Oh, Lord. Every time I write a half-assed rap or poem, I end up falling into a stress K-hole and not posting for weeks, thus leaving my questionable rhymes front and center.
In my defense, though, I haven't had a lot to say--at least, not that you would want to read. For instance, here's a choice Scenes From a Marriage that transpired a few nights ago:
I'm lying in bed. Jeff enters (the ROOM, for clarity's sake, and despite having given birth five months ago that's not a euphemism for my vagina).
Jeff: I peed on your pee.
Me: I forgot to flush?
Jeff: I assumed it was so as not to wake the baby.
Me: Yes. Right. Let's say that's the reason, and not that I simply lack the brainpower to remember how to hide my own waste.
Classic, right? You're so glad I shared.
While I was gone, I wrote a few things you might want to read. Like:
This essay on why the Oscars are a big let-down, even for an awards show ho like me.
This Aiming Low post about how I discovered that Jeff wants to have sex with every Asian woman in the world, regardless of attractiveness. (Line starts here, ladies!)
Also, I have a major announcement. It is so MAJ. Sister Zoe, your favorite vomit eradicator and denim vest aficionado, will be answering all your burning questions in a new advice column that she's testing out as she prepares to drop her knowledge in her friend Kate's real life start-up magazine (golf clap!)
Now, some of you may be asking, But Una, what ever became of Hot Probs? To which I say, Heather, my love, there's a new sheriff in town. Because the old one has no time now that she has to re-train herself to flush the toilet.
Email your questions (no question is too dumb or too personal, and she will respect your anonymity) to AskSisterZoe@gmail.com.