This is precisely why I befriend all my exes once they’ve stopped hating me for always writing about them in this column. It’s not due to our shared history or mutual love of Buffy sing-alongs. It’s so I can still have bartering power a few months down the road when the custody battle fallout has simmered down. I’ve lost too many copies of Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin over breakups. NEVER AGAIN.
Man, I’m so jealous. I want to go to gay paradise. Especially if gay paradise is also an island vacation. I imagine lots of cabana girls in flannel bikinis fanning me with organic palm fronds and all the Big Box stores playing Tegan and Sara endlessly on a loop. “Hardcore superstar by far! You’re the ultimate star.” And I’d be like, “Yes. Yes I am. Pass me the quinoa, pretty lady!