Category: aftercollegelife

Categories
aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

A.S.L.

no more hugging

*I bolded the important shit because this is a long post*

Dating in 2016 kinda sucks. 

I mean, let’s be real, I’m out of college and all my friends are in serious relationships or married. They don’t want to wingman me while I take tequila shots at some dive bar down the street from my house, in order to muster up the strength to talk to some guy with a bald spot playing pinball.

I work in a small office with 9 women. Not only is there literally no one straight or single to even flirt with, but even if there was, I think if I worked with someone I dated, it would be a praying mantis situation where we hook up once, and then after 40 hours in the office together I would dismember them. 

This leaves only one alternative. Dating strangers you meet on the Internet. This is literally the worst, because you have no idea what you are getting yourself into. It’s not like you can call references and be like, “Hey, I’m about to go on a date with Jeremy, is he a registered sex offender or currently married?” No. You walk into that shit, date one, with only 3 pictures to go off of, with the hope that they haven’t aged 10 years, gained 50 pounds,or decided to do meth since those snapshots were taken.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wasted Saturday nights with men who are just 100% incompatible with me.

This one time I went to meet this cute guy from Tinder at a bar, and we were both hungry so we ordered some food. He got the tomato soup but didn’t want the grilled cheese. So he just wanted hot tomato liquid with no carb vessel to dip in it. Red fucking flag. But it gets worse. He got the soup and realized there was cheese in it, so he proceeded to SCOOP the melted cheese out of the bowl. He then said, “I don’t hate cheese, I just prefer not to eat it.” Yes. You read that right. This dude when given the option of cheese, chooses to opt out. What. the. ever. loving. fuck. I immediately said that I was ill, pounded my drink and ran to my car.

This is just one example of the mishaps of dating total strangers. I also had one guy who asked me if I’ve ever tried being married, but that’s another story.

So you have to weed through some bad dates to get to the better fish in the sea. Once you find that grade-A tuna, that diamond in the rough, it should be smooth sailing right?

No. This is not the case, dear readers, because even the seemingly good guys, even then 4th or 6th daters will ghost the fuck out of you. No remorse. No questions asked.

What is ghosting? It’s like the equivalent of hitting a car trying to parallel park, and then driving away and parking somewhere else. The only difference is instead of hitting a car, you’re rubbing your junk all over a stranger.

Ghosting is when you spend time with someone, and you usually text back and forth on the regular and/or sleep together, and then all of a sudden you get no response back and you never hear from them again.

This happens a lot in Internet relationships, and in any scenario where the person you are seeing is a little bitch and doesn’t have the common courtesy to let you know it just isn’t working out.

For me it’s like, we are both adults. I met you on Tinder. If you just want to have sex and never talk to me again that’s cool. I assume that’s the usual haps, but don’t hold my hand dude. Don’t like, try to impress me by playing acoustic guitar, because I totally fall for that shit, or tuck my hair back behind my ear or anything else that reminds me how awesome it is to not sleep alone.

In fact, don’t even look me in the eye or use my first name if you aren’t interested in getting to know me for longer than 24 hours. I prefer a strict no big spoon policy when it comes to night-men unless they also plan to be day-men. Do you catch my drift? Am I just being clingy as fuck? Dudes reading this, you are probably thinking, “Bitch you are looking way too far into this shit.” Hear me out here.

How hard is it to do a little PR bullshit and say, “It’s been really great getting to know you, but I don’t think I’m in a good space to be dating.” I just made that shit up and typed it out in 2 seconds. Grow a pair and lie to my face, please.

This post may make my love life seem sad and pathetic, which don’t get me wrong, it totally is, but I am taking one for the team in order to give a PSA to the ladies and gentlemen of the Internet and lay down some sexual ground rules:

  1. If you want to bone down, and bone down only, be honest about it. There’s nothing wrong with telling someone you aren’t looking for a relationship and just want a bit of fun. The thing about this is, now I’m aware of the situation, and can make a decision if that’s something I want to do with you. It’s now not something you trick me into by holding my hand and telling me what a cool girl I am. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me I’m a “cool girl.” Jokes on you guys, because I know I’m not cool. At. All. So I can see right through your act of trying to get in my pants you stupid idiot.
  2. Some of you may say, “Well, I wanted to pursue something, but after a few dates it wasn’t my jam.” That’s totally fine! Shit doesn’t always work out. We are all aware that the world is a cruel place, and we all die alone. Just say it’s not working out for some vague reason (please god don’t be so specific as to point out my annoying habits to my face) and thank the person for their time.  Don’t just snooze those texts because we may think you’re dead at worst, and an asshole at best. It’s also just not  a courteous thing to do to the person who just let you see them naked.

So, to sum it up:  Be honest about your intentions, don’t fake more serious affection if your just looking to knock boots, and  break it off with decency if need be.

Also if you don’t like melted cheese, you’re a freak bitch and should die alone before wasting anyone else’s time. That’s right Brian. You heard me. Don’t ever call me again.

XOXO

Kaylee Noel

Categories
aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Boys and Booze 

new year photo

I once had a coworker, who I love dearly, who watched me in my many stages of figuring life out. I was his receptionist from age 17-23 so he saw a lot of tears, breakups, get-back-together’s, and although he never let me off without a scolding, he would always get me a cup of coffee when I looked “too puffy” on a Saturday morning.

After seeing me boy crazy, heartbroken, and hungover all those years he came to the solid conclusion that I am “allergic to boys and booze.”

At age 21 I was pretty sure he was right, but at age 25 I’m positive that man is secretly a gypsy warning me of some grave danger if I don’t change my ways.

In light of this I’m deciding to turn a new leaf, go off the sauce, take a hiatus, whatever you want to call it, from men and flavored vodka.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them both so much, but isn’t it the old saying if you love something let it go?

It’s going to be hard to knock the habits. I’ll have to start calling the end of the week Friday instead of Wine Friday and Sexy Sunday’s will be a thing of the past. (No, I won’t go into detail about Sexy Sunday’s, I’ll leave that one up to you). Let’s just say now I’ll have Sleep Alone Sundays.

Now my friends won’t be able to vicariously live through me as a single person out in the “big city” (The three blocks of Southeast Portland I spend my time in) and “dating” (having drunk, unprotected sex with strangers I met on the internet).

So why? Why put myself through all the torture of denying myself  the comfort of semi-attractive strangers and a bottle of wine-before-bed rituals?

Well, wouldn’t you like to know you nosy little shits.

Sorry, I’m at the irritable stage where I haven’t smelled men’s deodorant in my hair for over 24 hours. That’s not the only thing missing from my hair either.

Wink wink readers. Wink wink.

 

Categories
aftercollegelife comedy eating lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Summa Summa Time 

Summer is my favorite time of year. I will fight to the death against the shit attitudes of every pale North American who wish the frigid cold of winter upon us as soon as it gets over 70 degrees. I get it, it’s hot, but have they never felt next-day rug rash from a drunken slip and slide session? Have they never assaulted an ice-cream man for not stopping long enough on their street? These are some of the blissful memories that can only happen during the magical months of July and August. Here are the reasons why I love Summer:

1) Boys in Jorts.

jortspen bagely jortscute boy jorts

I’m infatuated with everyone right now. Something about the warm weather reminds me of dating boys and them being adorable, and going on beach trips and shit. My hormones are unstoppable this time of year. I had to tell my roommate to stop wearing her Old Spice deodorant because it makes me too aroused and I keep objectifying the cute guy down the street, who is affectionately known as “the guy with the broken leg and the dog.” He has nice jorts and I’m seriously considering asking him out as soon as he can walk again.

2) BBQ food.

mac salad

Summer is the one time of year you can eat a hotdog and a cheeseburger in the same day and not be judged for it. Also, every salad at a BBQ has mayonnaise in it, and I am 100% down to fuck with that. So here’s what you do: Get a “dollop” (or you know, however you want to portion, you’re an adult) of potato salad, macaroni salad, and egg salad. If you are one of those freaks who doesn’t like their food to touch each other you are not going to like what I’m about to say. I suggest cramming as much of literally everything (especially if you just showed up and not hosting, because free food tastes better) as you can on the plate. No room for utensils? Good! Utensils are for chumps. Use your Lay’s chips as mayo-salad shovels  because this is America, land of the free.

3) It’s My Birthday

imgresimages

Birthdays are the one holiday where you can get gifts, and not have to give anyone else gifts. Yes, I am turning 25 and yes, I still expect presents. If you don’t know what to get me just check my Amazon wish list, because there is nothing more satisfying than looking at shit you could never afford or justify buying for yourself and then unashamedly putting the link on Facebook and emailing it out to all your relatives.

Birthdays, like BBQ’s are another excuse to eat like shit and drink forever. I’m not really one for sweets, but a dear friend of mine promised me a white bread Bologna sandwich with yellow mustard as an homage to a cake. I’ll probably have to get a cake anyway though because if people show up to a birthday party and there is no cake, American culture will shit its pants and Paula Dean will start sending me racist hate mail.

Birthdays are also an excuse to be kind of a dick. Example A) I ate your  fries and drank all your beer while you were in the bathroom because it’s my birthday. Example B) I made out with your brother because it’s my birthday.  Example C) I drank everything and made out with everyone, because I’m old now and I hate everything….and it’s my birthday. Do. Your. Worst.

birthday

4) Nature is happy.

oregon nature

Usually when it’s Spring, winter or fall,the Northwest looks like one big, gray, drizzly shit hole. We Portlanders put up with soggy bike rides and Vitamin D deficiency so that when June rolls around we can take our dogs out to roll around in the grass that is green as fuck and swim in lakes and do other social outdoor activities.

The moral of today’s blog is to not let the haters get you down, or better yet, hate on your haters harder

Again, people who don’t like Summer are most-likely processed-meat circle hating, anti spiked lemonade, non bare-thigh sporting freak shows. . So enjoy your A/C, and your GOT reruns losers, I’ll be getting basic-bitch wasted on sangria, harassing ice-cream men, and hiking off my mayo weight.

Categories
aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle Uncategorized

Bucket List

My coworkers on the drive home from our work event in Seattle decided to go around listing bucket list items. I realized I never really thought about that. Probably because I feel as though I am destined to be immortal due to my witchy powers and as a gift to the future generations.

The only thing I could come up with when everyone said ice bar in Sweden or Paris was that I’ve always wanted to milk a snake. I don’t mean that in like a weird sex way, just I’ve seen Steve Irwin do it and it seemed like a cool thing to do. Harnessing the venom of a rattlesnake just seems kind of bad ass.

I decided I should probably come up with some real life shit before I die and get reborn as a white, male CEO in the 1% as is my destiny:

1) Live in London for at least a year. London is dope as fuck and I want to make out with as many British accented men as possible. I will buy lots of Burberry things with all my money or realistically, steal them from second hand stores and walk around Camden town every day drinking tea and hitting on dudes with my dog Walter.

2) Get a corgi and name him Walter.

3) See a great white shark jump out of the water and eat something. Like a seagull. Preferably a seagull, because seals are adorable French fries of the sea and I get sad when they are chomped all the time by whales and sharks and shit. I would like to view this safely from a large boat or on land. Of course I would want to get a sick video of this moment and share it with the whole internet, become internet famous and get picked up by Discovery channel to search for the next fake monster, like megalodon or some shit.

4) Go to Scotland and visit Loch Ness. Drink a bunch of whiskey, buy one of those cool caps Shepard men wear, herd a sheep while wearing said hat.

5) find true love, or whatever.

Categories
aftercollegelife biking comedy lifestyle

Neighbors

Photo on 2015-04-20 at 22.36

This post will be available in video format as soon as I figure out how to work Imovie, since my Final Cut Pro finally figured out I illegally downloaded it and wants an “authentication” or some bull shit. Anyway, below you will find some words.

I woke up hungover, which for any of you who have ever been hungover, you know it’s not a very good way to wake up.

Work was fine, but slow and I didn’t really want to be there. It was sunny and I was powered by an energy drink and a can of french cut green beans (woo diet!) so I was having a hard time staying focused. Chair circles, and one, and two, and three.

The time comes to ride my bike home and I nearly die from choking on my own sweat while simultaneously dry heaving. I arrived home, ending the worst, thigh-chaffing 15 minutes of my life, parked Gatsby (yes, I named my bike Gatsby) into the rape basement, and come to find a colony of ants decided to move into the kitchen while I was at work. Naturally, I bleach the shit out of them. Fucking free loaders. I then realize the cat has knocked over our glass Ikea shelf where all of our plants hung out on. The plants are strewn all across the floor. Dirt. Is. Everywhere. I start collecting shards of glass using my hands, instead of a dust pan, because that was just the kind of mood I was in.

Low and behold I hear a violent knock on the front door.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

I run to the door covered in sweat, my $40 t-shirt bleach stained, and wielding a handful of glass.

Note that this was not the friendly knock of the pizza delivery man this time friends, oh no. It was Deborah. That old crabapple that was birthed from a demon’s womb back in 1924, who never died and then decided to stop living off sheep’s blood and start feeding on the happiness of her neighboring South East Portland residents.

FUCK.

I answer the door with my non-glass hand.

“What was that?! What fell?!” Her dumpy face exclaimed.

“Our cat was trying to hunt a fly, but he’s not very good at it, and he knocked our shelf down.”

“What kind of shelf was it?!” She’s spitting as she yells.

Wait what? What kind of question is that. I humor her, “It was an Ikea shelf, it was made of glass.” I giggled the pieces in my hand to make a point, hoping she would sympathize with the shotty craftsmanship of  Dutch wholesale furniture.

No dice.

“My light fixture broke! I’m calling the landlord!” She hisses with her snake mouth.

I appologize which for some reason makes her hulk out even more.

“You girls are always stomping around up there. It’s like a circus upstairs! And I know it’s not just you three up there. I see men come and go at all hours of the night. Sometimes it’s like a clown car coming out the front door in the morning.”

Deb must have a thing against carnies, with all these circus references. But hold up. Did Deb just call me a loose woman? Not cool Deb. Not cool.

Now I’m mad. No one is allowed to check out the men I’m trying to sneak out of my room at all hours of the night and call me out on it! Get your own Tinder account Deb! (I actually think she was referring to the guys in our writers room for my comedy show, but either way it’s none of her damn business.)

I run up the stairs and immediately call our landlord Dan. That’s right Deb, I’m telling on you. Take that! Dan reassures me that Deb is in fact a lunatic and might in fact be a demon. He advises me to salt my doors and apologizes for the trouble. I appologize for using him as my therapist and promised I won’t burn this entire complex to the ground to smite her.

Needless to say this was the worst 420 ever, and now I’m off to play “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter on full blast next to vent that leads to her bedroom for a couple hours.

XOXO,

Deborah’s whore-elephant circus loving neighbor