The One Where I Told My Father About This Blog


So, I was just talking to my dad on the phone, and I mentioned my awesome new gig with and he asked “How do I read these videogame reviews?” So I told him the URL, and then I was like “Every article I write links back to my blog,” which is when I realized that this is basically where I go to confess terrible things and cry about my mom. Also, dispense illicit sex advice to friendly Internet ladies.

To throw him off the scent, I rambled about the blog and how it’s very “open” for about 10 minutes longer than I needed to be talking. So, if you’re reading this, hi Dad. Sorry I talk so much shit about Mom. Honestly, I think you’d like most of the posts I write. It’s not like I’m not like this in real life anyway.

I really am incapable of keeping anything inside.

The other night I had a nightmare that I was pregnant and I haven’t stopped telling people about it since it happened. My interpretation is that my brain is trying to help me find some compassion for my mother. In the dream, I was totally excited to be pregnant and was eating my usual fruits and vegetables with a new and shining sense of purpose, because my baby was going to be the most vitamin supplemented infant on the planet, and I was so excited to take care of it, and teach it, and be there for it, and every puke-inducing sentiment that daytime me can never imagine having towards a zygote of my own in real life. Of course I woke up completely grossed out. This is up there with the dream where I married and consummated my marriage with Dame Judi Dench for awake-time horror face.

But thinking about the dream (the pregnancy dream, not the Judi Dench dream) has me thinking about my own mother. I’m pretty sure when she found out she was pregnant with me, she didn’t look down and think “I’m about to fuck this up.” She probably had all the same impulses as dream-me had when I was dream-pregnant. She probably thought the same things about being a great mom, and doing awesome mom-daughter stuff, and having a loving, safe home. Or at least I’m pretty sure that at no point she thought “I’m going to do drugs through this pregnancy and then I’m going to abandon this baby with a man who hits children and a woman who doesn’t stop him.”

Then again, good intentions mean fuck all in the real world. If I set my desk on fire right now, I have a feeling that the fire department wouldn’t offer me a hug of consolation when I’m standing in front of my burned-out apartment crying and yelling “I didn’t think it would get this bad!”

So what does that mean? Who the fuck knows at this point. Aren’t you tired of me? I’m so tired of me right now. ‘Boo, my mom sucks.’ Jesus, get over yourself.

I just Google image searched “jesus get over yourself” and this was there.

I know, right?