive episode shared with about four thousand other people.) These parties usually tended to be in the same house, and the directions given were always the same:

“Go down Calhoun the wrong way – what cops? What other traffic? – until you get to the 800 block. It’s in the only house that isn’t condemned. Second floor, obviously.”

…well, the nice little lead-in to my post turned into a moody little flashback, didn’t it? Here’s the point: wouldn’t it be swell if we standardized a few more good icebreakers, so we could finally be shut of “Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your major?,” its post-grad sequel “Hi what’s your name, where are you from, what do you do?” and the recession era “Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, have you moved back in with your parents yet, do you want to join my suicide pact?” So here are my candidates for new questions, along with my answers.

“What song will be your bathtub suicide anthem?” This is especially good for pink-slip parties. Imagine it: the cops break down the door to find your prune-toed little corpse in the tub – what song have you put on the stereo on repeat to ease your exit? I have to confess something for my answer to make sense: t.A.T.u. ruined my life. I’ve never been a fan of displays of emotion other than the Big Three (contempt, amusement, and worry), and so now when someone talks to me about their feelings my mind immediately starts playing “ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID, ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID, RUNNIN’ THROUGH MY HEAD…” because it’s the single angstiest song in the world. Mascara running, ashtrays being thrown, I’m drunk and I don’t know where I am and I just vomited in my purse and ruined my cell phone ANGST. So, of course, since suicide is inherently an angst-ridden act, my bathtub suicide anthem is “All the Things She Said,” by t.A.T.u.

“What was the lamest thing you ever did?” In high school, I lettered in theater, orchestra, and French… and Quiz Bowl.

“What is your most embarrassing fear?” I will not open tubes of biscuits or bottles of champagne because the “explosion” makes me nervous. The worst, worst is when you peel the little wrapper all the way off the tube and it still doesn’t open so you have to press on the seam with a knife or, if you’re me, jab furtively at it with a long spoon. I’m also hesitant to inflate air mattresses all the way for a similar reason: what if it bursts and a piece of flying vinyl hits me in the face and blinds me?

“What are your default drunk singing songs?”

God Defend New Zealand

Harper Valley PTA

Good Luck (Basement Jaxx)

“What’s the lamest thing you ever cried at?” Longtime readers of this site know about my love-hate (or hate-hate) relationship with emotions. I find them hilarious, but embarrassing and inconvenient. But hilarious. (At our last business meeting, Meg presented me with a Powerpoint presentation about her feelings about a proposed project. It was fifteen slides long, had sounds and transition, and was titled “I Have Emotions: A Meg McBlogger Production.”) I don’t have emotions in public for the same reason I don’t relieve myself in the middle of a crowded room: some things are private. That said, I once completely lost all control and sobbed at an episode of “Upstairs, Downstairs,” the 1970s BBC series about the resident, both upper-class and servant, of a fine London house in the 1910s and 1920s. It was the episode when World War One starts while the servants are enjoying a day on the beach, and everyone at the beach spontaneously starts singing “Rule, Britannia” and I was GONE, like a Miss America contestant off her meds.

"Do you have any humiliating medical problems?" Sure do! As much as I talk about diarrhea, that’s more a side effect of a beer and bacon diet than any underlying problem (other than being a compulsive eater who drinks too much.) My embarrassing medical problem is a chronic, painful inflammation of the chest wall called “costochondritis.” It’s most common in women over 40, meaning that I officially have an old lady disease. As I write this, I’m in the middle of my worst attack ever in my life. It hurts to breathe, bend down, and even type – so you can see how devoted I am to my readers (both of them [Meg and Dad]) to finish this post. I’ve been wincing and rubbing my chest all day and the ladies I work with are all convinced I have some secret heart problem.

"What’s the most horrifically inappropriate sentence you’ve ever heard?" Technically, I wasn’t present for this, but it was reported to me by more than one trustworthy person. Did you have an Extra Friend in college? The Extra Friend is the girl (usually, but they can be male) who attaches herself to your friend group like a cheerful, judgmental lamprey and imagines herself to be b-b-b-BIFFLES with you all and you like her fine but clearly not as much as she does you and you’re kind of embarrassed to take her in public because she’s never quite appropriate even by your admittedly low standards? That girl. Ours would never shut up about female ejaculation (“I had to change my nightgown!”) which led to a lot of uneaten meals: Louisiana cuisine favors sauces, and her chronicles of fluids a-go-go could turn even the most dedicated eater off Hollandaise for a month. She was also the most disorienting person I’ve ever known in terms of beauty. When she was fixed up, she was absolutely gorgeous; when she wasn’t, she looked like she was having an allergic reaction to puberty. Anyway. The semester after I finished college, some of my friends were having drinks, and Extra Friend came. Gin in hand, she turns to the room and, as an icebreaker, says casually, “So, who here has been sexually assaulted? Mary?” in, like, the tone of voice a sane woman would use to say, “So, who here has been to the new bar on Magazine Street?” If you can imagine it, no hands went up.

Granted, these new icebreakers might lead to some awkward pauses, but isn’t that better and more useful than simple rote responses? And any awkward pauses you create with these will be shorter and less frosty than the one made when, turning in a wide arc to take in the whole room, rye sloshing out of your glass, you bellow, “So, who here has been sexually assaulted? Mary?”



Sometimes, a post fails. Miscarries, really; you try to develop it, but it falls apart in your hands into a pile of incoherence. It’s frustrating, but a hazard of the trade. The worst part is when there’s a line or a paragraph that really works, like a gold tooth in a leper’s mouth. The rest of it may be crap, but you have to give up that one phrase. Here, I’ve tried to cobble together the good lines out of some failed posts into a kind of Frankenstein. “Thoughts I Couldn’t Flesh Out into Full Entries” instead of “Thoughts I Didn’t Honestly Try to Flesh Out into Full Entries.” I almost ditched the one about ovarian cancer, but at least it’s not about retarded developmentally disabled persons.

I Spent The Last Seven Years Drinking Beer and All I Got Was This Lousy Paunch:

Also, given my choice between “being sexually attractive” and “eating and drinking whatever I damn well please,” I really don’t know what to choose. Sex is fun, but meatball sandwiches never want to know how you’re feeling.

God Almighty, There Were Some Freaks in My Old Neighborhood:

Last week, I passed a man on the street with a White Power tattoo on his chest… and a Phillies tattoo on his back. Has he watched a baseball game since, oh, 1970?

Then there was the girl in the movie store with most of a Star of David scratched into her wrist. Five of six lines, hugely inflamed. For the first time in my life, I wished I were telepathic. I’d be willing to pay any price to know the story behind that except what it would actually cost – namely, a conversation with the girl with most of a Star of David carved into her wrist. What on Earth distracts a woman from slashing an ancient religious symbol into her body? Oven fries, aliens landing, what?

There’s an “anarchist” bookstore down the street. They don’t seem to see why that’s funny: they’re anarchists who took out a small business loan. Nothing is less anarchic than checking your credit score and then meeting with a loan officer. Do they not know that money is a thing the government does? I’ll bet anything that if you robbed them at gunpoint, they’d call the police.

Hypochondria Lols:

Mom: I think I have ovarian cancer.

Me: Why?

Mom: I’m losing weight, I have a sharp pain in my stomach and blood in my stool.

Me: That sounds like an ulcer. Your mother tends to form ulcers, and I had one last year.

Mom: No, it’s ovarian cancer. Come to the doctor with me.

Doctor: Well, I don’t think it’s ovarian cancer. Your ovary isn’t swollen. It sounds like an ulcer.

Mom: No, I think it’s ovarian cancer.

Guy Reading the MRI Results: See, here’s your ovary, over here. It’s small like a post-menopausal ovary should be. No cancer. Have you checked for an ulcer?

Mom: I bet that ovary turned cancerous.

Other Doctor: No, no cancer on the X-Ray. Sounds like an ulcer to me.

Mom: No one believes that I have ovarian cancer.

Guy Looking in Her Stomach through a Tube: Yeah, here’s the ulcer right here.

Mom: But what about my ovary?

If you say “ovary” enough times, it starts to sound exotic, even glamorous: “Hear you this! I am an Ovary, as were my father and grandfather before me! An Ovary stood by Lee at Appommattox and by Washington at Valley Forge! Ovaries crusaded with Richard the Lionhearted and crossed the Channel with William the Conqueror! As long as one Ovary stands, we shall never submit to a tyrant’s rule!” Or maybe a French village. “Ovary is a village near Bordeaux, notable for its well-preserved Roman sewers and foul-mouthed prostitutes.” Ovary. Ovary. Ovary.

Were You Raised in a Motherfucking Barn?

In retrospect, I want to know who the hell brought fake flowers to a funeral. At that point, why observe any rules, anywhere, ever? Wear hot pink to the graveside ceremony. Show up in your bathrobe with a Scotch in one hand and rustle magazines all through the service. Fart during the eulogy. Leave the men’s room door open. Draw a mustache on the corpse. Why not? There are fake flowers, anything goes! Who does things like that, and what do they do at weddings? I bet it’s the same guy who gives a racy toast about the bride’s sexual past at the rehearsal dinner. During the ceremony, he clears his throat during the “…or forever hold your peace” bit and afterward throws the flower girl to the ground so he can be “wacky” and catch the bouquet. Fake flowers at a funeral. “Though your life has faded, these plastic daffodils never will.” If someone brings fake flowers to my funeral, I will haunt you to death.

I Was Making a List of People I Like and It Turned Into a Rant about Princess Diana:

First of all, that “Cinderella” crap pisses me off. As an earl’s daughter, she was “Lady Diana” from birth. Under formal British court etiquette, she preceded people with earned honors, like Dame Judi Dench, even before her marriage. She got a lot of credit for her beauty, but really she was simply a moderately pretty woman surrounded by a lot of horse-faced duchesses and duchess-faced horses. Anyone looks good standing next to a ninety-year-old baroness who’s her own cousin six times over.

Eve Ensler is Hard to Parody:

My vagina is like…

The Green Party: possessed of a foul odor and increasingly irrelevant.

“The Vagina Monologues,” a respectable achievement at first, but now overrated and with a bizarre momentum of its own.

A hospital waiting room coffee machine, barely functional and sticky around the edges.

Our Elders Are a Bottomless Font of Wisdom, Feces*:

Me: I don’t feel very well.

Mom: What does your stool look like?

Me: Like stool, presumably. I don’t look at it.

Mom: What!? Chris, you have to. It’s an important marker of health.

Me: Oh, shit.

Mom: Exactly. If you don’t look at your feces, you could miss an important symptom. You could fall over dead, just like that (snap) from an intestinal bleed or something and you’d never know!

Me: Well, and if so, I won’t have wasted any of the precious time I have left looking at my own feces, trying to read the future in the bowl like it’s full of tea leaves!

Mom: Oh, Chris. You’re a prude, just like your grandmother. She won’t look at her feces either.

*This last one was brought up during an editorial conference:

Me: Meg, I’m almost done with a post, but I need to know if you’ve run the one about my mother ordering me to look at my feces.

Meg: Uh. I… no, I think that would stick out in the mind.

Me: Oh, bum. I’ll have to edit this whole constipation section.

Meg: God, we’re low-class. Ace Ventura IX: The Locally Recognized Blog Years.


Queer Abby Says Relax (Don't Do It)


Dear Queer Abby,

I'm a 24 year old woman, and I've been dating a guy my age for almost 6 months now. I'm absolutely head over heels in love with this boy, I've never been this happy. (Yay!) My friends like him, my mom likes him, my sister likes him, but then there's my dad. My dad seriously seriously does not like this boy! Mind you, my boyfriend hasn't done ANYTHING to warrant my father's strong feelings, it's just how my dad is. I usually just kind of ignore my father's rants, but this is really starting to get to me. I know that I should be like, "Hey dad, I'm 24, there's nothing you can do so drop it," but that won't stop him.

I need some help on how to handle this. I don't want to get into a screaming match with my dad over this, but I want him to stop rolling his eyes and giving me the silent treatment every time i mention my boyfriend's name. Please help!



If you want your dad to see you as a mature and responsible decision maker (in terms of who you’re dating or whatever else), then you need to make sure you’re addressing him as such. So yea, a screaming match is not in your best interest and it won’t be effective. The truth is, he’s always going to see you as his little girl and, therefore, a lot of the guys you bring home won’t cut it. You need to recognize that’s where he’s coming from and reach out to him with that in mind. If you want to change someone’s mind you have to meet them where they are, and try to pull them along slowly but surely by addressing their concerns as though they’re valid, not absurd.

So, approach him about it next time you’re together. Be calm, respectful and non-confrontational and just say, “I noticed you seem to have a problem with Boy Friend, why is that? I know you want what’s best for me and I respect your opinions, so I just want to understand where you’re coming from.” Really listen to what he has to say and respond to it rationally and honestly. Maybe he doesn’t have a good reason, but you can’t tell him that and just expect him to be like ‘wow, she’s right.’ He has to get there on his own. It might take a couple of conversations, and he might not change his mind right there in front of you, but with any luck he’ll start to soften up a little. And even if he doesn’t admit it, you might notice it in the way he acts toward you and Boy Friend.

Eventually, if these conversations don’t work then you’ll have to take a harder line and say something along the lines of “Listen, I love you and I want you to be proud of me, but at some point I have to start making decisions for myself and I hope eventually you’ll start respecting and supporting them.” But even if it does come to that, Frustrated, just remember that Dad isn’t going to like BF anymore than he does now if he thinks BF is driving a wedge between the two of you. So, stay close with him, remember he just wants what’s best for you and continue to act like an adult about it all… which means acknowledging that sometimes people disagree on things but that doesn’t mean there has to be any respect or love lost.

Aw. I'm kind of jealous of you. Not only have my hippie parents ruined my life by being 100% supportive of me and my fart blog (thereby robbing me of my god-given right to resent the hell out of them,) my dad also doesn't believe in weighing in on his daughters' love lives.

Before Geoff proposed to Becca, I was in charge of setting up a dinner between him and my parents so he could officially ask them for her hand in marriage. (I came with. We all got drunk and ate hamburgers; it was awesome.) After it happened, I asked my dad how he thought it went, and he took such an obnoxiously Free To Be You and Me way out of the question. He was like, "I appreciate him asking, but he didn't have to. You and your sister are your own women and who you want to be with is, and should not be, my decision. It's not like we live in the days when we'd have to barter you for goats or anything." (Although don't speak too soon, sir. I don't seem to be a "hot commodity", so I wouldn't go ebaying your livestock and fine table linens quite yet.) I was like, "O...K. A simple, 'I'm happy for them' would have sufficed, Mz. Steinem."

Similarly, my dad and I were out to dinner a few weeks ago at a restaurant where my parents are regulars and when the owner came over to say hi, she looked at me and asked my dad, "Oh! Is she one of yours?" "She is and she isn't," my dad answered. Which is when I began nervously shifting my eyes around the room and intensely regretted eating something so cream-based if I was about to find out I was adopted in a public Italian restaurant. Thankfully, my dad continued, "She's my daughter, but she's not 'mine'. I don't own her." Ughhhh...HIPPIE. I rolled my eyes and gave her a look that said, "Please apologize to the rest of the restaurant for the scent of patchouli wafting from our table," but she was like, "Awww, no, I think that's sweet! Your dad clearly respects you and thinks of you as your own woman!"

And while that's true and I do appreciate it, every now and then I kind of wish my dad would lose a few teeth, grab a shot gun and adopt a, "NOBODY'S GOOD ENOUGH FOR MAH LITTLE GIRL!" attitude, so I can be like, "Dad, I'm 25-years-old and can make my own decisions! SNL and Groundlings alum Chris Parnell and I are in love and you're just going to have to accept that and learn let go." Then my dad would sigh heavily, shake his head and somberly say, "I know, I know...I just don't want to lose you. You're my little girl!" "That's just it, DadI'm not your little girl anymore. Besides, [playfully nudges him] you know you'll never lose me." "I know. Maybe I have been a little too hard on 30Rock's Chris Parnell." "He's a really amazing guy, Dad. I think if you just talked to him, you'd realize that." "Well, why don't we all go out to brunch tomorrow?" "We can't, Dad. Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story's Chris Parnell and I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow to get our first sonogram." "Sonogram...? You mean" "That's right. I'm pregnant." [Hugs] "You know something? You're right. I'm not losing a daughterI'm gaining a son and a grandchild." AND SCENE!

I don't know, it still needs workshopping, but isn't that how that shit works? If I were you, I'd Netflix the Meet the Fockers movies; Father of the Bride 1 and 2; and Guess Who immediately and be prepared to take a lot of notes.

Queer Abby,

Holy fuck do I need a good, clear, honest opinion. I don't want to bore you with a lot of back story because the question is pretty short and simple but here's a little bit any way:

I have a guy that I sleep with on a regular basis. We're not together, so "Fuck Buddy" probably does it justice. The sex is great, I do my thing, he does his and we're good. However... Dun Dun Dun... I've been with 3 guys off and on in between him and the sex is hot, it lasts, we're both into it, or so it seems, but the guys aren't getting off. The first guy, it just didn't happen, same thing with the second one. And now the last guy had to finish himself. This is after some pretty intense oral, too.

What. the. fuck.

I've never encountered this problem, and now it's happened 3 fucking times. I'm to the point where I'm sure it's me. But why the hell keep it going for so long if you don't find me attractive, or whatever the case may be? I mean, I know there's a ton of reasons for a guy to not get off, but seriously? 3 people? I used to think I was pretty good in bed, but now I'm not so sure.

Help Amy! Put me out of my misery or tell me sweet stories of how this isn't a disaster.

- the Girl That Can't Get Him Off

I’m sorry, I don’t know how to respond to this except to say I hope you’re using protection. I’m not judging—your hobbies are your own, I’m 100% pro-sex, and again, I don’t know your timeframe on all of this, but anytime you’re running the risk of ending up on MauPo’s monthly Who’s My Baby Daddy episode, maybe you should be asking ‘why am I doing this?’ not ‘are they enjoying themselves?’ ... I'm not trying to be an asshole, I just can't say for sure that the main issue that needs to be addressed here is whether or not these guys are getting off, and I don't want to encourage your behavior without knowing where your head's at and whether you're being safe.

'Eh. I don't really have any morals or ethics. I'll address it. First of all, let's all let out a good hearty laugh at the thought of me giving someone sex advice. It's OK; just let it out. Let your laughter shower down upon me so we can all move on. We good? OK. Now, onto your problem.

You're rightthere are plenty of potential reasons why Bachelors 1-3 didn't finish. And truthfully, without me and Amy in the room with you to be like, "OOO, YEP. That's it. Your vagina has teeth. There's your problem.", neither of us can really tell you for sure if it's you or them or what's going on. However, I will tell you thisI've been with a someone who couldn't finish twice: the first time was because it was a horrible one-night stand and it was kind of awkward and uncomfortable and after a while it just boiled down to: "This is boring and my hair is frizzing. Can I go home now?" The second time was because drugs and alcohol were in play.

Orgasms are something like 90% mental (I knew all that Real Sex would pay off some day...) so when you compromise your mental state, whether it be with drugs, alcohol, or lack of a connection, it's certainly not helping anyone get there any faster. I bring this up because it seems like the dudes in your life who aren't orgasming are the ones who are your casual "Fuck Buddies." Eff Buddies are good in theory (and Lord knows I wouldn't hate one right now...) but in practice, they're kind of awkward. You both know you're only there for sex, so there's all this weird pressure involved and nothing ruins sex more than pressure. Plus, I don't know about you, but in my experience, alcohol normally preludes a hook up with an Eff Buddy and alcohol + mild awkwardness + pressure = baseball, cold showers, MARGARET THATCHER NAKED ON A COLD DAY! MARGARET THATCHER NAKED ON A COLD DAY!

So unless you're literally lying there trying to shove his dick in your ear while you recap last night's episode of Antiques Roadshow in a cockney accent, I'd chalk it up to the situation. If you continue to hook up with one (or all of them; I'm not here to judge) and the problem persists, communicate with him/them. I'm not suggesting you take one out to Caribou, sit him down and be like, "So. Steve. I notice you can't achieve male orgasm. Do you want to [lean in, put your hand on his] talk about it?" But talk to him in bed about what he likes and what you can do to make him feel good. Not only is that hot in and of itself, it'll (hopefully) speed up the process. (THIS IS ALL WHILE WEARING CONDOMS, of course.) Help me help yourself, Steve.

Deer Queer Abby,

Meg, I want to start out by saying I’m madly in love with you and when I read your words I feel like you’re a slightly exaggeratedversion of myself… and that makes me feel safe. (Aw, thanks!)

I fell in love last year and dated this oober fantastic guy who is possibly my soul mate and I say that term lightly because I also thinkthat I should marry onions and Jack Donaghy from 30 rock… Any ways, I’m really in love. For realz. This boy that I love is delightfullyawkward and through the course of our relationship my outside life became a literal shit pile and through my inability to deal I became depressed… and so did he. We got to the point where we didn’t enjoy each other anymore because of the depression, but I didn’t knowwhat else to do… remember, outside life, shit pile…

So, we broke up. But it’s never clean, is it? My best gay friend is now his roommate because he needed someone to help with rent and the bgf needed a place to live. They are now in totally gay bro love and there is no way I can come between that. Boobs hold no ground in gay bro love, none, Also, he wanted to stay friend, and since I’m so stupidly in love I can’t say no to that proposition.

He says he still loves me, just can’t date me right now because of how bad things really got between us. He is still attracted to me, and he loves spending time with me, in fact we love spending time with each other, I‘m so much happier now that the break up forced me to deal with my real life. Except I can’t not think of him romantically. I can’t “just be friends” because I feel real heart wrenching life changing monumentally necessary love for him. Friendship is a part of every love relationship, I just feel so much more seeing him as only a friend is impossible.

Not to mention that I’m hornier than a toad and he refuses to even hold my hand let alone play with my lady bits…

So here is my question: Should I stay friends and wait it out because that’s what the love of my life wants and if I was in his position I know he’d wait for me to be ready? Or, should I try to wean him out and see if by dating multiple people at one time I can ease the pain of the fact that the guy who is enough for me all by himself doesn’t want me right now and may never want me again? Should I try dating and stay his friend so I can have him but a little lovin’ on the side that is only minutely as satisfying as relationship sex? Should I move to Africa and wear a water jug on my head and no shoes or a bra ever again? I have so many options, I just don’t know what will make me happier in the end. Because I hurt now, no matter if I say or leave.

Is this the part where I make up a witty name?

-the girl who still wears shoes and a bra… for now

I vote moving to Africa…but if you aren’t going to do that, take it as a euphemism for creating some distance between the two of you and starting with a clean slate (independent of him).

You can’t count on this situation turning out how you want it to. AT BEST your odds of getting back together are 50/50 and, even if you do, I’m unconvinced that you guys wouldn’t slip into the same pattern as before. I’m not sure that a few months is enough time to take a pile of shit and sculpt it in to anything but a slightly more decorative pile of shit, or that it’s enough time for you to discern exactly how it got to that point so you can prevent it from happening again.

More importantly, though, he said he doesn’t want to be with you. I don’t care if “right now” followed that statement, you can’t count on this guy deciding he wants to be in a relationship with you later. All you have to work with is what’s in front of you, and that excludes the option of being with him. So find closure in whatever you guys had and concentrate on making your life what you want it to be without him. That doesn’t mean you have to date around, but if you do don’t jump to the conclusion that it will be meaningless and unfulfilling with anyone but your ex…and if it is, then don’t waste your time. If your life is as squared away as you say, you should be fine enjoying it for a while, as is, until an option comes along that you truly believe will make it better. Wasting your time pining over someone who doesn’t want to be with you will only prevent that.

Look, I'm of the school of thought that I don't want to be with anyone who doesn't want to be with me. And I tend to be extremely militant about that. I'm a total bridge burner and I have absolutely no problem cutting you out of my life if I get the feeling that you don't want to be in it. Whether it be with friends or lovers (vomit. Worst word ever...) if you're out, you're out and it's not my job to convince you to stay.

But as OH HEY STRONG SISTAHHHH!!!! as that sounds, it's not actually a part of my personality that I enjoy. Because like, nights are hard. When you cut someone out like that, you don't get any closure and more times than not, I just lay there at night wondering why those people didn't want to be in my life and just feel terribly lonely. But that's why god invented Nip/Tuck at 3 o'clock in the morning, am I right or AM I RIGHT?!!?!?

I bring this up less for sympathy and more so because I feel like there has to be a healthy medium between being hung up on someone and pushing people out of your life for fear of being hung up on someone. I think it's a good idea to be cordial with your ex, but absolutely get your ass back out there and on the dating scene again. And if you don't feel ready to be your ex's friend, then don't. There's a difference between being friends and being friendly with someone. I don't know, dude. It's going to suck either way. That's just the nature of the beast. But Netflix will always love you.

Jesus Christ, that was depressing sentence. I hate when we end on a WAMP, WAMP. Uh...here are some erotic pictures of Chris Parnell to cleanse the palette:





Got a question you'd like Amy and Meg to answer? Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com!

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