Apartment 96

Apartment 96

Paper thin walls are both a novelty and a curse. I hear the way he begs for her attention with the opening of his patio door to the semi mediocre sunset views. And I wish a stranger good luck as he runs the bases of a game I quit playing a while ago.

She’s cute, you’ve got this 94.

The music. It’s terrible. And not because of the bass. Or the constant blatant disregard for the permeation of sound from his bedroom to my diary.

Alexa volume: 0, please god ZERO

Two people I’ve never met giggle at each other over dance breaks of a song most likely on the radio I’ve lost touch with, engulfed in a feeling I haven’t felt in a while.

I’m her. The single woman in Apt 96 who judges the noise because she forgot how to make her own.

I pick up a book.

A glass breaks.

A roar of laughter ensues.

I lay my head on my pillow.

A hum of pleasure they make.

Likely a product of booze.

A decade ago, I kept the dial turned. The music loud. The sunsets on my radar. And I swore to myself I’d never stop making memories even if the crotchety old lady in apartment 96 called the cops on me for the third time.

When did we become what we fought so hard to dodge? Unruly neighbors becoming reminders of an unfinished past.

I want to play.

I blinked and I’m here. Checking my clock for quiet hours. Trying to google common courtesy codes of conduct in an apartment 100% attached to a stranger. Ten years ago I was attached to strangers… without courtesy codes; without quiet hours.

The paper thin walls are a veil to my jealousy. Nobody would ever know unless I told them, and I have to tell you…

Kids these days don’t know what they have until it’s gone.



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.

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.



Bravery is contagious. And not contagious in a someone-sneezed-on-the-office-coffee-pot-again-cause-they-forget-that-some-of-us used all of our PTO in January catch-everything type way.

The thing is, the nature of the events of this week’s Ford-Kavanaugh hearing are a he-said-she-said ping pong match that ends in someone’s life ‘potentially being ruined’ and that other person being Christine Blasey Ford. She doesn’t get to fear the potential, because she’s already lived it. Maybe all of the revisited events were just moments he ‘cant remember’, but at the end of the day they are also memories she ‘can’t forget’.

Rape stories will be prevalent until rape is no longer minimalized to irrelevance. Sadly, we put people away longer for crimes of graffiti than we do sexual assault and people still wonder why it’s trending. Anything that bares little to no repercussion without a grand jury review is bound to be a trend in my book. Instilling the fear of potential consequences is barely a way to keep crimes off the street, but at least it’s not contrarily telling it’s offenders “we support your lack of moral compass”.

Even more sad are the statistics associated with said rising assaults. To a degree, some would say the rise of admission is to blame for the rise in percentage, but why is that even a rebuttal? Just because the story is new to you doesn’t mean it hasn’t haunted it’s victim for decades. With that said, I more recently googled just how many of my friends and neighbors might be holding on to an untold secret, and 1 in 5 women have or will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. One finger on each of my hands is a symbol for the reality of the proximity of these casualties.

When I say it’s hard being female, I mean it. Sure, we have a laundry list of societal standards; a basic biological clock constantly ticking inside a highly emotionally charged hormone filled body, but we also have the immediate danger of becoming a statistic 15 times faster than if we had been born a male. And for that exact reason, I write this article.

If I had the choice, I wouldn’t choose to hold my keys between my fingers as I walk to my car at night. I didn’t wake up this specific gender to be told that I couldn’t wear a skirt on a summer day because of how it made other people feel about my body. And I most certainly never expected that I’d ever have my own story.

A man drove me home after a night of drinking and as he walked inside the gas station to get me a bottle of water, I quickly racked me brain for how it was I was sitting in a truck of a total stranger feeling completely taken advantage of. I immediately placed blame on myself for tequila shot number five. For not knowing how to get myself home safely. For trusting someone I had only just met (that’s how all great love stories start though, right? Wrong.) and as he got back in the car to a more silent version of my previous self he jokingly looked me directly in the eyes and said “You only said no twice.” To which I shrugged and said “Cool, that should hold up in court”. Its safe to say I think that I’m the wittiest, when I’m absolutely shattered inside.

And that was the last thing I said to someone I would never see again. Someone who would never know how uncomfortable I was because the lack of consent and humility turned him on and blinded him from the basic human concern of another person’s needs. He laughed at my expense as he handed me the water bottle- making sure I was hydrated while ironically dismantling me inside.

We don’t want to admit that abusers are our friends. That our friends are victims. That this world is filled with people who are selfish dishonest and cowardly. But, even if it doesn’t happen to you, it’s happening to people who you love and care about so by default it’s happening to all of us. I have to ask… if it’s happening to all of us, why are we still so afraid to believe the women of the metoo movement? Because of false reports?Because of political bullshit? Because publicly reliving criminal events in regards to sexual assault is sooooo uncomfortable….boo fucking hoo.

For the record falsely reported cases are so low in percentage that they aren’t even given a number.  Unlike the 20% of the people in whatever room you’re in right now suffering the pain of being an undeniable statistic of factual reports that will damage them for the rest of their lives. And politicians? They can go fuck themselves. Just don’t expect them to ask for consent when they do. 

Christine ford is the definition of bravery. I hold faith that her story was brought to the public eye not to haunt an already wounded supreme court justice nominee, but to remind the voiceless that although some may not believe you, enough people care and only in untold stories and silence, we may have never known. I believe these women because I have to believe that you would believe me too. And that is the entire basis behind the appropriately named movement that is bound to make history.

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…



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…



I pushed send despite the guilt I’d feel by allowing you the ability to ignore me, again. I needed you to recount with me the emotions that were attached to memories that only you and I will ever carry. Even if you read it and reminisced without reaching out, reminders are my favorite gifts and it had been a while since I’d given you one. As a matter of fact,  I remember it, it was Easter. I knew the first holiday I’d spend with you I’d want to shower you with a basket of goodies; shower you with my love; shower with you. You laughed at the candy, the lottery scratchers, the flavored lube. You laughed at our minimal interaction that felt like lifetime feats. But we laughed together as the sun brushed the stars and the nights fell hard on days that only half of us knew would come to an end.

You know that feeling you get when you think you’ve forgotten something half way to your destination? That deep pitted punch in the gut that sends you over the edge with thoughts about if you should keep going or stop and turn around? 9:58 am hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn’t seen that picture come up on my phone in over 60 days. Days that I literally pretended you were dead because it was easier to accept that you had no control over this pain than being the provider of such malice. I remember the night you took that photo. It was the first time it’d really felt like I’d be able to stare into someone’s eyes forever. You said you hated the way you looked, so I made it the photo I saw of you every day. A reminder to us both that it didn’t ever matter what you thought.

I had a hundred thousand things to ask you since the day you vanished. But all I could muster up the ability to verbalize were questions my heart screamed over my head. I wanted you to know that I was happy, that the fact that you were gone was a blow to my ego not a deferent to my well-being. I’ve told bigger lies, but they never gave me this much lack of contentment. What I should have said was that driving down I-70 and passing Hanging Lake brought me to tears. Because I held your hand at the bottom of that hike and you told me you didn’t think anybody else in this world would ever get you quite like me. I took a picture of the sky, because I wanted to capture exactly what I was looking at as I felt the most intense connection of my entire existence. It’s like that curve in the road is my forever home. 76 miles of Siri into the mountains. Spurts of service. A moment I’ll never be able to recreate. Fuck I hate memories. Nothing in life should ever feel this damn good and so terrible at the same time. Except maybe, a deep tissue massage.

It didn’t matter how many unfinished conversations we had. I was never getting closure, and that was my closure. And then two months later,I got it. And I didn’t know what to do with it. I felt like a twelve year old boy finding his boner for the first time. Just fumbling with excitement and finding out it would be a forever lingering gift of both pain and pleasure. Getting no message was all the message I needed, and then you called me to tell me everything I fucking expected. Down to the fact that they only reason you were with her was because she was more convenient and that moments with her were empty in comparison to what we experienced. I wanted to tell you Karma was a bigger bitch than I could ever be, but all I could think was “I wish you were here”.

For the record, you didn’t break my heart. Truth be told, you broke my soul. I won’t romanticize the way you made me feel too much, because it was more than that. It was like reaching into a bag of my wildest dreams and having them read to me by the wind.  When you left it felt like death. But the kind of death where you’re forced to keep living. And you’re forced to keep guessing. About what went wrong and if you’re ever going to find it again. You told me I’d find it in someone, that I was crazy to think that you were my last chance, but what do you know…you’re always running.

I know this feels like your last change at control, and you win. But you reopened wounds that were not yours to create in the first place. I handed you the greatest parts of me and asked for you to nurture them in time. Instead you brought them to the darkest places and left them there, abandoned and unattended. And when I found my light again, you reappeared to remind me that you were the best I may have ever had, and I still couldn’t have you. Nana nana fucking boo boo. I hope that in the silent parts of the Kingdom of “blockville” you find a way to justify the resurface. Because if I didn’t have the ability to ever keep you in the first place, it was certainly not me who made you reemerge.

I accept the apology I never got. In the absence of your words, lies all of my answers. My mother always told me that to heal a wound, you’ve got to stop touching it. I can’t stop touching it. {That’s what he said} You were and still are the type of drug I’d sell my right arm for a hit on my left. I used to think I’d never hear from you again, and then I did. Which makes me think I’d be naïve to assume you’re gone forever…


Road Trips Over Rings 

Road Trips Over Rings 

I read somewhere in a book buried in my hallway closet that if you’re brave enough to love someone you’re brave enough to lose them. I highlighted it cause it felt incredibly definitive in its meaning and I like statements that are absolute. But then I lost the book, and I couldn’t find the quote, and I kept thinking, what if I’m not brave enough for the in-between? What if I can’t read what they advised me to do after? After you love someone. Or after you lose them. Or your mind. Whichever came first. 

Lately, it’s been a lot of all or nothing’s. My least favorite place to be. I used to cringe at the thought of living in limbo and then when I realized that living in limbo meant never having to lose anything completely, I didn’t hate it so much. There is peace in the unknown. Which is why so many people claim that ignorance is bliss. God was it bliss. 

There’s still a peace within me currently that I can’t explain. It makes about as much sense to me as it does the people who think they know what I should be feeling. Pain. This is the calm before the storm. Never have I known a calm before the calm, so I’m geared up for some pretty tough weather ahead. With that said, if I can hang back, in my tornado shelter and fight off insecurities and abandonment, maybe I’ll open up those doors again someday to sunnier skies. Or maybe I’ll open them up to a fucked up town of mangled homes and lifeless corpses. 

That’s the thing, I don’t know. If this shit storm is a category one, or a category five, or if it’s not even going to strike my path. But, I have to be prepared. For the good and the bad. And just like he told me not to, I wait. 

Because no sane human being just doesn’t take shelter and stands on the porch staring the storm in the face. And they certainly don’t run from it. And they certainly don’t stop waiting. This is their home. This is my heart. 

The bravery is in the steps it takes to wait it out, while things you can’t see are taking its course outside of your control. You wait, and you wait, and then it’s over and you make due with what comes out on the other side. Be it wind blown daisies watered heavily but unharmed, or a car turned sideways in your swimming pool. You’re alive, cause you waited. You’re the same because you caught shelter. And you’re there minutes, months, years later with a new perspective on the things in front of you. 

I’ve met a lot of cowards in my lifetime. Not one of them is the girl I face every morning in my bathroom mirror. I am brave because I know there is something to be said about never fearing anything that’s even slightly attainable. Because fear sucks the life out of us every second of every day as it is. It keeps us from thriving just enough to not be able to find true love. Or to keep that fire lit long enough to never experience loss. 

I want to die quickly and similarly in each other’s hearts on our death beds, not on the beds of our dying hope decades prior. Or on the porch of a home amidst a tornado that I refused to seek shelter from because I failed to wait. Or because I waited too long. I want to lose you to the heavens above or the sea below, not to the idea that you aren’t good enough, or ready. I stay faithful to my hearts desire while we stumble over the difficulty of unplanned time. And I stay brave enough to learn to love you, even while I’m braving losing you…

This Side of Rejection

This Side of Rejection

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

~ Maya Angelou

       Most of the shadows of my internal darkness are caused by blocking out my own sunshine. Its hard to admit it guys, but I have a dirty habit of settling. There he is, my future, waiting patiently in the fields of utter perfection, and I’m over here on the corner of “Just” and “Love me” finding ways to justify the negativity in my life. My track record of men I’ve spent longer than a week tolerating screams something is sadly missing. It’s come to the point where it’s almost impossible not to feel hopelessly devoted at the mere mention of long term interest. Genuine needs fall by the wayside in the beginning and I find myself forgetting what’s truly important in a partner. Until compatibility comes knocking and I’m standing at the door with more questions than answers.

News Flash: there is more to a relationship than just being in love. There’s security and there’s pride. There are similar interests and way more moments of happiness than those troubling instances of doubt. But sometimes, when he’s holding your hand and telling you how beautiful your unmade face is, the sensitivity overshadows all of the concerns, and you’re whisked away to a land of make-believe. And it’s in those moments folks, that futures go to die.

My two week love affair is obsolete.  Happy birthday to me, right? I have a request for a last minute present and it goes as follows:  I want his heart to heal quicker than it took me to break it. (Which was a two minute convo via text, cause I was admitably too exhausted from overthinking the break up to make the phone call) Mark my words, the pain of my own punishment is far worse than dealing with any outsider’s rejection. Mostly, because I know that good people deserve answers (despite wanting to hear them)and at the end of the day I was never one to leave a story untold. He’s not going to thank me for breaking his heart, but I hope sooner rather than later he realizes that painful losses are often times the most sought after lessons.

For a while I was happy to know that someone out there wanted to get to know me as much as I want to get to know them, even if I already knew it was for nothing. I guess you could say I gave it the “good ol’ college try”. It took me years to learn, but there are significant similarities that need to be aligned to foresee a stable future with someone, and I know my place in each of them so well that it’s absurd to most that I’m able to make decisions so quickly. Obvious incompatibilities are a dead give away in the game of love. And yet, we dance around them like children hoping to be swept away by instant gratification.  I’m rambling, again. I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to defend my decision. Not for him, and especially not for myself. Because it’s my decision and there’s no explanation to how my soul chooses to find it’s mate. I am plain and simple on a journey directed by pure intentions with the same goal as every one around me, to love and to be loved in return.

Needless to say, this round was mine for the loss. I kind of set myself up for failure because I took his adoration for me and I used it to fuel the parts of him I wasn’t ready to accept. Plain and simple, he wasn’t a match. Not his fault, and not mine. If you had asked me a decade ago, I would have dated his face off, because hellllo…lust. At twenty two years-young I’d allow three months of euphoria to be followed up by eight months of irritation and a month of recovery. That’s a whole year wasted on ignoring life’s red flags. But, at the end of the day it still pains me to say goodbye to a person who would have done just about anything to make me happy. Something that honestly was never his job in the first place. You have to wonder if this will be the last time you’ll get an opportunity, if the grass is really any greener on the other side? If it’s not any greener,than I’m honestly still content knowing that I didn’t settle for doubt. I am committed to the desire to find someone to fit into a life I’ve created for myself and I won’t take any less as an option. If it takes me an entire lifetime to find what I’m looking for then I’ll see you on the other side, the other side of rejection.




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.”


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

A Letter To The Boys Who Refused To Be My Man

A Letter To The Boys Who Refused To Be My Man

Dear almost-lovers,

Thank you for gifting me with time I would have otherwise wasted.

If currency could buy minutes, I’d take out a loan too big to ever pay off. More often than not, I look back on a relationship and realize that although lessons had been learned, I could have ended it much sooner. Of course I didn’t, because sometimes your heart forgets what your mind needs, and your nights get lonely, and you settle. So thank you; thank you for reminding me that I should never feel like an option, and when I do…you’re no longer my priority.

Thank you for doing the dirty work.

I take no pleasure in goodbyes. So, even though you didn’t give me one, thank you for not making me come up with the words to break another human’s heart.  It crushes my soul to not reciprocate interest. For me, it’s always been easier to pick my broken self up than to tear someone else down. I’ll forever pass the baton of detachment; the dirtiest job we lovers may have.

Thank you for making me feel worthless

When you were gone, I got to breathe a little easier. So many flags, the red ones that I quickly pretended were figments of my imagination, laid out like a road map pointing me to failure…and I forgot they were there until I had no more reasons to sing your praises. You often forgot to tell me you liked me, because it’s clear now that that wasn’t the case.  So thank you for the reminder that I can never again let one good quality outweigh everything else I deserve.

Thank you for the maybe, so that I can appreciate an absolutely.

I half assed my homework as a kid; did the bare minimum of chores growing up. Giving your all is scary and time consuming. There has to be something at the end worth the effort, right? You never saw the reward for your risks and I’m more capable now than ever to be able to know when love is given out of necessity or out of passion. I’m so appreciative of your inability to love me fully, because it was there in those shadows that I found a way to push for more.

Thank you for being frightened of my wild heart.

I am not a steady beat. I ring loud with passion and fall deep into regression. I’ve got ups and I’ve got downs and there won’t be many who can quiet my chaos, but thank you for backing out so I can find the one who can. I’m variables of insanity, the good and the bad. I know my weakness’ and I wear them for the world to see. Sometimes I run, and sometimes I hide, and sometimes I quote Britney Spears lyrics because I’m trying to meet a ‘word count’ on my blog. Point is, when you couldn’t find the balls to call me yours, frightened by my wild side; I was able to own my challenges and in that confidence seek a higher love.

Thank you for not being the man I needed so that I could be reminded of the woman I already am. My independence and intelligence are to be explored and tamed, but never owned.  I could spend a thousand tears on feeling not good enough, but every loss is just one step further from wrong and one step closer to right. Thank you for being too scared to be paired and for dimming my light so that I may shine brighter than ever before.

Yours truly,


I Like The Sound You Make When You Shut Up.

I Like The Sound You Make When You Shut Up.

As luck would have it, I’ve found a way to dig my own grave at every corner of love. There are more holes in the ground than notches on my bed post, and I have nobody to blame but my mouth. I’m a self proclaimed, and often labeled “over-thinker”. If you’re anything like me you think, and you think and you think yourself into scenarios that are fictitious and absurd. Only once in a blue moon do you save yourself from a true monstrosity.  Keep your damn thoughts and questions to yourself, and maybe you won’t scare them ALL away, princess.

“Just sit there and look pretty”; offensive but necessary. The less you and I pry for information the easier it will be to go with said flow. I don’t need to know if you’re looking for a relationship before our dates over. Didn’t my mother ever teach me that actions speak louder than words? Well if my heart has anything to say about it, they don’t. Some men are so good at walking the walk these days that you’re in for a treat when he stops talking to you even after a million displays of affection. I’ve trial-and-error’d just about every thing possible to say after getting home from a first date and this is a list of the top four “open-mouth-insert-foot” moments:

“Are you looking for more than just a hook up?”-  Nice, make him insecure about his physical attraction to you. This wins you a trip to never-touching-you-againville. Nobody likes to feel like a slut, not even sluts. So by insinuating that their interest is only that of the sexual kind, implies that they’ve done something, well…wrong. Either way, you’re going to get an answer you don’t want. Because if he says no, you’re just going to ask him if he’s sure until he admits that it’s natural for him to want sex because he’s human…and if he says yes, you’re gonna think he’s a slime ball. Nobody wins this question round. Steer clear of this at all costs and look for signs instead.

“Do you like me?”- Pump the breaks. He doesn’t know if he likes you because he literally just met you. Most normal people like to experience the Jekel and the Hyde before they verbally assure anyone that they find you suitable as a partner. Never ask a man if he likes you, if he likes you he will show it…you will know it, and it’s going to bother him if you need that kind of grade school reassurance. If he doesn’t call, doesn’t ask you out again, doesn’t text you after the date, as the movie is titled…he’s just not that into you. And no, he doesn’t like you.

“When can I see you again?”- I used to think of this as romantic, and as time went on, I found it to be a bit overbearing. Life happens, and you need to let it so that whatever this generation’s need for immediate acceptance is, can be put to rest by unplanned moments. I wish I wasn’t so anxious about getting off of one date just to find out when the next one is, but these days if you don’t make a plan, he’s gonna make one with the next girl on his list. It’s sad, but we just have to remember that if we are good enough, they won’t want to look any further.

Are you the relationship type?- There is a strong chance that this makes you look like you ask everyone this question. Like you want to know if anybody, good or bad, wants to be your boyfriend. Relationship ‘types’ will shine through. Asking him if this is what he is looking for is almost like asking him if that’s what he wants right now. And that’s creepy. This question is better left for date five, if you can make it there.

It’s not adorable to be this deplorable. Any guy who get’s a text or phone call with these questions is automatically re-thinking his interest no matter how well the first date went. Ironically, you thinking too much has now made him think just a little bit more about a future together. Take my advice and just shut, shut, shut your mouth.

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.


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.


Don’t Forget Your Bullet Proof Vest

Don’t Forget Your Bullet Proof Vest

At this moment there are 7.2 billion people in the world. Give or take a few. And sometimes all you need is one…to ruin your day.

It’s no secret that I have the metabolism of an adult hippopotamus, and those that have known me through literal thick and thin, know that even the food I DON’T eat, goes straight to my thighs. The last time I checked, sixty-eight percent of American’s are considered ‘overweight’. That means that if I’m not the one lucky skinny friend of four, I’m sitting in the pseudo-fat boat with at least two other women who often times just barely tip the scales. So why do I always feel so exposed? Why does this journey feel so solitary? Where do you keep all of your insecurities?

The other day I made small talk with a stranger I hadn’t seen in a while, because from time to time I enjoy the feeling of connecting with like minds. I sometimes forget that the people who are the most in despair are the same ones who strive to take the wind out of other peoples sails. I knew he wasn’t going to give me anything I needed, but I sent the text anyway because well,  I like to gamble. (You know, the text that’s either going to get no response and spiral you into depression or warrant an unexpected response and send you directly to cloud nine.) It’s safe to say I got neither.

“You’re fat and you’re ugly, and at best you were good for a laugh” I read. I glanced around for the Play-Doh. Apparently I’d been transported back to grade school and not appropriately warned of the time travel. At what point in the three months that I haven’t conversed with this “nobody” did I warrant a lashing so personal and vindictive? The answer is, never. I’m writing this three days post textual beat down and am still in complete shock. I guess it’s fair to say he won, because I cry every time I think about it.

Between the self pity and desire to be insecure-free I find myself wondering how many other women like myself get bullied while dating. I knowingly put myself in a position to automatically be critiqued daily by the opposite sex just by merely being single and I do it because I believe that at one point pain has it’s purpose. Not everyone is going to love you Taryn, and that’s ok. You’re ok.

As my desire for acceptance is profoundly more sensitive to criticism I often take the verbal abuse to heart, and I have no clue why. Why does anybody care what other people think? Because being resistant to opinions is not in our nature. Nobody is ever so sure of themselves that they give less fucks than the tree they are standing in front of.

Body image is a can of worms I just don’t even want to tap into tonight, but I have to at least touch on the fact that most people are going to think the world of me, and when I least expect it, someone won’t. Just as it takes only one person to ruin my day, it takes just one person to love me beyond any hurtful words can scar. Dating is a tricky stage of on going assessment; all eyes are on you as you aim to meet expectations you didn’t know exist. We are at war for love, did you bring your bullet proof vest?



So you’re sitting in a packed stadium mindfully appreciating the perks of it’s magnitude only to have the guy next to you stand up, strip free of his clothing and run the field naked. Your jaw drops. Security comes. Probably weeks of preparation and less than eight seconds of show. So much hype, the crowd goes wild… and then it’s over.

My online dating experiences lately have been a lot like streaking. Not in that I like to protest by way of nudity, but that some conversations are the coolest thing to happen to me all week and then just like that, he’s gone. Don’t get me wrong, I can make any conversation entertaining. Put a bot on the other end of a laptop within my radius and you bet your sweet as I’ll be sure to have a giggle. But these guys are topping charts, and then quickly becoming one hit wonders.

Men lately have been perfectly wrapped boxes of shit. On the outside they’ve ‘been looking for commitment’, and love a ‘woman with curves’ and always wanted ‘little dogs named after a delicious beer’. Like, stop it. You’re too good to be true. That’s because, as it turns out, nothing about you is.

I religiously watch the show Catfish on MTV, so I know that the amount of dates I go on would statistically put me at a higher risk for fishing in this pond. But even after a year of sifting through profile after profile and giving out my number I’ve always had enough female intuition to weed out the fakes. I’ve been on (roughly) 40 dates in the past 12 months, and not one of them looked any different than what I took away from their profile. That’s some pretty good luck on my end. The kicker is that these “catfish” are luring me into a false sense of excitement before I can catch on and then I’m dropped faster than a testicle. This is undoubtedly the worst feeling in the world. Next to bleeding through your tampon.

He’s 6’3. He has a house that he can’t wait to share with the right woman. He likes to work out. He travels. He makes abortion jokes without blinking. He wakes me up with “Good Morning Beautiful”. He sends me photos of “the hiking trails were going to take together”. He says “Marry Me?” when I share something that makes me vulnerable. Swoonville: Party of one.

It’s been 72 hours of non-stop textual stimulation. It’s time to meet, you know…face to face. Mano y mano. Naturally, his profile has disappeared. He won’t answer a phone call. The guy refuses to text me back. This fucker is officially gone from existence. What kind of balls must a man have to take three days out of his work week to make someone fall head over heels for them, just to bounce?

My insecurities are at a ten when this kind of awful exit strategy arises. I often wonder what I’ve done to be so highly anticipated and  then so quickly forgotten. I used to think it was something I did. Or a picture I sent. Or the way I used “fuck” and “your mother” in the same sentence. It’s not. I’ve analyzed conversations and photographs like a god damn detective. Nothing I do is wrong. I am the crème de la crème. These morons are either scared, fake or married. None of which makes them a viable option anyway.

I’m glad we got to play house with my feelings for a weekend, but when I say ” I really want to meet you” it doesn’t translate to pull the love-rug out from under me and run. If I wanted to play games, I’d break out the dice. Whoever you are, whoever you were, I hope you return some day to tell me the real reason why you left open-ended. Because as it stands, I assume it’s because I’m way-too-much woman for a way-too-less man. That, or your wife took away your cell phone privileges.


To Love Even Once Is Enough

To Love Even Once Is Enough

There’s a place between falling asleep and leaving this earth that I find myself dreaming of you. It’s subtle, but it’s vast. It warms me to my toes. Almost crack-your-window-remember-to-breathe-worthy. I usually close my eyes with anticipation; moan for a silhouette I’ve tasted before and I trace my fingers along the same lines you’ve run your hands. I think about what it’d be like to have you close enough to shut out. Because I’d do that and you know it. I’d play hard to get and you wouldn’t let me go a day without letting me know I’m not that hard. Your edges were so soft; they brushed down to my salty core. You were like the greatest gift I never got to open. I’m the holiday you so desperately wanted to celebrate. And yet, we may never collide again.

There’s sadness in the unattainable, but total peace in never having to love something so much that it renders pain when lost. Without absolute joy, we dodge that suffering. Too bad I’d suffer a thousand sleepless nights to spend one more day in that moment I felt home. Your love was like a future heaven; your memory a present hell. What a short-lived manifestation of total euphoria with just one kiss.

The future is a replica of the past, and I hope I find a piece of you in my tomorrow. Because even an ounce of your soul would heal any wound. Your affection knew no limits, your respect unconditional. When I looked at you, you felt my emotions before I spoke any words. My words couldn’t even do justice to your actions which went unnoticed far too long. I wait for you to meet me in a better life. If not this one, one where the ink to our stories crash into each other like our bodies on an unmade bed. Like we had time for life’s simple chores. Our love was enough to consume an entire span of daylight.

Was. Not as is. Reactivating the past gives it the power to consume me. I almost fall for the pain in hope for the pleasure. Pleasure beyond a woman’s wildest dreams. Something you handed me blindly and I stored carelessly. Fools we were, in lust with a love I may never know again.