Ex Marks The Spot

I get it, Ex’s are an ‘off-limits’ topic. They fuel insecurities and create unnecessary reminders of lost time. But, most importantly they are pieces of our past. A past that molds who we are today.

Understanding your current partner’s previous relationship is equivalent to taking Calculus your senior year. Nobody wants to do it, it’s going to seem like a giant waste of time, but in the end, it’ll get you to where you want to be much faster.

The Ex is around somewhere. They exist. Find them and research their failures. Or, when that feels entirely too invasive, simply…just ask your partner. Your significant other’s ex’s faults are a streamlined path to triggers that could be easily avoided with the knowledge of their existence. They say, that what we don’t know can’t hurt us…except in this very instance.

What made him leave? Why was their relationship less than successful?

Before doing some irresponsible social-media stalking take a moment to engage with your partner and find out from them what they were looking for, and didn’t find, in a potential spouse. Sometimes you will get the ol’ “She was crazy” which you will come to find out translates into “stayed out late drinking and fucked my best friend”. Note to self: don’t do either cause it doesn’t label well. Clearly infidelity is a huge turn off for everyone, but more specifically it’s important to remember that the partner with this kind of “EX-file” is probably more fragile when it comes to trust.

You may even get the “She wasn’t my type”, translating into: “She let herself go about four months into the relationship and by the time we moved in together she was able to eat a slice of pizza off of her belly Fat-Bastard style”.

Whatever you get for a response about what was enough to end their relationship, it’s enough to help you not end this relationship. And that’s such a one up, it’s absurd. Grab a front row seat to any kind of evolution, even if it’s a taboo topic like who your boyfriend used to bang. Honestly, being aware of you AND your partner’s boundaries is probably the single most important influencer in the confidence people need to create solid connections.

Normalize your past, align your objectives and TALK ABOUT YOUR EX’S.  It’ll make things so much easier for you when you realize your not asking someone to repeat any former regrets. You’re setting them up for success by giving them the tools they need to not be another tool you don’t need.

Double Standard

Life’s not fair. 


*end article*






Ok, fine. Even though that’s the gist of basically everything I have to complain about currently, I might as well divulge my frustrations in entirety as to not leave my audience without some, as-always, dating irony. I am human, hear me rant 🙂

Our minds are beautiful things. Sometimes taking us to the most enchanting corners of insanely magnificent ideas. While other times they drop our pitiful-gutter-thoughts off at inopportune times that create a whirl wind of perverse commentary; proudly labeling us as the town hoe.

If you haven’t used the monkey with it’s hands covering it’s mouth emoji before, you probably don’t know what i’m talking about. Mouth, *insert foot*, type Freudian slips. The kind of text messages that would make your Grandma blush. You tell him it’s hard for you to trust men and he tells you he’ll ‘show you something hard’.

Game over. Her well is dry. She thinks you’re a pig.

Twenty minutes later she sends him a button-down cleavage shot with a winky face and he wants to know why CHICKS ARE SO GOD DAMN CONFUSING.

I get it, double standards times infinity. Let me break this down for you though. Since the dawn of time men have been, without a doubt, considered the more sexually charged partner in a relationship. By instinct alone, sex is on a man’s mind before he even know’s his penis is primed. More often that not, this innate desire for intimacy has proven to increasingly place pressure on women who’s fancy’s are usually tickled by less bang and more hang. But that doesn’t change what is already programmed. Something, that no matter how much he says’s he doesn’t want “just that”, is there. It’s hungry. So, when a man brings up anything correlating to sexual desire, it’s fair to assume that’s where his mind is going. Actions to follow. Because, history.

Men want immediate pleasure, not to be mistaken with instant gratification which can be found in the opposite sex. Ask any 14 year old teenage boy playing pocket pool under the table at school for his entire lunch hour. It’s mandatory. Once satisfied, men move on to pursuit. The pursuit of continued indulgence. Followed by finding out if there’s any interest beyond achieving climax.

Women however, organize differently. Interest, pursuit, pleasure.

In order for us to be pursued we have to gain interest and therefore achieve pleasure. Which equals throwing out bait that the fish will bite. What bait do men bite? Things that give them pleasure. So we are now originating our tasks by fishing with our own end game. And frankly, it feels like the only way.

If I hear that this isn’t fair one more time I’m gonna take a knife to a kitten. This is an earned fairness, in my opinion. Why do we get to talk about our nipples getting hard at the sign of an early winter, but you can’t tell us that you got a raging stiffy from a Carl’s Jr. commercial? Because, only one of us is turned on by the thought of the other’s comment.

Sometimes I ‘accidentally’ get some side boob in the picture of me asking if you ‘like my new socks?’. But when you ‘accidentally’ get your whole dick in a photo of you inquiring if I ‘love your new watch?’ NOBODY WINS. There is some sort of unsaid truth about dick pics being the most unsolicited genre in maybe the entire existence of photography. And yet, men still send them. We barely want it in our vagina’s, let alone burned into our thoughts with a sepia filter. What do we want? You to tell us that our side boob is everything you’ve ever dreamed of…and oh, our socks are cute too. #instantgratification

I get it, it’s not fair. But….life’s not. Blame the idiots before you who led with their main veins. If that’s not enough dammit, us women grow babies for almost an entire calendar year’s time. The least you can do is give us this one up.

Guys be like…

Like my new watch?!

I’m Going Down, I’m Yelling TINDER
Tinder. Couldn’t have a worse taste in my mouth if I was sucking on a packet of maggots. It’s been six months of swiping my self confidence straight into the ground, and I’m that crack addict who’s friends and family have contacted A&E for an intervention. I hate the app. It’s a complete waste of my time.  The men who I’ve “matched up” with are a crapshoot and there’s no one else to blame but myself. I mean, I green lighted them.
I’m not going to lie, I didn’t read your profile. I blame Tinder’s sexualizing need for mutual attraction to start a conversation. It’s a tell me I’m hot or GTFO mentality. ‘If I’m a bird, you’re a bird’ Let’s bang.  Either way, this is about if you think I’m cute enough to lie about your age, right? At one point or another I remember having 400 matches. That’s more friends then I have on Facebook; almost as many people in my graduating class. And yet, nobody talks to anybody with substance or honest intent.
The potential for Tinder to be highly effective is there. It’s just being utilized to it’s lowest functionality. If you’ve been single in the past four years, you’ve found yourself swiping through your town. The app literally hands you someone in a specific radius, with a similar attraction level and gives you a foundation to contact each other further. It’s like having your best friend see the man of your dreams at the end of the bar and handing him your number for you. No work on your part, just a head nod and then a date. So why is it so damn difficult to create an ever lasting love with an app that specifically means the tools used to light a fire?
Because men are scumbags. These tools are literally lighting my fire. They’re liars, narcissists, cheaters and fakes. If he’s not four inches shorter than his profile states, he’s got a wife and kids at home. Statistics state that 20% of men on Tinder are already in a relationship. That’s promising, considering that’s become the only pre requisite I have these days. I’ve lowered all of my standards to just being with someone who doesn’t view me as a side piece and the most popular dating app of my generation crunches these numbers. This can’t be healthy.
Sometimes I think about turning a new leaf, fuck it…turning a new tree…and deleting all of my accounts all together. Just regular, old school, bumping into my high school crush at the grocery story type dreaming.  And then I’m back on OkCupid with my slightly better pool of men. Except they’re probably doubling their odds by having a profile on Tinder as well. Which means that god awful statistic bleeds into the group of men who actually spend time answering thought provoking questions. Those OKCupid gold star heroes I once found myself going on dates with, are also swiping dirty. So is my fruit isle fantasy fling. Sigh.
It doesn’t matter how many god awful dates I agree to subject myself to, Tinder is easy and that’s what I’m saying when I use it. I’m saying…I want a man who’s ‘About Me’ section is just a link to more pictures of him in his RVCA shirt, because I don’t care what kind of degree he has, I want to know where he parks his boat. I defend the site for my own use because I feel like no matter how stereotypical the app may be, I’m smart enough to follow up a sexy head shot with a powerful personality. Despite the difficulty level of sifting through the toilet bowl of men on Tinder, I always hold faith that I’m cool enough to find the diamond in the rough.
With that said….somebody please take my phone and permanently delete the option to re download this enterprise of filth. I’ve got carpal tunnel and an open schedule next week and Mr. Conceited-Married-Liar probably hasn’t swiped left a day in his life.
Know what you want, to get what you need.

To the man of my literal dreams,

It’s midnight. I know you think of me as I think of you; when the day shifts into night and your extra pillows are still firm with untouched repetition. You don’t know my name yet, but you will. One day it will accompany that last name you’ve been carrying around so long. I have no idea what you look like, or if I’ll meet you before I’m ten feet in the ground, but I know you exist which is the most exciting part of this adventure. Timing. Luck. Whatever it takes to give us both a moment to shine bright enough to spark each others interest, I wish for that. I wish for that in between my own self exploration and love. I wish for that in between waiting for you and growing alone. They say good things take time, so darling, take your time…for me, for us.

I bet your eyes are glorious, not just in color but in the way they look at the world. You probably can see through stubborn insensitivity, because you’re quick witted and bright. And because I know you’ll love me despite the fact that i’m both.
I bet you haven’t lost your sense of wonder. If we’re meant to be, your soul is as young as mine, but your dreams are as old fashioned as the drink in your hand. I know you’ll want to hear a strangers story, so you can duplicate that ambition, but you’re mindful of the home you so eagerly need to build.
I bet you love a woman with curves. Not because you’re attracted to me just physically, but because my insecurities drive compliments that map out intimacy far beyond the bedroom. We cat and mouse, because there’s not enough playfulness in mature relationships. We are lovers, never fighters, thinking only of each other despite life’s constant temptations.
I bet you’re everybody’s hero. You’re selfless in teaching me to be selfish. I know I make enough mistakes for the both of us, and instead of highlighting my flaws, you embrace the lesson in noticing them. Together we move forward, never backward. You refuse to ever be responsible for my pain.
I bet you love my family, the whole ridiculous lot of them. You probably jokingly extend your condolences when I complain about the lack of mental stability, but at the end of the holiday gatherings you hold my hand as we all warm your heart.
I bet you have a dog of your own. Or at least you love Stella…who’s only job in life was to pick you out of the crapshoot of men I bring home. You include her on our dates, and you let her sleep behind your knees, even on hot summer nights. You love the way she gives you more tongue in our kisses than I do, and I catch you asking her opinion on tie choices.
I bet your hands are full with a job you adore, because you believe in doing everything with passion or not at all. The only thing you’ve ever half assed were the relationships that led up to me. Because somebody knew that you’d need to spend all of your energy on a marriage that felt like the safest place on earth.
I bet you’re tall and humble and never take a day for granted. You’ve probably dealt with a lot of stupid, ridiculous, shit….but at the end of the day you’ll kiss me goodnight…on the extra pillows that are no longer stiff, because I fluff them with anger when we fight. After all, I bet you’re not perfect.
I bet you snore, make decisions quickly and get cranky when your team loses. But above all…
I bet I love you.