professor glasses I envision you wearing on GMA. And you have to tell George Stephanopoulos hi for me. I’ve always liked him. I think it’s because he reminds me of Michael J. Fox. Maybe don’t tell him I said that. Or do?
The Notorious K.E.N.
August 30
Dear Journal,
After consulting with the devil on my shoulder1, I’ve decided to embark on a morally bankrupt psychological experiment with the hopes of transforming Ken into someone warm and affectionate whose love for me is so immense that he needs a tattoo of my name and/or likeness just so that he can better broadcast his feelings for me to the world. So, pack your bags and bring a flashlight, Journal, because from now on, you’ll be hiding in a dark hole in the back of my hard drive under the title Baby Shower Diaper Cake Instructions.
Don’t take it personally, Little Guy. It’s for your own good. I need a place to takes notes on Ken’s progress without him catching wind of what I’m up to, and no man less gay than Carson Kressley will ever come snooping around a file called Baby Shower Diaper Cake Instructions, located inside a folder called Baby Shower Ideas, which is nestled inside another folder entitled…wait for it…Cute Stuff I Found on Pinterest.
Oh, and don’t get jealous, but in your old spot, I’m going to start planting a glossily exaggerated Lifetime movie version of you under the filename Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever where I will plant completely fabricated stories about my ex-boyfriends designed to inspire Ken to up his fucking game. And no, that filename isn’t too obvious. Blatant reverse psychology is the only way to get shit done when you’re dealing with a man—or a toddler.
Don’t you read my journal, Ken. Don’t you do it. Oh…you’d better not.
It’ll work. Trust me.
Aw, look at you, Journal. You’re starting to feel bad for Ken, aren’t you? That’s adorable, but I promise, your sympathy is completely wasted on him. The man does not have feelings. I’m not entirely convinced that he even has nerve endings.
Did you know that he once fell asleep while I waxed his back? Literally, the man dozed off while I smeared searing hot wax over several square feet of his bare skin and simultaneously ripped out thousands of hairs by the root. So, don’t you worry about Ken, Little Guy. He’s a soulless gangsta, and he’ll be fine.
* * *
1 Dr. Sara Snow is my bottom bitch. Up until three years ago she was a school psychologist, like me, and we were actively trying to get fired from the same school system. Then she had to go and get all Sheryl Sandberg on me and move two thousand miles away to become a distinguished psychology professor at some fancy research university. She’s so smart she could probably cure cancer if she wasn’t also crazy with a capital K and backward Z.
Call Me Crazy
August 31
Dear Journal,
I can feel you judging me. You don’t have to say it. You have disapproval written all over you, like a Meat Is Murder sticker on a MacBook Air. Look at you, all smug in your ivory fucking tower.
You don’t know what it’s like out here in the trenches, trying to make a marriage work day in and day out. Fifty percent of these things fail, you know. Perhaps, if I gave you a little more background, a little perspective, you’d see that I’m not a monster. I’m just a frustrated wife trying to maximize the potential of her very beautiful, very cold husband. Then, maybe you could cool it with the silent treatment.
For starters, did you know that Ken has someone else’s initials carved into his arm? Yep, that’s right. When he was sixteen, some girl who banged him, like, twice decided to stop banging him, and he fucking carved her initials into his arm.
Now, when I was sixteen, I already had both nipples and my clit pierced, so I’m no stranger to self-mutilation, but still.
When this bastard dies, after spending, like, a thousand years being my life partner, his body is going to go into the ground with someone else’s initials on it! I just want some representation on there, too, goddamn it! Preferably somewhere both visible and brazenly unprofessional.
So, you see, Journal, it’s not just that I’m some self-centered only child who wants my husband to tattoo my name on his body. It’s that I want my name on his body bigger and bolder