Ingredients for this My Time: Taco Bell, Netflix account, your owned damned body
Oh Honey, it's OK, no one knows. No one is here except you and your cat. BECAUSE YOU'RE ALONE, YOU DISGUSTING WENCH. Ahem, I mean, because you are a feminist and don't need anyone except strong shoulder pads!
So when you wake up and realize that Taco Bell bits are scattered in your bed, and beside you sits the evidence bag and a bottle of hot sauce, just throw them away, worry about the sheets later, and climb back into bed. Clearly you had a long night after running into a recent-past lover while you were drinking tequila alone at the rock show where he excused himself to "bring drinks to friends" and you screamed (on the inside) "I HAVE FRIENDS, TOO"
so give yourself a break. You DESERVE IT. You can clean your 5,600 count cotton sheets and not-yet-released Macbook 17 (with beans on it) streaming Law and Order reruns later.
If you don't remember eating it, clearly the calories don't count, do they?! Go back to sleep. You still have your mascara and lip stain on, so you look fabulous--if you died right now upon passing out--I mean, falling back asleep--you'd be a specimen of perplexing feminist perfection. Just your naked body with shoulder pads attached, and your gorgeous, never-a-bean-did-smear-lipstick painted, dead face.
(btw, google predicted that after I typed "beautiful dead" that the next word I would type would be "woman," and just so you know, apparently everyone and their maid wants to see "beautiful dead women" because not only do you get thousands of real photos of these women--clearly of the lower classes and grade D celebrity kind, but you get thousands of alive women posing dead with perfect lipstick on. Isn't technology amazing?! We're all so lucky to live in this world we've created!)