“Kitty Killer” or “Cat (de)Capper”

Well, I killed a cat yesterday. He was black and he crossed my path, and even though I crashed into a guardrail trying to avoid him, I still fared better than he did. So I think we can rule out that little superstition.

During the slaughter, I hit my head on the driver’s side window. Boo hoo. I think I strained a muscle in my neck, too, but it had been hurting anyway, so who knows?

Sickness #1: I wasn’t even off the road before I called my supervisor to tell him I wasn’t coming in. Then I realized, “Seriously? My first phone call after an accident in which I almost leapt a guardrail and drowned in forest is Coffee Shop (TM)?”

I managed to pull into a parking lot nearby, climb out of my smoking (ok, steaming) car, and drag myself to a curb. I sat on that curb, ass in dirt, hugging my knees in my Coffee Shop (TM) uniform while fit yuppies walked past me on their way to Step Aerobics and Pilates classes. When I stopped crying, I called my boo. He was calm and struck out into the night/morning to pick me up.

Sickness #2: It then took me almost until 7 am, two hours later, to call my parents, knowing a call this early in the morning about a car crash would probably send them to the hospital with matching heart attacks while I struggled with the insurance all by my lonesome. Here’s how the conversation went when I finally called:

Phone: Ring ring ring (my dad’s phone because he’s less of a panicker).

“What’s wrong?” Damn. My mom answered.

“Good morning!” I sang it all cheerfully because no one can be that chipper in a neck brace or on a gurney, so that would put her mind at ease in that regard.

“What’s wrong? It’s early.” Damn.

“Oh, nothin’… Where’s dad?”

“Still sleeping. Why?”

“Oh nothin’… I’m fine, but my car hit a guardrail.” Here’s where I smiled smugly at my carefully chosen syntax. Let’s dissect: By saying “My car hit a guardrail,” it implied that I was standing there safely at a crosswalk or on a cloud or something, and my anthropomorphized car suddenly couldn’t take the stress of the garbage I throw on the floor or the overextended distance from one oil change to the next.

Car accident

This is what happens to anthropomorphized cars when left to their own devices.

“Oh my God. Are you ok? Oh jeez. Where are you? Was it just one other car? Was anyone hurt? Are the police there? Are you off the road? How many stars are in the sky? What’s the meaning of life? How do you do advanced calculus? I’ll wake up Dad.”

No one had a heart attack thanks to my well-crafted sentence.

After I found my warranty information, my boo brought me back to my car and left for work. Waiting for the tow truck, I thought, “Hm. I hit my head. Could I potentially have a concussion? I’ll worry about it when I wake up from this nap.” Because who the fuck cares about a concussion when you’ve been up at 3 a.m. for three days in a row?

I sat in that car, its bumpers all crunched up, me hugging my knees in my Coffee Shop (TM) uniform while fit yuppies walked past me on their way back from Step Aerobics and Pilates classes.

This, as some of you know, was my third large (expensive) car issue and second awkward tow truck ride of the summer, in which the tow truck driver says, “So what do you do?” glances at my Coffee Shop (TM) uniform and says, “Oh,” and in which I reply, “So what do you do?” glance at the hulking beast that is dragging me and my car and say, “Oh.”

Silence ensued.

Good thing is that there are no mechanical issues and the damage to the body isn’t as horrible as the pre-dawn darkness made it seem. There is, however, blood splattered across the driver-side doors. Meow.

To add injury to injury, I passed the corpse once when Steve picked me up and again when he brought me back. And AGAIN when the tow driver took me to the car shop. I saw it from every view but, curiously, never saw a head…

Aside from all this “humor,” I feel like an asshole over it. What if it was little Timmy’s cat who he got for Christmas and named Tinsel? What if there were a brood of kittens still suckling from those weird lines of teats cats develop, like, all over their stomachs?


“No, I said BIG boobs.” Ok, I know this isn’t a cat, but TIT’s a far more dramatic (and disturbing) visual.

I love animals in the way that compelled me to wear t-shirts of galloping horses and howling wolves when I was younger (you know the tie-dyed ones where it’s like running horses superimposed on a bigger horse or a pack of howling wolves superimposed on a bigger wolf). I also saved up $60 in birthday/Christmas/found-on-the-dryer money to buy a set of tapes (yes, tapes) that supposedly taught you to speak telepathically to animals.

Don’t rush out and buy it.

Since I can’t bring him back, I have to honor that dead kitty by being the best I can be. I have to help others more. I have to work hard and enjoy life more.

Or maybe I’ll just stop giving decaf to rude customers.

A New Job! Wait, no, just ANOTHER job.

The good news is that I got a new job as a copywriter. In the last two days I’ve been compared to Elaine from Seinfeld (hate that show)…


Probably because we have the same pantsuit.

…and Peggy from Mad Men, which I’m not sure is a compliment or insult, and I will presently immerse myself in all five seasons to decide whether to thank or punish these people.

Style: "Mad Men"

In this case, I just wish we had the same suit.

Rather than me think about it, though, why don’t you tell me who I am in the following poll (answer correctly, I can see your name when you vote (not true)).

Well, thanks for your time! I will tally the results and then start talking/dressing/acting like whichever person I have been decreed to be.

I am pretty damn excited for this job. I will be writing the item descriptions for the store’s website, and mind you, it is a pretty big, pretty famous store. Like, a lot of people will read these descriptions in which I say things like, “Wear these Superman undies and save lives — in only your underwear” (not the best, but I’m not in the zone right now), and “Your boo will absotively swoon when you don this little polka dotted, princess-wasted, over-hemmed, fully-tulled yellow dress thing” (I have a bit to learn about fashion).

Also, I will include the word “swoon” in at least one piece a day because my friend/fashion-and-art blogger over at The Corn Fed Artist dies a little every time a swoon is born.

But, my co-ASers, this good news does not come without a bit of reality.

The job is a contracting job, which I’ve stayed away from since I was diagnosed. I’ve come across some great contracting opportunities, but didn’t even bother applying because to those of us who need insurance, we can’t just leap out of the fat, secure arms of insurance at our current job, even if it pays minimum wage.

We take these drugs to take back our lives. They let us run free and live for today and carpe diem and do, like, 70 other platitude-things, but what does it cost us in the end? We can’t pack up and teach English in the Australian outback to Aborigines. We can’t backpack around South America for a year. We can’t even take a contracting job that pays more than our current coffee-shop job.

And hence, I have said, “Full-time? No thanks! I will work here thirty hours a week, and I will keep working my minimum wage job 24 hours a week, and I will work myself into an early grave!” Because even making so much more an hour will not cover the cost of freaking Humira.

On the bright side:



I got a job!

UPDATE: My Zombie Eye

So you guys remember that time I wrote about that time I had iritis and my eye got really gross and ugly and I scared people’s pants off in the drive-thru as I handed them their coffee and then I got steroid eye drops and my eye got stronger than Arnold?

No? Screw you. Go read it.

Anyway, as I was writing it, I was thinking to myself, “Cruel world! Why do you not have a picture of an iron-pumping eyeball? How could you forsake me?”

And even as the world forsook me, my friend at Clip Snark did not. Though her blog post about her search for this image is very modest, she told me the truth of her harrowing journey o’er hill and vale, past hungry antelope and grazing tigers, ‘midst people who would sooner suck the eyeballs from your face than give you the time, though she had no need of knowing the time as the nights turned into days and the days into scorching and freezing weeks.

Fret not, my readers, her journey was not fruitless. She finally found the lost city of Atlantis’ giant underwater power pyramid crystal. Swaddled in neoprene and surrounded by scuba tubes, she pressed the ancient key (won from one of the afore-mentioned cannibals in a pocket-knife fight to the death) into a notch on the side of the crystal, and a door opened.

She wildly swept aside silly items like the lost Excalibur, the Holy Grail, and Davy Jones’ middle school gym locker as her oxygen tank got dangerously low. As the very back of the secret compartment was a computer, already powered on, connected to the Bermuda Triangle’s wifi, and open to a clip art website.

She clipped (pun!) the entire desktop to her scuba belt just as her oxygen ran out, and a dolphin she had saved from a rabid shark grabbed her in its teeth and pushed her toward the surface.

She has delivered to me now a clip art image of an eyeball lifting weights. My Excalibur. My Holy Grail. My Davy Jones’ middle school gym locker. When the world forgot about me, she did not.  When Microsoft Office turned its back on me, she did not.

I’d show you this image Clip Snark sacrificed so much for, but it’s like 10 bucks to buy the smallest size, and I’d rather buy shoes.

On (Not) Bluffing and Pride

I have that bad kind of pride that gets you into trouble. I’m a firm believer in principle, which also gets you into trouble. 

When I was little, I’d bluff to try to get my way. “I won’t eat this meatloaf. I’d rather go to bed without eating.” I really didn’t like meatloaf. Because it’s a LOAF of MEAT. So gross. Have you seen the way it moves?



Go watch Better off Dead. You won’t regret it.

Even though I didn’t like meatloaf, I didn’t hate it. And I would sure take that over going to bed without dinner. I was bluffing, and I thought I’d win. I was aiming for some other dinner, hoping my mom would get up and cook me a little something special and not so gooey.

My parents, however, knew that I was bluffing, and also had their own damned plans to win. 

“Well, I guess no dinner then, huh?” 

I stared in thinly veiled shock before I turned around, walking slowly to the stairs, awaiting the inevitable “wait-come-back-I’ll-make-Mac&Cheese,” but it never came. And as I have the bad kind of pride and won’t be made a liar, I marched myself straight up those stairs with no dinner when I would have eaten the meatloaf over nothing.

Did I learn my lesson? Oh no. I did this many different times in many different ways. 

Right now, ma boo and I are in a bad situation with the neighbors who live below us. They are aggressive, threatening, and they have told their family members, police, and our landlord that we smoke our crackpipe out on the patio amongst a barrage of similarly heinous lies. If they would just ask, they would know we keep our crack smoking in the attic. 

For the last year, we have kept our landlord apprised of the hostility in which they respond to the pitter patter of our little feet across our apartment. We hear a near constant stream of obscenities pouring through the carpet while we tiptoe around, having trained ourselves to walk like freaking cats, so much so that I’ve sprouted whiskers and become allergic to myself.

We told our landlord that we don’t want to be in this situation anymore and we’d appreciate if he would just tell us whether they are staying or going because if they are staying, we are going. He told us that he was kicking them out on June 1st.

Oh, how we rejoiced! The champagne! The fireworks! The flappers dancing about in all their finery. It looked a lot like this.

But due to the Great Calendar Shortage of 2013, June 1st became July 1st, and July 1st became August 1st. Well, let’s just say things escalated in the last week, and, as I don’t take my landlord’s word that they will indeed be gone by August 1st, now we’re definitely out of here. 

We have told our landlord several times in the last couple of months that we can’t live in constant fear anymore and that we are looking at other apartments. 

Well, we found one the other day, and now we’re moving. When we called the landlord to tell him, he had this to say:

“Well, I understand that these are special circumstances, but I usually like thirty days’ notice.” Oh, well we will remember that next time.

Mr. Landlord, we were not bluffing when we told you we were leaving. We were not bluffing when we told you we feared for our safety and would not stay in this situation for any longer. We are not bluffing now with all these boxes packed up and ready to go. We gave you far more than 30 days’ notice, and it is not our problem if you thought we were bluffing. 

Sorry this is not my typical post. We are unhappy with the events that have unfolded and hate to leave our dream apartment.

However, we are excited on moving day to show our lonely embittered neighbors how many family members and friends love us and are helping us move.

And our family members and friends are excited to stomp really loudly and slam the door every thirty seconds.

Now we’re packing. And I Instagrammed it in the most depressing filter I could find:



Hello shoppers,

We’re asking $35 for a great kitchen table, 80s retro, with a built in leaf, and four regular chairs, two armchairs. With this sexy kitchen set, famous people (Jennifer Lawrence, Leonardo DiCaprio, President Barack Obama) will be knocking down the door for an invitation to a dinner party at your place.

If you don’t like the 80s wood grain, get your Pinterest on! Chalk paint that baby! Turn it into a shabby chic whatever and send me a picture so I can feel bad about myself for pinning everything and actually following through on none of them.

You must come and collect because I can’t fit even one of those dang chairs into my little car. Plus, my transmission has been on the fritz, and I wouldn’t want to be stuck on the side of the road with a table. Most useless cargo ever in case of an emergency.

This listing also comes with a hearty handshake and a charming style. For free. Haggling for more is allowed.






Leave a reply if you’re interested!

I sent this to NBC news today because I hate them.


I watched your craptastic show tonight and thanked the shitty economy that my journalistic career never started.

I saw you first warn the audience that the following picture would be graphic, and then you showed a still of Brown-Turner holding a gun up to Donancricchia just before he shot him. I thought, “Hm, hope his wife was ok with that image being rubbed in her face.” But I let it go.

A few minutes later, I heard that same warning, “May be too graphic blah blah blah,” but I could see the glint in the woman’s eye as she could practically SEE the people sitting forward on their couches for the death and destruction that she was about to show us. Yippee!

Then we, the American public, got to see the exact moment, the EXACT FREAKING MOMENT, when a pilot and a wing walker had the life snuffed right out of their bodies! And we didn’t even have to pay for cable! Thank God for their sacrifice, right? That probably boosted the shit out of your ratings!

I am no prude. Show sex on TV. Go ahead, do it. It harms none. But violence for the sake of ratings that is so pathetically veiled in journalistic truth is bullshit.

You can consider your show dead to me. You can put that on your show, “NBC is dead to local woman! She will never watch us again! The following video may be too graphic for some.” And then you can show a video at the EXACT moment I shut the TV off. Ratings!

From now on, I’ll get my news from any passerby, as that would be about as reliable as the news I get from you, minus the outright exploitation.

Without hope for humanity,
Katie O’Shaughnessy

Let’s Talk about Surviving the Apocalypse

I like to think I’m a survivor, a hero, as do we all probably. I like to think that in the case of an apocalypse or a zombie takeover or a robot uprising, I’d be the badass chick with a smear of grease strategically placed along her cheek to enhance her cheekbones, long blond hair pulled back with strands delicately falling around her face, and a fierce expression as I aimed my machine gun into the throng of Cybermen coming to get me and my family. 

And I would win.



The truth? Electricity would probably go out and my medication would go bad. Within two months, I’d be unable to hold up my gun. I’d be slow and get separated from the other survivors and probably get killed OR slow them down and we’d ALL get killed. If I survived somehow by hiding out in a hole, eventually the rest of me would fuse together and I’d either die from hunger or one of them would find me and kill me or take me as an experiment subject or something. 

AS folks, I don’t see us participating much in the Humans vs. Aliens standoff.

In high school, my class discussed world hunger and our place in it as rich white kids. It was almost unanimous that we thought we should help if we had the money. Then this guy up and says, “I think everyone just wants to look like a hero. If we really want to cure world hunger, we should stop helping and let them die.”

OUTCRY. UPRISING. ANGER. GUILT. The class went NUTS. It was a madhouse. How could he be so callous. What an ass. I was surprised because I’d gone through all of grade school and high school in classes with this kid and I’d always thought he was a nice guy. How could I have missed that he was HITLER REINCARNATED?

Because he wasn’t. And the outcry that he calmly sat through was because we all knew it was true, but that knowledge made us feel so damn guilty. But he wasn’t suggesting that’s what we do. He was saying that letting nature do its thing would solve the problem, regardless of the ethics, regardless of what we will and will not allow.

Nature has the ability to do some pretty craaaaazy things. It can fix just about anything, we just don’t let it anymore because it would be devastating to us. We humans are saddled with compassion, which makes it damn near impossible for us to say, “Eh, let ‘em die,” (at least outside of corporate America), and with that comes prolonging issues like hunger, overcrowding, disease, and small genetic defects like my nose.

Prepare yourself for some cold logic here:

  • If there are 100 people and the environment can only sustain 50, 50 people are going to starve and die, and the remaining 50 will have enough food.
  • If people with genetic diseases died instead of having children, many of those diseases would disappear.
  • If people stopped taking drugs for life-threatening diseases, the ones whose immune systems couldn’t handle it would die, and the survivors would be stronger.

I’m a terrible person. Right? Nah. I don’t like to think so. I’m not saying we should do this. I’m saying it would fix our problems.

But humans are compassionate. We are born with that, and you could argue that it was evolution that built compassion into us as well. That without compassion, our species, so delicate in its makeup, wouldn’t have aided its community, and as individuals, we would stand no chance against tigers and polar bears and ravenous puppies.

There’s something that nags at me constantly, though. If evolution were uninhibited by human intervention (like, say, in the event of an apocalypse), we, my fellow AS peeps, would die. And that makes me very upset. Very upset indeed.

I don’t know why I think about it, like, all the time, but I do. A few hundred years ago, I’d be left for dead. Evolutionarily, if nature did the healthiest thing for itself, I would be let die. I love evolution. Darwin, boobies, finches, upright walking, but damn if it wouldn’t get me in the end.


These boobies, too.

When I was little, I really just wanted to time travel. Don’t know why. I was bored with Super Mario or something. But now I realize that I’d make it maybe two months before some old-school person killed me because I was walking too slowly in front of them.

Also I’d be blind. Just thought of that. Thanks a lot -9.00 prescription. My blindness would most likely get me killed, probably sooner than the AS, so I guess this whole thing was null.

In Defense of Tanning

For the last couple of months, some sort of psoriasis or eczema has been sprouting in the crease of my elbow and my armpit. It itches a bit, and no natural cream has helped it.

Before vacation this year, I decided to spare other Disney-goers the glare off my transparent leg-skin, and I went to a local tanning salon. Twice, with little overall effect.

Tanning beds. Cancer. Wrinkles. This woman:


Anyway, I went tanning. When I woke up the day after and prepared to indulge in my daily elbow-crease/armpit scratch, it was GONE! Disappeared!

Of course it came back in another month because EVERYTHING is chronic these days, so I planned to go tanning again.

When I mentioned it, though (and I did gratuitously in order to gauge reaction, and, honestly, to gather blog-post fodder), the responses I got were pretty aggressive. So many people, family included, made the same face.

My friend Emily calls it the “poop lip.” It’s the way all the cool kids in high school always looked at you if you dared mention they were standing on your foot. The eyebrows get closer together, but one slides up, and the lip does this weird Elvis thing on one side, baring just the center teeth, while the chin puckers unattractively. It looks like this:


Pre-train wreck.

So I endured the poop lip. I also endured the “that is sooooooooooo bad for you” speech.

The alternative is cortisone cream or oral steroids, and in WHAT UNIVERSE are those better for you than tanning once? Let’s examine!

Hydrocortisone cream: burning, itching, irritation, dryness, folliculitis, hypertrichosis, acneiform eruptions, hypopigmentation, perioral dermatitis, allergic contact dermatitis, maceration of the skin, secondary infection, skin atrophy, striae and miliaria.*

Prednisone (oral steroid): Nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, heartburn, trouble sleeping, increased sweating, acne, muscle pain/cramps, irregular heartbeat, weakness, swelling hands/ankles/feet, unusual weight gain, signs of infection (such as fever, persistent sore throat), vision problems (such as blurred vision), vomit that looks like coffee grounds, black/bloody stools, severe stomach/abdominal pain, mental/mood changes (such as depression, mood swings, agitation), slow wound healing, thinning skin, bone pain, menstrual period changes, puffy face, seizures, easy bruising/bleeding.**

Am I a doctor? No (thank god for that). But I do believe in using your resources to choose the lesser of two evils.

Also, I’ve already spent a lot of time on Prednisone, as have many of you, and I REALLY don’t want to turn into a man.


Ironically, still pre-train wreck.


The world will comment on your habits, even if you don’t comment on its. It will tell you not to go tanning. It will tell you plastic surgery is the world’s worst evil. It will tell you that you’re too fat and if you lose weight, it will tell you that you’re losing it at an unhealthy rate. It will comment on EVERY choice you make, even if you are too polite to do it back.

These are YOUR decisions. Do what makes you happy. Do what’s right for you. The ideal is to become happy with what you have and what you are. But if that’s not a possibility, then go get a smaller nose or bigger boobs or tanner skin for YOU, not for your sig. other, family, friends, enemies, or employer.

You want the answer to life? It’s to be happy. Pretty simple.



My Zombie Eye

Anybody remember About a Boy with Hugh Grant (ick) and the kid with Spock eyebrows?


 Kid on the left, Hugh Grant (ick) on the right.

Me and mah boo just watched Warm Bodies and let me tell YOU, that Spock-eyebrowed little ballad-crooner grew up to be damn good looking — even through layers and layers of zombie makeup, which is actually “in” right now. I think we have Twilight to thank for instilling in society-members-of-childbearing-age a love for the palest, gauntest, deadest looking mates available.

Spoiler Alert re: The End of the Human Race: In the year 2050, after decades of media telling us that the sickliest looking dude/dudette will rock our wildest sex dreams, the human race bucked off the shackles of natural selection, failed to procreate, passed on disease, and everyone died. Sorry.

But Nicholas Hoult is still a babe.


I’ll let him eat my brains.

Ok, I know that was a lot of preamble, so:

SPEAKING OF ZOMBIES, I once had a zombie eye.

I woke up one day and put my contacts in and my eyes were all like, “HELL NO.” I didn’t think much of it since they often speak disrespectfully to me when they see foreign objects coming at them around 3 a.m. before I go to work at A SECRETLY-NAMED BUT VERY FAMOUS COFFEE SHOP*. (*Name has been changed to protect the wealthy)

I popped those puppies right out, put on my glasses, and went to work.

A little background here: I had glasses by second grade. Thick ones. They were big and pink and thick. If your reading glasses that you using right now are pantyliners, my glasses in second grade were the maxipads your mom bought.

Now, they’re more like Depends Overnights. My prescription is -9.00, which means nothing to you unless you have a prescription yourself. Why am I divulging this? Because there’s something sick in me that’s proud of it.

When you’re looking at the world through two inches of concave fancy-glass, you might as well be high. I can’t tell the difference between a grande and a venti ahem, medium and large. Lids? THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME. I have no depth perception either, so when I go to grab a pitcher of steamed milk, I usually punch it instead and it covers my hand in white lava.

As I spoke with customers on this particular day, they each handed me their money, looked up to thank me and backed quickly away. Each had a look of terror on his/her face. A look of panic. A look that say, “Hey, Zombie. Don’t eat my brains.”

Eventually I had to pee, and in the bathroom mirror, I saw that at the end of the long tunnel that is the space between my glasses and my eyeballs, I had a zombie eye. There was a red ring around my iris, and though it did bring out the green flecks in my eyes, it was still freaky as hell. It was also leaking, leaving crusty trails through my makeup. It looked like THIS: 


Nah. No picture. Eyeballs freak me out. Google “iritis” at your own risk. 

So I did my research, and I found out that many AS peeps end up getting iritis. I diagnosed myself, and I went to the eye doc in pursuit of a steroid eyedrop. He did not like me knowing things. No he didn’t.

He wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic and some other crap that didn’t work. Two weeks later, when the ring around my iris was enveloping my eyeball, I went back in and he said, “Ah, just as I suspected…iritis!”

To which I responded, “Bitch, HELL no.”

So he gave me the steroid drop that I had originally requested, and it cleared right up.

Hey, Clip Snark! Any luck on clip art of an eyeball all jacked up and weightlifting?

Months later, I started seeing the expression on the customers’ faces again, and I knew I was going Zombie again. I truly think Zombies are becoming a real fear for the average American. Happy ending, though; I still had steroid leftovers!

Happy Father’s Day (and some rage, because what is Father’s Day without rage?)

Happy Dad’s Day, Dads!

I want to thank you for being dads in an unconventional way. But first, a long story!

As you may know, I work at a small local health food store where we assist customers with a range of highly personal needs. The least personal? Colds. The most personal? Wiener rashes.

And fairly low on the personal scale comes menstruation. Why is it low on the scale? Because half-ish-percent of the population menstruates.

Okay, Dads. You’re probably thinking, what does this have to do with Father’s Day? I’ll get there. Chill the F out.

A woman came in last Monday, a regular. She was looking for an iron supplement because her daughter had just started her — check over shoulder, drop voice really low — period.

Naturally, I said, “Sorry? My ears are clogged up from my insane allergies. Can you speak a little louder?” Because I like to keep my bitchy on the sly.

After making her repeat the word twice more (for her own good). I said (at normal volume), “Oh yeah, I always take some extra iron for a week before my period and while I have my period. I feel that my period isn’t as heavy and my period seems to be more regular when I take iron for my period.”

Sink or swim folks. That’s how I do.

She took it in stride, and I felt that I had taught her a little. We talked brands and prices a bit and she said, “Yeah, I was telling my husband I thought she should take iron, and he was all like, ‘Ah! I don’t want to know. Do what you think is best, la la la lalalalalala.'” And then she giggled. GIGGLED. Like it was funny that her husband was afraid of her own lady parts.

So here it is. Thank you, dads who are not this dad. Thank you for not being disgusted in the fact that your daughters are different than boys. When were scared of our own bodies and not old enough to understand or appreciate our menstruation, thank you for standing in line at 11 p.m. with a giant crinkly pack of Carefree and three mixed boxes of Tampax* (*your choice to buy in bulk) while we stayed at home and cowered from the loss of our childhood behind YA fiction about girls who were knights (just me?).

And THAT’S how you bring feminism into Father’s Day. Katie out.