Your love. Your love. Your love. Is my drug.

Annnd thank you, Kesha, for today’s blog post title.

I don’t know if it’s like this in other “professions” (using this word, “professions”, suuuper loosely. While I have Blogged For Business before, this is not exactly a professional blog… yet. LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME.) but when someone tells me they think my blog is funny, it’s one of the best feelings in the world. (Aside from hearing my husband say he loves me, hugging/kissing/Nellcroing my son and smelling a pot of Fettucine Alfredo boiling on the stove, of course. This is right up there. What’s wrong with me? Jesus. *Calling therapist.)

When you say I’m funny, I feel like I’m a teenager again, or somewhere in my early twenties – younger than I am right now, ok? – and I’m transported back to a time where I’m single and the guy I’ve had my eye on, the one on the top of my Conquest List, just asked me out. Does that mean you’re asking me out when you compliment me? No. Just follow me here. (And ask my former roommates, that Conquest List did in fact exist. Having second thoughts about saying that so proudly. Anyway.) A non-skank comparison? It feels like the high of running a race and beating my competitor as well as my last time. A non-former-cross-country-dork comparison? Ehh. I got nothin’. Choose from skank or dork. Slim pickin’s.

Or, how about:

“Your writing is funny” feels to me like “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I’d like to marry you and reproduce with you and make stunning babies and grow old and more distinguished with you,” said from the hot lips of Ryan Gosling to pretty much any girl ever. And most guys. There’s nothing wrong with a mancrush on Gos Gos, guys. Nothing wrong at all.

So please. Keep reading. Keep laughing. Keep validating my dementia. Or pretending to.

And if you’re not laughing, maybe do some drugs before reading my blog and then you might laugh? Or deprive yourself of sleep for a few days? I don’t know, just throwing it out there. I’ve been accused of being a coke head before [in college, by an actual coke head, as a matter of fact] because my humor and personality can be so quirky.

Either that or I had a first-snowfall-esque dusting of white sugar powder on my nose/cheeks/chin/forehead/ok, head-to-toe from scarfing jelly doughnuts on the down low. I don’t like to share my sweets. Have I described my insatiable sweet tooth in enough detail to you yet? Something tells me I haven’t. That’ll come.

To wrap this up: I’m not endorsing being a druggie. I just wanna make you giggle is all. And you don’t have to tell me I made you giggle, I’ll just assume I made you giggle and be coy about it. (And cocky, too, apparently. Sheesh.) We can play your little game. Sure thing. As long as it’s not a card game. I HATE card games. End scene.

Here I am, lounging on my bed as a depressed, zitty teenager waiting for the phone to ring, soaking up valuable Girl Knowledge from Seventeen Magazine. Reading about all the fun things I should be out doing instead of locking myself up in my room alone. Well, my bear's there at least. Siggghhh.

Here I am, lounging on my bed as a depressed, zitty teenager waiting for the phone to ring, fueling the fire with Teenage Girl Crack a.k.a. Seventeen Magazine. 

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2 Responses to Your love. Your love. Your love. Is my drug.

  1. Joan Hickey says:

    I think I actually have a photo of that exact drawing of you, Gooey. Never apologize from loving the strokes you get from being funny. Everybody needs strokes and everybody needs to find a healthy way to get those strokes. Making other people laugh, especially while poking fun at yourself, is a great way to do it. Keep on blogging.

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