Give It A Sexond

Give It A Sexond

What happens to the person who welcomes both happiness and pain without judgement? Do they fail themselves in not forming a preference for either or are they capable of bigger things for both knowing and accepting these extremes?

I know what it’s like to not give a single fuck and I also know what it’s like to give all the fucks you’ve ever gathered and hand them out like an unsupervised child. Being both is terrifying when someone expects you to pick a road and flip-on cruise control until you’ve reached their desired destination. [More specifically on paths you are ill-prepared to take.]

I can’t decide if I’m unlucky, misunderstood or just plain stupid. I’ll eliminate the latter because I know damn well that Mama didn’t raise no fool. Luck is a phenomenon that science can’t prove which means being misunderstood sticks out like the sorest of thumbs. A lot of things are easily misunderstood but I have to ask…when did no start meaning never? #giveitafuckingsexond

To the men who tell us to lower our expectations, we say the same to you:

Stop expecting us to give it up on your timeline. My body is not a suggestion. It doesn’t equal automatic opportunities and it will never be up for literal or non-literal grabs due to mere existence. It’s the shell of who I am; who I’ve worked so hard to be and it deserves the same respect across all circumstances.

They can say I’m broken. That I’m shut off. That I’m not laid back enough. They can, and they do. I hear it with every date I, with high hopes, show up for. I’m done being a victim of hypocrisy though. I’m just a tired empath longing for a real connection, knowing it doesn’t take being naked to achieve.

I hate that I even have to have these conversations. Or ask these questions. Or feel so worthless. Why is date number four always an awkward juggle of egos?

“If you liked me you’d sleep with me”. “Well, if you liked me you wouldn’t push it”.

The constant battle between what our hearts want, what our bodies need, and trying to play Switzerland with an irrational Germany. Blindly grabbing at what’s left of a connection when you realize they are only sticking around for one thing. Plot twist: it’s not your sense of security.

What happened to the men who’d wait a lifetime for your comfort? Who were willing to make sure there were no qualms before they undressed you. You can take pretty much anything from me without a blink of an eye, but do not take my worth. I refuse to allow for a moment anyone to believe that I am not capable of having all of it; that the only pieces of me that are sought after are the ones that fuel someone else’s ego.

I am not what you expect and in knowing that I’ve had to fight the feeling of failure. Time and time again. Tear after tear, year after year. Sometimes I’m proud of the woman I am because I’ve spent a hell of a long time becoming her, and other times I fall short with my need to be liked…valued…wanted. Where I fall short I hope to god one day others will prevail. Instead of sticking a patch of disapproval upon my breasts every time I refuse to show them. Or reminding me that you feel teased when I breathe because simply being alive and attracted is YOUR recipe for intimacy.

I shouldn’t have to be modest to be respected. I shouldn’t have to say “maybe next time” to secure interest. And I refuse to believe that I owe another human being anything. Not a date, not a conversation, not a number, not my body, not even this blog post…

But you’re welcome.

For one, some…and now none.

5 Ways To a Better Day

5 Ways To a Better Day

There are 53 Mondays in a year and not a single one of them excites me as much as a Friday. Why? Because starting anything over is never as fulfilling as finishing strong.

Like completing a sand castle.

Monday’s are just the rogue wave to Sunday’s flawlessly sculpted beach creation equipped with a perfectly dugout moat. Insert Monday:

Frankly, I’ve never met a Monday I didn’t want to put back in the deck. Thanks for dealing me a bullshit hand Mr. Work Week but I’m gonna fold. You know what’s a good work week draw? Four day weekends. You know what I’ve never had while working in the medical field? a substantial pay check, mental stability, Four day weekends.

So while the rest of the world anxiously awaits the next national holiday–or for some really well oiled companies–fuckin’ any dead presidents birthday, I look for ways to make all 53 of those god forsaken Mondays a little less Monday-y. (Also, I’m great at sharing so I listed them below)

Listen to good music. I’m too busy listening to said good music right now to research any statistics on this, but I imagine someone did the dirty work to prove that “feel good” music isn’t just a nick name. ( you know, like how Siri calls me ‘Sugar Tits’ and I know damn sure she means it ) Feel good music makes us feel….good. If you’re feeling good, chances are your day is probably getting better. This equation is as 101 as it gets.

Go through your contacts and delete anybody who doesn’t serve a purpose. There’s nothing that makes me more bummed out than clutter. Add shitty people into that clutter and we have ourselves a clean up on isle-Iphone. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that this lunch time excursion brings me so much joy. Mostly because taking my phone out of my pocket by dinner will likely ensure a “Hey, what’s up?” from a “Maybe: Kyle”….and I get to pull my favorite line out of my ass: “I’m sorry but, WHO IS THIS?” Plot twist…..Spring cleaning isn’t only necessary in the spring. Take the trash out weekly my friends.

Sweat. Hydrate. Repeat. No matter how many times I’ve groaned my way to the gym, I’ve never left it pissed that I spent any amount of time there. ~Except that one time I had a nipple slip on the smith machine trying to rack weights that never should have called for that kind of bodily exertion.~ Anyway….Can’t say the same for the mall. Buyers remorse is a real life urban dictionary option whereas gym remorse falls into the category of what many would consider a sin. Monday might be a steaming pile of dog shit by the time you get to lift a single weight or chug a glass of water, but even dog shit needs a pick me up sometimes. Literally.

Plan life events. So, it’s a Monday and you’re coming off the high of 48 hours straight of pure debauchery, what will inevitably peak the interest of your inner sinner? MORE DEBAUCHERY. Nothing says let’s forget about the pain of right now like catapulting your thoughts of future bad behavior into it’s place. The best way to cure the Monday Blues is to pretend like Monday doesn’t even exist, or better yet…what the next Monday you won’t be showing up for work looks like because you will likely be on a Caribbean island sipping cocktails equipped with bigger umbrellas than your work insurance policy. Give yourself something….anything, to look forward to and any day can go from “why did I even wake up?” to “I can’t wait to wake up 43 more times until my vacation!”.

Pay it Forward. No agenda, no expectations. Karma is a bigger bitch than I could ever be, and she lurks in the shadows of everyone’s philanthropic moments. She wants to know what kind of player in this game of life you are and she’s ready to change an entire day for you at the flip of a coin (the coin you either paid for the person behind you’s coffee with or the one you didn’t). There are no rules about the frequency or size of a good deed, but there is for sure science that equates feeling good with doing good. That’s bad English, but it rolled off the tongue better, so we’re keeping it. Altruism brings human beings bliss; plain and simple. **If this doesn’t apply to you, you’re dead inside…go home.

Bad days are still just days. Which means they are never-the-less tiny 24 hour gifts that we have the option of altering based on events, mood, opportunities, people, how much money I find on the ground, what kind of puppies show up to my work, how many chocolate shakes I get offered for free…the list goes on. If you’re having 99 problems, and a bitch is more than one of them try one of my top five quickest ways to tolerate a bad day and see if you can’t turn it around with a little shake up from the norm.

Expiration Date

Expiration Date

Ever reach into the back of your refrigerator and pull out a carton of milk only to waft it beneath your nose, deciding whether or not it’s safe enough to drink? As if there isn’t a manufacturer-calculated date somewhere stamped on the side. That sniff-test is the only warning our brain needs. Dump it.

Honestly, I stopped drinking milk not because of my lactose intolerance, but because of the fact that I was only able to get about two pours out of my carton before it went bad. Almond milk has a much better (unopened) shelf life, folks and there is NOTHING I hate more than running out of time to fully utilize a product that I’ve purchased. **Insert my dad scolding us at the dinner table about how many kids in Africa will never have the pleasure of knowing what a fish stick was, and that I was to eat it or he would ship me off to share mine personally**

Expiration dates are like stop signs, suggestions you either take seriously….or a recommendation you roll right through. When you really sit down and think about how many things expire within our life time, it’s hard not to build a bit of anxiety about possibly under utilizing everything our hearts may desire. Food, medication, monthly subscriptions, makeup, alcohol, RELATIONSHIPS. I watch one Black Mirror episode and all of a sudden the list becomes way more existential…

When a relationship clearly has an expiration date due to: an expected move, infidelity, self doubt, lack of mutual interest….do we stay or do we go? If the milk carton says Expiration Date: June 10th and you have a very dry bowl of cereal come the 26th, I’d imagine a quick sniff test and it’s trash. So why do we hang on to something seasonal when we know we were built for a lifetime?

I imagine the answer to this is very different for everyone, but essentially some people see value in companionship, even if it’s short term. I can’t say that this is for me, but I think that it’s for a lot of people and that’s OK. Just so long as this is on a mutual playing field and everyone’s needs are both communicated and met.

To me, expiring relationships don’t need to be coddled. Find your nearest trash can and make a three pointer like the Kobe Bryant you know you are. Prioritizing our fear of loneliness over our own intuition is essentially gambling on the milk swig even after you’ve already checked the date. We know it’s gonna taste bad, but we’re thirsty. When this happens to me I feel like I’ve lost a sense of pride within myself and know that I’ve become weak to my own comforts. My expiration dates are without a doubt meaningful and thought provoking. Do I need this? Will this harm me? How do I make sure that I’m utilizing something to it’s full potential?

Life in itself has an expiration date that we will never have the pleasure of finding on the packaging of our bodies. It is only a vague range of time that we are lucky enough to not have a pin point on; essentially weighing down our journey. Like a mail subscription you’ve forgotten to renew…it’s yours for the taking until delivery stops and it’s just not anymore. I had a coworker subscribe to free delivery on Doordash the other day and when the email outlined that she had only a week of this service before needing to cancel, I’ve never seen a grown woman order so much food on an app in my life. Use it or lose it. That’s literally life.

5 Steps To Overcoming Heartbreak

It’s hard to write about heartbreak when you are actively heartbroken. You know, like watching the waiter march to your table with a bowl of piping hot oatmeal when you’re hung over.With that said it’s taken me almost all of 2018 to put together how to be more put together when all you want to do is pour some accelerator and light the match.

Aw yes, that balance between knowing you’re a human being with feelings and wishing you just fucking weren’t for five minutes (shout out to my dog who I constantly call a shit-head and she knows none the wiser)

It’s not easy, but it’s doable…

Below, I give you: the five steps I’ve personally taken to help me overcome that overwhelming feeling that someone has essentially rung you out to dry; but like…in the rain

1. First of all, why can’t I ever have a step one without thinking about who’s responsible for cutting the hole in the box?

1B. Know what hurts.

Ignorance isn’t bliss; it’s just ignorance.

It’s funny, cause when I was a kid and I’d try to express my feelings to my father in a snot-filled-traumatic-mumble-tantrum, he used to verbally face palm me with the same question every time: “uhhhhh, your what hurts?” Great question, I HAVE NO CLUE. It was such a vague and blanketed response to my belligerency that it actually made me stop and try to figure out who my real father was what was causing my pain so that I was more equipped to not only explain it, but ease it. Science has proven that both heartache and grief are both legitimate forms of measurable physical pain. Which means painkillers as simple as Aspirin are actually equally recommended for the heart as they are the head. For the record, I mentioned over the counter aspirin, so don’t go buck wild on prescription opioids cause Tommy from Tinder ghosted you after he asked you to be his arm candy at this years company Christmas party. Or do. Natural selection.

2. Be present.

I have a habit of extremes. The power of living (or not living) in the here and now is no exemption. I am either extremely engulfed in a moment to the point of full acceptance OR, I fly so far off the handle about future anxieties that it’s almost like you are all invited to the opening of my new theatric production of “I Am Nothing Without Him”. Solid soundtrack. The cast is a little iffy. I used to think that the first step was just admitting it, right?

Wrong, the first step is taking a deep breath and remembering that if the future seems like it’s already overwhelmingly hard, how’s right now going for you? I imagine if you aren’t starting by being really good at today, there’s no hope for tomorrow. You’re cheating on today’s happiness with tomorrow’s what if’s and frankly everyone loses. Except the guy who broke your heart and sent you into this uncomfortable spiral. He’s winning all the chips.

3. Distract.

If we’re all being honest with ourselves, there’s no easier way to get over heart ache than with a distraction. We have a scientifically studied part of the brain called the reward system that often is directly linked to the biological effects of rejection whilst being in love. When that reward system is unmanaged, it’s addictive patterns appreciate a diversion from pain and explore a more sought after feeling of pleasure.I imagine there will be backlash with how I achieve this step, and to that I say…get a hobby. Even if his name is Jared. As much as I’d like to suggest picking up a a new interest in a less taboo subject like hot yoga to “decompress and center yourself”, investing time into getting to know someone new has always effectively kept me from running back to the fire and placing my hand directly in it. Can’t say the same for the Child’s Pose.Maybe that’s a reflection of how much I see the good in people, even the bad ones. But if it takes me diving into a whole new batch of potential-bullshit just so I don’t skip back to confirmed-bullshit…let us all be stoked to be dealt another hand.

4. Be reflective, not reactive.

For the longest time, whenever I got ghosted (I say ghosted because dumped would mean the man who stopped talking to me would have to tell me why he stopped talking to me, and frankly I’m 0/456) I IMMEDIATELY rack my brain for what I could have possibly done wrong. And then I need to know what exactly I did/said, how it made all parties feel, what I could have done differently, AND how I fix not only it but world hunger, the California water shortage, the war on drugs…EVERYTHING. I NEED TO FIX EVERYTHING, IMMEDIATELY. Basically, I react so hard I don’t even have the energy to reflect. And when I found this out about myself, I made it one of the steps in not only overcoming heartbreak, but honestly eliminating the length of time before you’re at peace with the situation.

Reactions are quick, take less thought, and are…come to think of it synonymous with defining most of my past relationships. However, reflections are how I further more chose to handle any future heartache. We don’t need to know why someone chooses not to like love tolerate us. All we need is to handle rejection with grace and selflessness which will in turn outline our character and keep us on a path to who and what we deserve.

5. Surround Yourself With Love

Endorphins are the gateway drug guys. You feel love one time and it’s hard to want to be in a state of anything less. Heartache is, in my opinion, the epitome of pain because it’s not just superficial. It’s mental AND it’s physical. Your legs are weak, your brain is foggy, and your eyes are swollen from hours of both of those things colliding, making it hard to want to do anything more than replay what you’ve lost and sulk about how hard it might be to regain.

This is a piggyback on distractions, but it deserves its own step. There are people who love and adore you who have been placed on life’s back burner while you danced to the beat of falling for another sucker. They rooted for you knowing this day might come. So keep them close enough to remember what it’s like to be unconditionally supported, and bring them closer when your heart isn’t sure what that feels like anymore. There are probably a plethora of additional steps that we as individuals practice on a heartbreak to heartbreak basis, but these five above really drill home the attempt at a quick turn around for me personally. This is coming from the girl who is just happy to be alive enough to feel, even the bad shit.

The Summer of 2027

The Summer of 2027

All the things you forget on my bedside table are just metaphors for the little things you leave half empty for me to take care of; for me to remember you might come back for, for me to remember you might not.

Wrong numbers are just right numbers you didn’t know existed. Until existence straightens itself out for fate to make an appearance. A series of numbers leading to a series of days ending in hoping I’d have hung up at the sound of a busy tone. But, you answered. For the first time, and a thousand times after that. And then never again.

Endless summers of ended summers where I told you everyone I ever loved hurt me…and you followed suit. Knowing my truths, so you could feed me lies. Shame on me for giving you the details.

The Sane Part of Insanity

The Sane Part of Insanity

Am I a fully licensed and accredited therapist now? BECAUSE MY DATING RECORD WOULD SHOW THAT I’VE PUT IN THE HOURS. Totally google-able, totally diagnosable.

I know what I’m doing here. Send my certificate in the mail.

The irony is, Im always the one who winds up being called ‘crazy’. Or at least being made to feel that way. Which, arguably, is way worse. Like, just call me crazy so I can write you off as a prick. Don’t turn this around and send me screen shots of my own text messages. I KNOW THAT I SENT YOU BOTH A HEART AND A KNIFE EMOJI IN SUCCESSION, being confused doesn’t make me unloveable, Chad.

So, get this….turns out, doctors don’t actually officially diagnose people as sociopaths vs psychopaths, but like…they exist. I date them. What the fuck are doctors good for anymore anyway? Pushing the opioid epidemic? Falsely representing the male population with fake diagnosis’ like: “hormonal imbalances”? No. Homeboy has no conscience, I checked for myself.

Literally the only difference between a sociopath and a psychopath is the existence of said conscience and honestly, I think it’s safe to say that this generation is lacking hard in the realm of defining right from wrong.

Right: call her when you say you’ll call

Wrong: literally any other excuse your ass can think up to get his cake and eat it too.

I’ve had harder lessons in how to brush my hair as a kid. Side note: rat’s nest Taryn came out strong.

In my honest opinion there shouldn’t be such an existential variable when it comes to the ability to consider another human beings’ feelings and act appropriately and accordingly. Everyone deserves empathy and frankly those same people also deserve the tools they need to understand a shift in behavior by anybody they’ve invested any [lengthy] amount of time into. ***This is where I should be defining “lengthy” for the crowd. Frankly my “lengthy” is always different than his “lengthy”. Cause this is where men go hard on their genitalia perimeters and dial it back for “time spent telling her that I loved her”.

If you say you owe a stranger nothing, you’re wrong. Strangers are the people who we should be giving just a little more respect to….because it’s not expected and kindness that is least expected is probably the only way out of this generational defect we’ve built around our emotional avoidance in the last two decades; or however long I’ve been alive and trying to co-exist with males.

I always told myself I wouldn’t settle. Not for anything less than what I deserved. All I truly know is….we all deserve not-a-sociopath, AT THE VERY LEAST. Boy did my standards get low…

Hashtag Unfollow

Hashtag Unfollow

Risk had it’s rewards when I let it guide my twenties with an insatiable passion for being able to admit that I feared absolutely nothing; not even a broken heart. I navigated online dating sites coast to coast for a decade sure of one thing, “there is always safety in numbers”. Ok fine, maybe mom meant something different by her idiom, but she’s not entirely wrong. Quantity, when relating to desire, always gave quality a soft place to land when it realized that people were horrible and NOTHING EVER LASTS.

So whenever I have a hard time understanding why men can’t focus on one woman at a time, I graciously remember my twenties and all the eggs I put in vast amounts of “who wants to get drunk and cuddle with me tonight” baskets. And then I remember, I’m not in those pants sizes my twenties anymore and putting up with that kind of behavior is like ordering a drink at the dj booth; one of you looks stupid and the other person is just upset that you interrupted mediocre danceclub remixes.

If we’re being honest, men rarely attempt to commit to something great until it either starts dating his best friend or literally fucking dies. Like, there’s no in between. Either you play the game, or you lose your marbles…and then the will to live. I wish the ability to drive a sane woman to utter mental chaos took the same amount of effort it does to knowingly start following “Senorita Assclap” and liking three hundred of her photos on Instagram. Men are actually so dumb, that these kinds of public displays of idiocy are no match for their judgment.

Fun social media Fact: if a guy likes even two of my photos (usually one from this year and one from THE DEEP ARCHIVES) every girl knows he’s down to pound. So, save us all the feed space and wear a shirt that says “I need attention from multiple women at once or I struggle to function.” And thennnnn, we know not to fucking date you.

Not that the fair-warning will keep us from trying.

“Do the best you can until you know better, and once you know better, do better”.

Aint that right Maya Angelou? That saint of a woman also said “there is no greater agony than baring an untold story inside of you” and I honestly, I haven’t felt so connected to a dead person since Tupac’s hologram at Coachella 2012.

I digress…

There is a golden virtual rule and it goes something like this: don’t give off the illusion of having many choices because it will make it harder to find viable options.

The truth is, just cause you’re not doing anything that- bad doesn’t mean you’re doing anything that-good. This isn’t a by-default world.

Gentleman, I’ll have you know that when us women spiral, we spiral hard and if you think that social media is safe from investigation leading into interrogation and followed by 4 years of blocking- no parole…you’re mistaken. We know what you did last summer, last night, and it wouldn’t be too far off to assume that we already know what location you’ll be tagged in, blurry and unphased, by lolitagirl69’s tag marker next weekend. This is a social media world, and we’re all just living in brief moments of social engagement vs true persona.

Lastly, to my fragile and semi-broken ladies…get you a man who doesn’t just like your social media presence infrequently amongst a sea of other thirst traps, but actually appreciates the filter-less depth of the real and authentic (as crazy as you are) you. Because, remember, that everything is cool until it just isn’t anymore. Think, LimeWire. Think, The Harlem Shake. Think…Instagram in literally two years. #wastedthirties #literally #figuratively #whyarehashtagssomuchgoddamnfun

Singled Out

Singled Out

Being romantically un-involved used to be an insecurity of mine. One that was carried around with me like a mole I refused to get checked. That was until, I went three plus years having the daunting misfortune of being single without any answers as to why it was so. At some point you just have to come to terms with your fate. Like being significantly tall with a love for heels or tone deaf amidst a family of singers. Most of the time I pretend it’s poor timing or bad luck, but I’m not so naive to believe i’m just not everyone’s cup of tea.

Right around year two I found myself noticing potential reasons, and verbally proclaiming “Yup, this is why I’m single” out loud. The list grew and frankly, if society can’t cope with my quirkiness, fuck it, I hope I never have to commit to being anybody other than me. Not even for frequent sex or someone to help paddle the boat back to shore.

My friends try to make me feel better by throwing Hail Mary’s like: “God’s just not done writing your love story yet”. That’s cute, but I just told potential suitor #1 that I’ve been known to make out with my dog longer than three seconds. Whoops. 


There are handfuls of explanations as to why I’m not married; most of them being because I’m really good at being single, and why screw up a good thing? Do something long enough, and we’re all pro’s. But below are what I think are some of the main causes in no particular order:

  • I’m temperature sensitive- meaning, I can barely think about anything else but being comfortable when it’s too hot or too cold. Some guys find that the amount of times I get up and down to turn on and off the air conditioner is in direct correlation with how indecisive I can be about literally everything else that I have minimal control over. Climate change is only making me more single. Personally, I think I look really cute in your sweatshirt AND also, absolutely nothing. I’ll inevitably tire myself out complaining about the weather, so in my defense…you’re welcome.
  • I’m a grammar Nazi- in light of the recent Charlottesville attacks, I realize that this verbiage may be too soon. But, that leads me to another reason why I’m probably single and that is that I forget the importance of filters. Also, I refuse to date a moron so when your dating profile is riddled with illiteracy I’m privy to assume that you’d turn me off quicker than a clap on lamp. People fancy being dumb, look who we elected president. Men these days don’t want their love letters spell checked, and I get that. But I’d rather be alone than receiving ‘cumming home to ur fine ass 2nite’. #killme
  • I realize dating is a game, and I’m done playing it- three years ago I hosted a personal walk off. I came to terms with the fact that there was nothing in the relationship I was in that would keep me interested in the sport forever. I got back into it; a couple innings here and there. Struck out hard. Not because I was afraid to swing, but because there were hecklers in the stands distracting me from a good play. And also because nobody plays fair. We live in a world where the only way out is cheating. Remember when we were kids? If we caught anybody peeking during heads up seven up, they were dead to us. Frankly, that’s how I roll out my rules as an adult.
  • I’m transparent- for a very long time, I refused to acknowledge that society would view this as a negative. But, I write a blog about bullshit that infuriates me, about the kind of love that excites me, and about reflective moments that I feel everyone can relate to. It’s a blessing and a curse and I see it from more points of view than most people think, but for every man it frightens it allows me a tiny bit of relief, and for that reason alone, I’d rather be single than be quiet. I remember a time when men would complain about their women not telling them how they feel, and making them “guess”. Give me three to five business days and you will have a full article on why I didn’t appreciate you eating the last yogurt… #noteveryonescupofyoplait
  • I’m compulsive- Sounds thrilling, right? I am certain there’s a guy out there for me, but if we are talking majority…I see why most men would find my bucket list overwhelming. I just want to make it to every country before the end of the weekend. Is that too much to ask? Not to be confused with spontaneity, because I usually think these things through way in advance, it’s just that once I set my mind to something I let it control me almost immediately. LAY OFF ME I’M STARVING.
  • I can’t dance- no, like I can’t even do the choreographed songs that come on at the bar. At all. Sweet Caroline? Too many bum-bum-bums…every time. I have less swag than a box of cracker jacks. My generation speaks in movement and I can barely fake-reel-in my dance floor fish without tripping over both left feet. I presume guys are more attracted to the stripper in another life type women. You win this round, twerk-angel.
  • I’m too busy sleeping- last, but certainly not least. If I could date a nap, I would. There is literally nothing more exciting to me than being unconscious from the world for 6-10 hours a day. And unless we meet in my dreams, I doubt we could make this work. I work long hours, on my feet all day and there’s just not enough minutes in a work day to completely be engulfed in a relationship sometimes. Whoever finds themselves changing my relationship status is going to be a professional pajama wearer, thank you 30’s!

I always believe that there’s no reason to be in a relationship until you meet someone who makes your life better than it is when you’re not in one. When I put it that way, it sounds like quite the feat. But, I’m not at a total loss just yet. There’s always hope that someone is going to be a genius wordsmith with dashing good looks, minimal interest in dancing and zero fear. Did I mention ‘smells like bacon’? Hey, a girl can dream…

10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

10 things you stop worrying about in your 30’s

1. Being crazy wicked hot.

I remember burning my nipples off in a tanning bed for hours just to tease my bartender boyfriend with tan lines. These days, you’re lucky if I remember to shave my legs. It all started with an unwashed high bun, gradually progressed into covering up my cleavage with loosely fitting sweaters and now the only time I’m camera ready is with a strategically placed dog and three layers of Snapchat filters. I’m at the age where I care less about how bang-able you think I am and more about how far in proximity you are to me so that I don’t fall asleep in the time it takes me to get from my house to yours after work.

2. Taking your birth control on time.

I used to set an alarm clock. And keep those tiny white life-savers (or life-enders, however you want to swing it) in a discreet [but super cute] pouch. Because promiscuity could be dressed up or down when you were young and naive. To be totally honest, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do, aside from suck the semen out myself, to ensure I wasn’t impregnated by someone I didn’t want to raise a tiny human with me. Statistically I’m about out of time here to procreate, so to terminate any possibility would be dumb in my eyes. Not saying I’d keep any accident that occurs, I’m just saying…In my thirties I’ve hit the snooze button on that reminder more often than not.

3. Having the perfect boyfriend.

Remember team Jacob? My 30s are more like team wakeup– he doesn’t exist. These days I’m less likely to care about what kind of candy will be proudly displayed on my arm and more about who’s gonna judge me the least when they find out I pee in the shower. If we took the amount of energy my teen self put into locating the perfect life long suitor, we could have probably powered the whole damn town. It took me ten plus too many years to realize that being in a relationship isnt all instagram posts and rainbows. It was mostly just fear of being cheated on and spending twice as much money feeding someone who’s face you’ll fuckin hate in two years.

4. New Years Eve.

Staying up til midnight watching the ball drop to the auto-tuned medley of some girl band Simon Cowell created? Ha, that’s cute. Just DVR it, I’ll watch it this weekend.

5. Happy Hour.

The happiest of hours for me is the 60 minutes spent in Target with my phone on silent. I remember a time when it was dirty martinis at half price and nachos that none of us would ever be able to finish, but if you want to talk about true happiness in intervals, tempt me with a paid off credit card and endless rows of dollar bins to sift through.

6. High School Reunions. 

My ten year came and went, and despite what Romy and Michelle advertise, it’s not totally mandatory. I remember thinking any type of coordinated party with people I hadn’t seen in a decade would probably be exceptionally liberating. Except when you realize that everything and then nothing at all happened in those ten years. Prom queen got fat, your home room crush is a an under paid musician and you’re at the punch bowl still “thinking about starting a family”.

7. Other People’s Lives.

Believe it or not, people aren’t walking around trying to point out your mistakes or keep you from proudly making them. People, by nature, are selfish. So selfishly busy trying to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other, that they could care less about your third failed marriage. There have been days where I’ve tried to take the spotlight off of myself and roll around in someone else’s shit, but frankly it always comes back to home base; where you is the only person you ever have enough energy to worry about.

8. F.O.M.O.

For the longest time I thought this meant Fear of Mom’s Opinions. Which, in my defense is a true acronym for a constant concern in my life. Maybe that’s cause I’m 30 now and if I missed Sam’s [tenth anniversary of his 21st birthday] bash #inserteyeroll it’s probably in exchange for making some bomb ass crock pot tacos and indulging in a life changing book. Don’t judge me mom!

9. Being friends with Idiots.

Pretty sure there was an unspoken rule as a teen that stated the dumber your friends were the cooler you were by association. Forget knowing algebra, if Joey from second period–the guy who supplied paint cans for getting high in the bathroom–wanted to be my friend, nobody else needed to audition. Call me crazy, but nowadays I like to surround myself with people who can hold a job, a political stance…a baby. Adulting is hard enough without the added stressors of poorly-matured friendships.

10. Dying. 

This could totally be a just me bullet, and that’s fine. 20 year old me would have cried like a bitch if you talked about exiting stage left too soon, but I’ve lived over 11,000 days on this planet and frankly when it’s time, it’s time. When I was younger, there was an instilled panic to create a life worth living. [Go to school, marry a nice guy, buy a house and raise some kids] I literally have accomplished zero percent of that and I’m closer to death than I was yesterday, seemingly just as happy.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m well over a third of the way through the female life expectancy that makes me reminisce. Surely I’ve left enough marks to satisfy a proud blooper reel for generations to come, right?

Famewhore

Famewhore

Stop trying to be a headline. Or an article. Or the feelings-accelerator to my anger flame. There’s this never ending “if you can’t beat em, join em” mentality from potential suitors lately and I assume it’s cause I’m as transparent as a glass door. 

Be you, and if you warrants a 450-word count about why the fuck I can’t stand you or why I did everything in my power to try, then, well…you’re welcome. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing how other people feel about them.  [I bet it’s bliss] If I’m being honest, it’s happened to me a handful of times: Getting on a plane and finding out too little too late that I was somebody’s one who got away. Far from bliss to me, cause in my world, knowing is my only euphoria. 
              Maybe we could have been something. 

When I’m asked what super power I’d want if I’m ever to meet the opportunity, without a second breath I choose the ability to read minds. Sounds exhausting. Like the amount of stairs I’d take instead of just choosing the gift of flight.

Whats even more exhausting is meeting a new person everyday and trying to decode them like the pile of genetic flaws they are. What better way to sift through intentions than with the ability to hear unfiltered, raw emotion. It’s 2017 and my dog can get hand delivered treats from a robot on the counter that I’m talking to from my phone at work but I STILL CANT READ MINDS. The amount of time I’d save in a day would be unparalleled. We need this guys. 

Trust me when I say, I get it. I understand why you want to be a post.  I know you think I don’t, and that’s fine because that allows you the option to live with your choices unjudged. (People who don’t understand can’t judge you, right?) but I get it, I’m not stupid, you’re not stupid. We all want to read minds, and mine just so happens to be public. 
Just don’t push me to hate you because you aren’t totally sold on the ability to make me feel anything else. When you’ve hit a wall with me, Im probably not going to write it out. You’d be one lucky son-of-a-bitch to even have me scribble a haiku about your good hair on my hospital locker. 

My point is, you need to stop striving to be an article. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time I got asked “Am I gonna be what you write about next?” I wouldn’t have to write, I could pay somebody to do it for me. I can’t read your mind, yet…and that’s a total bummer. But I can imagine the whole idea behind infamy is wanting to feel like someone acknowledged your incompetencies and praised you for how amazing, awful, or amazingly awful you were. Because a life undocumented these days seems like a total fucking waste. Like the amount of days I spent trying to read your mind before I found out you were only sticking around to find out what I’m like between the sheets and if I’d write about you in the morning…

Fair Trade

“It’s up to you Taryn…I can tell you how to do the right thing or I can teach you how to manipulate the situation to get what you want.”

Advice; something I’ve never been short on. 

I guess when you’re trying to find solutions to life’s never ending problems, short cuts tend to give the quickest satisfaction. It’s just that they are usually made up of a lot of things that don’t help me sleep at night. Like inspiring fear and following that up with relief. Or being completely unreasonable until I get my fucking way.

I used to throw tantrums in grocery stores until my mother left me cold and alone in the ice cream isle pondering my life choices. But, enough about last week. Those tantrums worked just as well on my stubborn parents as they do on today’s men. And by ‘worked’, I mean…i’m still cold and alone in the ice cream isle at 30.

I [almost] always want to do the right thing, that’s for certain. The right thing is just fifteen additional steps involving selflessness that frankly I’m too exhausted to execute. Manipulation smells a lot like success especially after years of failed attempts at altruism. Does that make it right? no. Does that make it desirable? fuckyea.

I was in sales for like half a minute last year, and, honestly, an unintentional slum lord to some of the nicest people. Lately, that’s how I feel when I’m dating. Like I’m selling the hell out of some damaged real estate, but who cares? It’s gotta come off the market some day. WE HAVE QUOTAS! Ok, so I’m not that mangled, but I know there are women out there with a lot less insecurities. They just aren’t as funny. And I bet you all the dollars in my wallet that they can’t make cupcakes at high altitudes with three separate substitutes for eggs.

That’s where I’ve learned the art of manipulation. Which, by definition sounds like I’m about to make victims out of my suitors…but believe you me, this is better for all of us in the long run.  Realistically it’s just about perfecting persuasiveness; something they make you master before you can pass your speech class in college. So why not utilize honed skills to make an honest woman out of myself? Oh, the irony.

The world is a very dishonest place. It’s filled with people who need direction. I know the right thing is to ‘be yourself’, stay truthful and be modest. But, sometimes you just gotta let the sex kitten out of it’s cage, tell people what they want to hear, find what makes them tick and strum that cord. Fish with some bait in an otherwise un-stirred pond. Ladies, manipulate the damn situation to get what you want. ‘The right thing’ usually leaves you with things you don’t want. Like, friend zones, childless homes and clean driving records.

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I Blame Sarah. 

I Blame Sarah. 

I imagine hell on earth is subjective for all of us. For some,it’s the 5 freeway during rush hour. For others it’s the DMV. I know a buddy of mine would say it’s the tampon isle no matter how pregnant his wife is. #ptsd We all know our own personal hell and anybody who says they don’t have one is just sitting in the proverbial lobby waiting for this seasons finale to come to a close. Welcome to the cast, assholes.

The entrance to hell, for me, is on the corner of online and dating. It’s a pretty big door these days, and I’ve opened it often. I spent a few months staring at its ever-inviting hinges, wondering what was on the other side and if I had been missing anything. I knew what was waiting for me beyond the boards of normalcy and I continued to sift through my options like it wouldn’t soon emerge as the firey pits of Satan’s lair. And then I knocked

Online dating answered. Like the scriptured geological demon it is. Hell is every message that brings me such distaste for mankind that I can barely tolerate not taking my own life. [You know, so I could avoid having to communicate with the mentally challenged.]

I’ve compiled a list of the top ten “nopes” that online dating has to offer someone like me just to outline the every-day reminders of living in a generational fail:

1. Your name is “Mars” “eyecandy8”, “notadouche85” or Dj fucking anything. Might as well call yourself “single4lyfe” and call a spade a spade.

2. You want to know if “you can ask me a personal question.” Sure, I hope you wanna know how I’m gonna kill myself after I minimize the screen with this first message on it.

3. You spell everything wrong. The only thing sixth grade and your dick have in common is that you complain entirely too much about them both “being hard”.

4. This.


Points for the “men” usage in “examine.” Although, I don’t think that was a pun, I think maybe your parents are siblings.

5. You have five photos of the same selfie, just different mouth situations.  

Red might be your color, but this screams “I don’t do laundry”.

6. Your profile picture is of a puppy. You’re cheating. I can’t swipe left on a 6 week American Eskimo. I’m NOT A MONSTER.

7. You’re an over sharer.

8. Penis shadows. That’s a Chiquita; you’re not fooling anybody.

9. Shits blank=shits weak. “I’ll fill this in later” is the same as “ill be ready in five minutes.”

10. You AND your gf think I’m cute. I have a three some every night. Two dogs; one owner.

Drops mic.

My hell probably isn’t your hell, but frankly my heaven involves a vat of hot fudge and a restored collection of choose your own adventure books. So, needless to say, people differ. Especially in their approach at connections. The only thing I connect with on the above is that it’s never just one. Someone is handing out a book on dating and sabotaging human kind from ever receiving the love they deserve. Probably Satan; which my phone keeps autocorrecting to Sarah. It’s that bitch, Sarah. Find her.

Dear Diary, I’ve Got Nothing to Hide

Dear Diary, I’ve Got Nothing to Hide

Transparency can be mysterious too. I know that there isn’t much to be wondered about everything sitting out on the table. But sometimes I look at objects right in front of my god damn face, and I still couldn’t tell you how they work or if they have a name. 

That’s how I hope you all see me. You know I exist. That I’m human. That I’m open and seemingly vulnerable. But how do I work? What’s my name? The mystery exists. 

What do you know about being who you are with a whole heart? I bet you think you know what love is. And for some, you’ll always be right because, well, it’s all you’ll ever know. But, I hold out because I know of a place between what I pretend I dream of and a far less greater reality that exists. It’s just banking on timing. It’s manifesting in my failure; growing through my pain. My tears water its roots and it’ll blossom when it’s ready. Would you sit and wait? Watch a flower grow? Then don’t wait for me, i’ll bloom in time. But you can cheer for my victories and console me when I fail. 

I hear I’m “ballsy” for every word I write here in a public form. Courage doesn’t make me write, you guys do. There’s nothing brave about exploring every corner of my existence and recounting it to an audience. The truth is…when you have nothing to hide, that’s when you have nothing to fear. 

Brave

Brave

Last night I was searching for a bad-ass-boss-lady-office chair for my new addition pottery barn desk when I stumbled upon the solicitation section of Craigslist. I know what you’re thinking, and if it’s any consolation I was able to stop myself from putting my ex’s name and number under “men seeking men”— for the first hour. Truth be told, I found myself idling my cursor over the “missed connection’s section”; finding sadness in the cords these moments struck in one person’s life and how incredibly naïve another human was to the power behind their presence.

It made me stop and think. About all of the people I’ve momentarily engaged with and then forgot about so quickly. And all the people who aren’t courageous enough to reach out.

Life is scary; strangers are terrifying, but failure as I’ve always said is far easier to swallow than regret. You’re only as weak as your biggest fear. Be bold, be brave.

Fearlessness is found in so many unappreciated moments. That soldier fighting for our country, or the mother on her third round of chemo, even the guy who just walked up to a table of women he’s never met to tell a woman he finds attractive that he’s interested. Ok, so the last one may seem a little overzealous, but sometimes you just gotta grab the bull by the horns. And that’s exactly what he did.

I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I was rooting for a football team I didn’t even like, at a bar that was packed, in a city I’m still getting to know. My girlfriend was in town, and I wanted to show her how much fun Denver can be. When a duo of frat-like-boy-band-wanna-be’s asked us if we wanted to play volleyball in front of the ENTIRE bar, I immediately obliged. Redemption reared it’s beautiful head as memories of being picked last for four square in fifth grade came flooding back.  “Yes, yes….we’re in…yes”. And that was that, us two awkward women in the middle of about 400 people, bouncing around like a bunch of hooligans trying to not catch our faces on the net. Go big, or go home right?

Well, I wanted to go home. But instead we met up with two of our other girlfriends and sat at a bar top table just inside the restaurant as the Bronco’s began their fight for victory. I had just finished telling my best friend how ironic it was that even in the middle of all the good sportsman- like chaos, I felt so small and unimportant. That in twenty-eight years, not a single man has ever approached me at a bar. That, I was most likely always doomed to utilizing the powers of the internet and this hell of an online dating portal.

And then he walked up. Note in hand. It read:

“Smile if you find me attractive.”

Awkward-GIF

The table of women coo-ed. My girlfriend snapped up at him in excitement: “Did you just grade-school pass her a note at the bar?” He laughed modestly and answered: “Yea, I found her attractive so I thought I would ask her if she felt the same”. Meanwhile I’m DYING. He must have seen me in the middle of the bar playing volleyball. Had I not agreed to those tool-bags request, I would have just been another un-noticed patron in a bar full of potential partners. This is the bravery I could only dream about. These are the missed connections that happen EVERY day because someone is too chicken shit to make the first move. Thank god I put my game face on, and thank god he swung it back to elementary school with that sick pick up line.

There aren’t enough men in the world who know what they want and go after it. I bet they can say the same for us ladies. Sometimes there are missed connections, and sometimes there are unexplainable relations. And sometimes we wait our whole lives for neither. But when either one of those moments arises in all of their glory, you know how important it is to have both. Redirecting your fears and appreciating the bravery.

Don’t spend the rest of your life wishing you had gotten her number, or that you had told him you thought his eyes were filled with the greatest sense of home you may ever know. But most importantly, never forget to smile if you find him attractive.

awkard smile

Drowning In Your Own Fear

Drowning In Your Own Fear

I write a blog about dating. Supposedly, I know exactly what I’m supposed to do and when to do it. Potential has a way of essentially staring me in the god damn face while I shit the bed. Figuratively, I’m not that disgusting. 

Why am I so overwhelmed by the idea that something might actually work? Am I exactly what these men are afraid of; a perpetual vicious cycle of ruins? Often I’m asked if I think discussing commitment troubles in an open forum is the very cause of my troubles all together. And every time I answer no…like I know there’s no way on God’s green earth that my openness is closing me off to people who can’t communicate the same way I do. That’s ridiculous, being too open? Don’t be silly. 

What I should say is, maybe. Maybe it is possible that this is all just a little too much. That blogging is just the safety net I’ve always wanted to be able to fall back on when nothing else seems to make sense. That for every awful, painful, ridiculous moment I’m appalled by, comes a story. Maybe failure is consistent with my need for more? Maybe needing more is why I’m turning up less? Maybe the more I blog, the less chances I’ll have? 

Last weekend I was left at the bar. (There’s a first time for everything right?) Initially I thought he was going to the bathroom, but he never returned. I should have guessed. I could feel myself pushing him away as he critiqued my hobbies as a blogger. Asking me question after question about my article’s intentions, like he would ever even be the star of one. Well, he got what he wanted, spotlight on mr-walk-away. Cameron the social studies teacher, who I found awkward and unattractive, walked out on our date because I’m not “private enough”. 

I get it. It’s not for everybody. But this guy had an irrational fear of public announcements about fights we might have as a non existent couple. Give me a break. He stood there with his Judge Judy eyes glaring directly into my dreams and aspirations without a hint of responsibility for himself. I think Cameron was the last to find out not everything is about Cameron. Ugh. Maybe, when all is said and done I’ll write a book about how good it feels to fall in love with one of you some day. Because, after all, I’m not a total monster. But thanks for letting your fear of striking out keep you from even playing the game. 

Side note: Totally ran into said guy who went to the bathroom and never returned at the next bar I stopped at that evening. He was chatting up what looked to be an old male trivia night pal while I went home with a way more attractive, attentive and personable man. Karma is a real bitch. A bigger one than I’ll ever be. Chalking this one up as a win. 

He Would Do Anything For Love, But He Won’t Do That

He Would Do Anything For Love, But He Won’t Do That

I wish I knew what it was that Meatloaf wouldn’t do. I think we all have our guesses. I feel like if he was anything like the men I know, he would do anything for love…except, oh you know, put a ring on it, move in together and start a family. Every month, as the lining of my uterus sheds from my body and my insides violently erupt into a warzone of hormones, I’m reminded yet again that I have not been given the gift of life. Or that I still don’t have a man who sees a future with me. Or that I’m basically running out of god damn time. It’s the proverbial period to a highly anticipated “sentence”. Pun fully intended.

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In 28 years I’ve never had a pregnancy scare. (At least one that I didn’t drink myself out of unknowingly. Kidding, sort of)  I’m not statistically certain if that’s even something to feel accomplished about, but hey I feel like a winner. Sometimes I wonder if that means in the event that I do find a viable suitor to bake my beans, will I even be able to bare child? I guess I shouldn’t worry about that until I plow through step 1 of this process: meet a guy who wants to reproduce. Step 1A: meet a guy who will even talk about it.

In between taboo topics at the awkward table, I find three types of men emerge during the “Do you want kids?” conversation:

1.The Already-a-dad’s: These are the men who’s early twenties were just a string of mistakes that ended in two jobs. One to pay for child support and the other to pay for not paying for child support. They usually feel like it wouldn’t be fair to have their already ten year old and the child you want to conceive be so far apart in age. Got it. My future child being born into a financially and mentally stable home would be silly because you’re busy picking out which one of your daughter’s friends you can bang in less than a decade? You know, it wouldn’t be a horrible idea to try this whole kid thing within the confines of a healthy situation. He usually doesn’t want to hear it. Being thrown into fatherhood at an early age typically disinterests them no matter how good you look in a moomoo.

2. The Absolutely Not’s: Selfish Steve doesn’t want to give up his freedom for the sake of anyone carrying on his name. He could care less if he was the last male on earth, he’s not giving up his night’s out with the boys to change a dirty diaper, ever. I always smirk and shake my head at this type because at one point when you’re 80 and widowed, saddened by all of your fallen friends, you’re going to wish you sprayed your spunk all over the world. Who’s going to visit you in your nursing home? Who’s going to tell the story about that time you shot your pinky toe off with a semi automatic in your backyard on New Year’s? Kids are your legacy, and you’re too busy getting drunk at 30 to realize how important family may ever be in the future. This type is the kind I think just needs a few more years to brew. I’ve gotten to them too soon.

3.The Undecided: I let this guy slide from about 18-27 :serious face: I realize that as a man, by nature you can conceive every day for the rest of your life, but I’ve got less years than I do fingers to make this work before my options are depleted. So, “undecided” is not a drop down you’re gonna be able to choose in this menu buddy. When I ask you “do you want kids” I’m not looking to fertilize my eggs on the restaurant table. I just want to know if you fit in my fairytale or if I’m going to have to find eighteen other reasons you’d be worth not starting a family with. Spoiler alert: there aren’t any.

Babies are little assholes. I’d have to be clinically insane to want to invite anymore of that bullshit into my already chaotic life. But it’s what I want, and I refuse to be with someone who doesn’t at least think about the idea of being a parent alongside me. What good are we in ten years if not to at least give someone the gift of my vibrant personality and your dashing good looks? We’d be fools not to. We may not have the money, the patience, or the skills, but all we need is two people who agree to raise a tiny human into a productive member of society. Or at least the next Justin Bieber. Mama needs a comfortable nursing home.

justin-bieber-mom-4

Blog Lovin

Blog Lovin

I’m always looking for new and creative ways to dip my virgin blog hands into a pool of blogging professionals. I connect with friends, I share on social media, and lately I’ve even been reaching out to strangers. No great entertainer got famous by waiting for doors to open, they started bangin’ on every one they walked by. I’m new to this world so I read a plethora of blog tips on a daily basis to build a new world for myself on the interweb.

I most recently signed up for BlogLovin where I have a bunch of other bloggers categorized for me to read when I should otherwise be doing household chores. Thank you Ordinary Adventures for sharing your experiences, so that I may have as many followers as you some day. Cheers to development, and as always…thank you for reading.

What Are You…New?

What Are You…New?

The devil accepted my bargain when I started tearing down walls. In exchange for ridicule, I would achieve some miniscule level of stranger appreciation once my blogs went live. The habitual readers filed in just as expected, and shortly after them…the haters. If you are either of these, grab a beer, I want to thank you.

I’m new to blogging. I’m even more new to speaking to an audience. I used to write in the confines of my own Mead Composition Book: letters to people I hoped would never read it, lyrics of songs I was not even capable of putting notes to, stories about people who became far less important as the page numbers increased. But then, as my hands cramped and technology allowed me to put GIF’s to my erratic emotions, I found that blogging was a much better vehicle for me. I’ve posted five articles; one solid high five worth of topics and the backlash and praise is, to my dismay, unparalleled.

My blog is like my BMW, and all you assholes are just swinging your doors into my brand new paint job. To say that I don’t care would be a bald face lie, but to say that I do would essentially take away from the whole reason I write in the first place. I write about problems I have. These problems just so happen to be men. Why? because I, as a woman, haven’t completely given up on them…yet. The day I travel to the lighter side of lesbianism, I’ll be sure to crank out a blog about the Top Ten Reasons the Straight Pond is More Full. So for now, until the love of my life shows up on my co-ed softball team, I’m probably gonna channel my epic online disasters for blogging inspiration. And you’re probably going to call me an egotistical feminist. And I’m probably gonna think you need to shut the fuck up.

Haters are going to hate. They’re going to taunt me until they are blue in their face, coincidentally further transcending to their balls. I’ve got 99 problems and 100% of them are usually the same guys who bitch about me having problems with ‘someone they aren’t’. Really? Cause even if you were cool an hour ago, you’ve crushed any and all possibilities of me being semi-comfortable with you after calling me conceited for not wanting to date “you”. I put you in quotes because I don’t even tell these men I don’t want to date them, they psychoanalyze themselves and then take it out on me for their misinterpretations. I’ve never, in my entire adult life been rejected by a man and then called him cocky for not being interested. I don’t like bubble gum ice cream…doesn’t mean I think I’m too good for it. If I needed it to sustain life, I’d eat the crap out of that blue scoop of sugary shit. It’s just that if I have other options, I’m putting my money on Cookie’s n’ Cream.

I can deal with lots of levels of criticism. I’ve been on dates with men who flat out said “not interested” before dessert. Take it all with a grain of salt, ya know? But don’t be that person who has no basis for their remarks besides to be a stupid opinionated asshole. There are some people in this world who literally have nothing better to do. I could walk into a burning building and save a baby and there’s Negative Nicholas standing outside, shaking his head, telling me I’ve fucked with fate. While he’s reciting lines from Final Destination, I’m over here trying to SAVE A BABY FROM BURNING. Those are the types of people who reproduce like every god damn day too…because they think they know more than their own fucking reproductive system. The odd’s are never going to be in our favor. The idiot pond is a cease pool of opinions, only quieted by the sounds of themselves making more opinionated babies. I’m going to write in this blog forever, and I hope your arrogant grand children leave me comments about being less biased and speaking from both sides of the fence. Even though, that makes about as much sense to me as condoms do for you. Idiot.

Someone once told me that bad publicity is still publicity. The beauty of America is that I get to say whatever I want, and you get to respond accordingly. Although I think some people’s ‘suggestions’ for me are unhelpful and patronizing, I appreciate feed back in all forms. Seriously. If you think I’m a cunt, I’m super stoked to have evoked some kind of feelings within you to even care about my piss-poor attitude during you’re already chaotic day. With that said, keep the bullets coming as I develop a real voice within. Guest blogs are appreciated so that people don’t feel there are any gaps in the genre’s. Contact me if you think you have something to add to all the walls I’m tearing down about men and women. Or if you want to take me out for dessert, sans bubble gum ice cream.