When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Drink Champagne

I'm supposed to be sober. Until the marathon. In October.



I'm drinking champagne. By myself. Out of a coffee mug. In my bed.

Have you ever been a girl?


I'm getting my fucking period this week.

(Calm down dudes, I know it grosses you out but it's not contagious. Your scrotum won't get a cycle, I promise. Idiots.)

Do you know what this week means?

It means I cry or scream or freak out. All the time.

Today, someone let me go first at a stop sign. I sobbed. Such nice people in this world. And then I gave some dude the finger just because I didn't like his car.

(In my defense, it was a Prius.)

It means that yesterday in the car, I turned off the music, banned us from listening to anything, and told my sister to get out and walk...all because she took a picture of me.

It means that I binge watch Grey's Anatomy and really believe that Cristina and Meredith are my friends.

Their heartbreak is MY heartbreak. When they lose a patient, I lose a patient. I wish they would call time of death on my uterus right about now.

(Just kidding universe, I want to give birth someday. Namaste, asshole.)

It means every song gives me every feeling.

I turn music on in my car and have white girl dance parties/The Voice auditions while trying not to cry during the chorus of one song and then turning up another song and thinking life will never get better than this moment.

It means I am basically a mental patient who is allowed to roam free.

That's what it means.

Also, I have a TON of first world problems:

My roots are growing out. I am rockin' the poor man's ombre. And it is NOT attractive. I look like Lady Gaga on a good day. Woof.

I need to get my eyebrows waxed. Seriously, just because I eat like a caveman doesn't mean I need to look like one. Get it together, bitch, you're not a wookie.

It's the middle of July and my tan is gone.


It means my makeup no longer matches my skin and I'm too god damn poor to buy new foundation. So I have to put foundation from my forehead to my tits and hope for the best.

(Not that I was planning on getting laid this week, what with my body attacking itself from the inside just so I can have a child one day, but clearly the dude would have to stay in "North America" so that he doesn't realize I am TWO TONED. Fuck.)

Also, while on the subject of dudes, let's talk about why I need a husband. Today I realized my blinker was out and my friend jokingly said, "you need blinker fluid"...


Don't fucking judge me. What you call stupid, I call endearing and charming.

And don't tell me I "don't need a man for that stuff." I know I don't, but I want one. Cause otherwise I will just drive around without a blinker and wait to get pulled over and then lie to the cop about knowing my blinker was out.

Again, don't fucking judge me because you broads would all do the same thing.

Clearly, I just can't deal. So, today I gave in.

I skipped my run. My bra was uncomfortable and I hated my outfit and I wore the wrong headband. I'm basically a kindergartner.

I ate grains. Fuck making a fruit and kale smoothie. I'm busy getting ready to lay a motherfucking egg.

And now I'm drinking champagne.

I KNOW these aren't real problems. Trust me, I know real problems. I HAVE real problems.

But today, I can't do real problems. Today, I can't be tough.

Today I choose to raise a mug to the pretend problems. The problems we bitch about when we don't want to deal with reality.

Cause sometimes, when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

And sometimes...when the going gets tough, the tough drink champagne.

Cheers! CasC
PS, you can totally enter your email address below to get an email from me EVERY TIME I write a new post! I promise I won't send you any spam/weirdo fetish stuff! (No judgment, yo!)

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