I am April Ludgate.

I am coming to the slow, but groundbreaking realization that my life runs parallel to several television characters. I guess it I am relieved to have some sort of framework in which I can explore my true self. Blah Blah Blah introspection blah blah blah self-inventory.

AND NOOOOOOW SOME GIFS n’ PICS! Because who gives a flying fuck what I have to say and I honestly don’t feel like using words, grammar punctuation. Let’s begin.

April Ludgate and I have a lot in common:

1. We have at least one Puerto Rican parent.

2. We hate our jobs (but then secretly like them sometimes).

3. Love three-legged pitbulls.

I was on a conference call today trying to work with some organizers on getting a women of color dialogue session going in their community. HOLY HELL, BATMAN! I forgot one crucial thing: they were dudes. Dudes do not see the value of bringing women together because they’re assholes. And since they were Black men not understanding why women of color need empowerment, I thought to myself sarcastically:




FUCK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THAT ONE, PATRIARCHY. I tried really hard to BUILD BRIDGES and FIND THE POSITIVE IN EVERY STATEMENT and use bullshit tactics like, “WHAT I HEAR YOU SAYING IS”, but all I really wanted to say was



So, I am working really hard to control my compulsive overeating. I tend to eat when I am angry or sad, which is ALL THE FUCKING TIME, ergo henceforth with all that being said that means…. I eat




Well, I am working a program to address this issue and at first I was all sad because it means less food for me….



THAT’S RIGHT, SUCKERS. I don’t have a drinking problem so I can drink as much as I want to and quit any time. Because I don’t suffer from alcoholism it was totes normal that when I hung up from the conference call from hell, all I could taste was sweet bourbon in my mouth.

Tonight I plan on doing this:


Drinking alone is normal and healthy. It’s safer than shooting up heroin in a drug house. April agrees.



Yesterday I went to see my therapist for the third time. I don’t think these sessions are going well because I have zero desire to be there with her. I hate the way she spells her name. She called me, “Kiddo”, once and she also refers to me by last name, which she (AND EVERY OTHER NON-SPANISH SPEAKING PERSON ON THE PLANET WHO ENCOUNTERS ME) confuses for my first name. Every time she ushers me into her poorly appointed office, my eyes convey:


I revealed a couple things to her about my true inner self. One:









I also revealed that I am more selfish and power-hungry than I was consciously willing to admit.







Her response to all this self-analysis (THAT MY INSURANCE WON’T PAY ME FOR) is some bullshit response along the lines of” “You’re introspective.”

Uh…what? I saw bill the other day and at $410/hour, I’m thinking:



I walked out of her office feeling depleted for reasons I won’t go into here, but I just wanted to go up to a McDonald’s drive thru and give the person at Window 1:



But, I didn’t because I can’t. Which sucks, but I know these two things to be true:



And by “handle it” I mean I’m going to go home and make a high ball.



You know you’re a spinster when: First Edition

  • There is an incredibly hot and sexy man who attends my parking lot. He is the shade of chocolate that elicits plantation era fantasies of him running away and getting caught and us breeding lots of slave babies together. That shade of chocolate. He is fine. Rather than asking him out or some sort of thing that the kids are doing these days with the texting and whathaveyou, I talked to him about whether or not he uses sunscreen. I worry about his skin. I conversed back and forth with myself about asking him to become a fuck buddy (I may be a spinster, but my plumbing still works), but then I thought about the shaving and plucking and exfoliating and the sexytime sheets and the panties and I just got so exhausted that I dismissed the thought right from my head. I had to get a shandy, turn up the central air and literally lie down.
  • Speaking of panties. I went to the LB to exchange some bras. Spinsters love buy 2, get 2 free bra sales. Especially when they’ve gone up a cup size and need proper fitting replacements. Well, there was also a 5 for $25 sale on panties. You should see the shit they’re putting on underwear these days. I almost stormed out when I saw this pair. Who is going to see that? I stick to my neutrals and animal print (which is a neutral in my world). I don’t need writing on my ass. It sorta speaks for itself. And let me tell you about the exceptional customer service! The older I get, the more I love me some good customer service. As a Black woman, I’m used to getting followed around in stores so when I get someone attending to me not as a loss control measure, but because they actually want to sell me something, you can knock me over with a feather. Now, I’m not one of those Yelpers or Trip Advisors. My thing are those surveys you get on your receipt. I love those. I name names and I just picture when that employee gets a heads up that they did a good job. It’s the spinsterly thing to do.
  • About clothing. I gotta say, one of the questions from my receipt survey hit it on the nail for me. “Do you dress for style or comfort?” The sad thing is that for most women it’s zero sum. The contraptions women use to get dressed and stay in form are tortuous. The shoes. I used to dress for attention and it was uncomfortable and the ROI was not worth shaking a stick at. Nowadays, I dress mostly for comfort and myself. Now if that’s an outfit like this or this, so be it. Other days, it’s an outfit like this. There is something freeing in being able to dress at your whimsy and not in an effort to attract romantic attention. Spinsterhood is freedom from sartorial choices dictated by the male gaze. I mean I have all but given up on trying and you know what? Haven’t noticed a damn bit of difference. I still wake up alone on my side of the bed (WHICH IS ALL THE SIDES) whether I shellac my face or let the hyperpigmentation shine through. Not a lick of difference.
  • I’ve got too many lemons and not enough gin.
  • Sundays are best spent doing home pedicures and watching a young Tom Selleck. Hell, old Tom Selleck can get it, too.