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Dear Diary

Here’s a mantra I wrote for myself because sometimes I feel like everything is a catastrophe and nothing is going to work out, and that I’m going to be poor forever. I wrote it in the style of one of those gross wooden boards hung in someone’s kitchen that says something along the lines of “Dance as if no one is watching.” You’re welcome.

Unapologetically do what you love

Not being perfect makes you more interesting

Floss your teeth

Don’t do things that make you feel like shit

Say NO when you want to

Say NO when you want to say yes, but you’re broke as fuck

Don’t beat yourself up for making mistakes – just learn from them and move on

Travel as much as humanly possible

GO OUTSIDE

A lot of the things you’re afraid of aren’t real

Anxiety is a jag-weed and it’s the one saying mean things about you

Despite what you think, you really like working out

You’re still learning, give yourself a break

But push hard to make time for honing your craft

Sleeping 12 hours a day is PROBABLY not normal – unless you are sick

Do what makes you happy, not what you think should make you happy

You like to read – it’s okay to do that more often

You don’t like to watch T.V. and that’s alright,

Soon enough no one will give a shit about Game of Thrones

Pet all the animals

Wear sunscreen

Everything is going to be okay

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aftercollegelife comedy fitness food health lifestyle medicine Uncategorized

Nature’s Medicine

I saw a naturopath, and I have to be honest, I don’t think I’m going to go back again. I just didn’t like the way she made me feel. Like, don’t tell me i’m an alcoholic and have diabetes and too much copper in my blood. It’s rude.

Apart from these diagnoses, she proceeded to give me advice about not drinking so much, by diluting my wine with tap water. This woman looked like she takes an IV of homemade kombucha and gets nourishment from correctly guessing the color of your chakra.

She then asked me about my relationship with my parents, and asked me if I ever thought about ending my own life. The answer at that moment, was a big fat YES.

She also gave me a reflex test. Which I guess is pretty standard, but she hit me with the mallet and I jump back in pain, and look at her shocked. She smiles, you guys, the smile of someone who spends their free time floating around as an orb of light in another dimension, and she says, “I know, you probably weren’t expecting that.”

No, bitch. I know how reflexes work. I frankly would be more shocked if my leg didn’t have a reaction. That would most likely be something we would need to address. The reason I am so up in arms right now is because I JUST told you 3 minutes ago that I had surgery on that knee because it was broken into four different pieces. I would appreciate it if you didn’t HIT IT WITH A FUCKING MALLET.

So the reason I go in is to get a food allergy test, to confirm my suspicion that I’m allergic to gluten. And I know, I know,  gluten is this huge blown up thing and half the people that say they’re allergic to gluten are really just ex-south beach dieters, but my situation is a little different.

I have a bite of toast and then immediately shit my pants. Sometimes even looking a bowl of cereal will set me off. I once had a boyfriend cut me out of a pair of shorts because I couldn’t get them off fast enough…..we are no longer seeing each other.

So I thought…maybe I should get that checked out.

After proving that I am in fact, not a zombie, and my legs do move after being hit with a hammer, I proceed to get my blood drawn by the designated phlebotomist.

Now, I’m not squeamish about needles. I in fact find it interesting that someone’s entire job in the medical profession is to take the life blood of another human being and put it into tubes. It seems counter-intuitive, really.

But you guys, this monster, took 6 vials of my blood. 6!

I see my entire life replay in these moments. I see me as a baby, me getting ready for prom, getting my college degree, and I start to close my eyes and accept that death is near, and it is inevitable.

But then I see this large ball of light that is coming towards me, but it’s just my doctor in her natural form. She slaps me on my broken leg and hands me a prescription for 16 different supplements she recommends for my copper blood.

I try to shake off an hour’s worth of traumatic experience after traumatic experience so I can walk out of there without these dementors knowing I lost my cool.
I get the results back the next week, and it turns out I’m allergic to corn and cinnamon.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

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advice aftercollegelife comedy fitness friendship hobbies lifestyle pdx self help Uncategorized

Peaks

anigif_original-grid-image-23668-1422851189-20.gif

Do you guys ever wake up and think what the hell happened? I don’t just mean after a weekend bender or  this year’s election, but like an overarching theme of what-the-fuck?

I turned 26 this year and I feel like the difference between what my body does now and what it did 3 years ago is striking. Honestly, I feel a little betrayed. Someone told me once that as soon as I turn 25 everything would change. My metabolism, my alcohol tolerance, my interests, and my skin texture. My skin texture?! That’s where I draw the line, I mean, honestly.

I went from always having my hair done to using my kitchen shears to trim my bangs. The dresses and heels were replaced with a Columbia Outlet fleece and high-rise leggings. I own one $60 bra that I wear everyday, and a bunch of free volunteer shirts from my last job. I legitimately need 10 hours of sleep per day, accompanied by 2 cups of coffee with non-dairy creamer, because even lactose is an enemy to me now.

At first this was a HUGE issue for me. I felt like I had peaked and that my world as I knew it was crashing down. I’m not the young, hot girl anymore (if I ever was), now I’m just the girl who has peanut-butter on her flannel.

I don’t venture outside my home on weekend evenings because I refuse to pay a cover, I wouldn’t dare spend $13 on a cocktail and my size 4 dresses fit me about as well as a sausage casing.

This shit used to get me down, hard. It still does from time to time, but my priorities have changed. I can’t look to the past and think about how great things were because really, every year has gotten better and better for me, even if I haven’t touched a curling iron in months. I feel more authentic to myself. I used to feel so lost because I didn’t feel like I had hobbies (unless you count puking and rallying as a hobby). But really I was just trying to do what I thought happy people did, instead of doing what actually makes me happy.

Now I do ridiculous at-home workouts where I kick and punch at nothing. I listen to comedy podcasts at work and laugh out loud to myself at my desk. I throw on 90’s Pop Radio in the kitchen and sing to Ja Rule while making vegan nachos. I get onstage with a bunch of random people and play pretend. I call my friends and leave them awkward voicemails and tell them how much I love them. I text my boyfriend pictures of dogs. I sit in my bed at 9:30 p.m. with the lights off and talk about myself on the internet.

Do I sometimes crave adventure and a break from the monotony of my 9-5? Sure. Do I sometimes want to flat-iron my 5 pounds of hair and put on some lipstick. You bet your ass I do. But comparison is the thief of joy, dear readers. So when you find yourself looking at Instagram of people vacationing in Europe, or even comparing your more domestic life for one that was filled with drop shots and sleepovers on friend’s couches. Quit that shit. Remember the good times for what they were, but focus on making these times your best. Your happiest. And doing whatever the fuck that is.

Now excuse me while I go Pinterest pictures of Bernese Mountain Dogs.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

 

 

 

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advice aftercollegelife comedy friendship lifestyle self help Uncategorized women

Blood ocean 

man i feel like a woman.gif

The title of this post is what my ex-boyfriend used to call my period.

Having a period is a very normal, relatable female experience. Similar to liking chocolate, having your first kiss, and crying at the end of Titanic.

Based on these references, you see, I’ve never really felt female. Not that I’ve felt male, which is totally acceptable, (or at least it will be until that oversized Cheeto of a man becomes president and takes away our fundamental human rights.) I mean that I have always felt an equal longing and detachment from “women.”

I don’t like chocolate, I don’t find Brad Pitt attractive, and I stopped watching Titanic after they had sex in the car. Don’t worry, thanks to 20 years of spoilers, I’ve figured out what happens at the end.

I’ve considered myself, being raised as an only child by a man in his 30’s, as some some of mutant hybrid. An X-man, or woman if you will.

I don’t like sports, but I also don’t get a craving for ice-cream. I don’t care for driving, but I also can’t relate to the sensation women talk about when they take off their bra at the end of the day. My first kiss was when I was 7 as a double-dog dare. There were no fireworks, but I do remember he tasted like nachos.

I have a B-34 bra size which means if I didn’t have an aversion to nipping, I could not wear a “boob carriage” and get away with it. I have an IUD which means I don’t get the monthly visit from Aunt Rose. I barely even know what a vagina looks like you guys. 

But I do still feel what it means to be a woman. Being a woman means when you walk into the grocery store in sweatpants and no makeup, and a bun, and you smile at people, no one smiles back. But when you walk into a Plaid Pantry with curled hair and red lipstick on, people open the door for you. When you ask for a pack of Camel Crushes they say, “How could I say no to such a pretty face.” When you forget mascara people ask you if you aren’t feeling so well. When you wear heels, other women stare at you, while men offer to carry your things, or at least stare at your ass when they think you aren’t looking.

Being a woman means getting told to “smile.” Being a woman means never feeling like you are good enough. Being a woman means feeling on top of the world when you are blonde and skinny and young. People say, “Oh, I like her, she’s cute.” or “Oh, you are so skinny and you have such long legs, those will help you when you get older. Lucky you.” Lucky me. I guess.

But also being a woman means this:

It means getting a college degree while working 46 hours a week. It means paying rent, utilities and medical bills while trying to balance a social life and a fulfilling hobby. It means worrying that people will talk shit about you, and then finding the people that will never talk shit about you and loving them so much it hurts. It means getting heartbroken and picking up the pieces with self-help books and red wine and lots and LOTS of texts to your friends back home. It means waking up one day realizing you are 30 lbs heavier than you would ever image yourself being, and reconciling with the fact that that does not define your worth. It means having 3 interviews at your dream company and not getting a call back the following business week. It means finally quitting your dead-end job after years of applications, networking and LinkedIn profile updating. It means saying yes when you want to say yes, and saying no when you want to say no. Even when it feels like you should because you really feel like you should be social, and you’re worried you’re going to come off as a flake, and you haven’t gone out all week but you just really DON’T FEEL LIKE PUTTING PANTS ON. Really, being a woman means whatever the fuck your experience is being you. Not some 60 Minute special on Millennial Moms. Not some Reddit meme about being an overly-attached girlfriend. You are a woman, whether or not you get a Brazilian wax once a month (which holy shit hurts so bad oh my Jesus H. Christ, hold onto your labias) or you haven’t haven’t shaved your legs in 5 months. I’ve personally done both.

Yes, sometimes being a woman feels like you will never be good enough. But you are enough. And I know that for certain, because as a woman, I am always right.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

 

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Dumb Blonde

Hi friends,

Sorry I haven’t posted more. I’ve been going through a thing clinical psychologists like to call “seasonal depression,” Which when you have depression already is called “depression depression.” Or “depression squared. ” Or “I just ate a wheel of brie and am watching a movie about baseball to try and make myself cry syndrome.”

I have been so in my own head and down on myself lately, which is dumb as fuck. Thanks to anxiety, I have this constant feeling like I’m doing enough to improve my life and my bod, and that I’ll never be happy, and that I’m getting old, and that soon I will face my eventually mortality and what will I have to show for myself…..and you get the picture. I can’t let myself be happy or celebrate an accomplishment for a god damn second before rattling off all the negative side effects of whatever positive or awesome thing i’m celebrating.

Even though I’ve made tons of strides in the right direction, sometimes I just don’t feel good about the life that I’m living or the person that I am. I spend a lot of time comparing myself to others and I have an Instagram feed full of successful comedians, actresses and models. A lot of my 20’s so far has been spent thinking I’m not good enough or pretty enough or skinny enough. (Thanks patriarchy.)

I beat myself up every time I skip the gym, every time I ignore plans to stay home and clean the kitchen and study the words to the Willennium album instead.  I beat myself up because I feel like I should be further along in my career path, in my relationships, and my savings account. I beat myself up for not taking advantage of my days off better. I LITERALLY beat myself up because I don’t think I have enough fun. How is that even a thing? 

But here’s the problem dear readers: feeling shitty is exhausting. Feeling like you are doing things wrong, and feeling like you aren’t enough sucks the big one. Now that I’m 26 it’s time to get over the quarter-life crisis and just MOVE ON ALREADY.

How,  you ask? By recognizing that my authentic self and lifestyle is going to look different than others based on my own set of experiences, wants and needs. Accepting that, and GETTING THE FUCK OVER IT ALREADY. Also, allowing myself to be proud of myself when credit is due.

Sometimes Instead of hiking and brunching like the majority of Instagram, I like to lay in bed and do needlepoint or look at pictures of food on the internet. I pronounce words incorrectly and I get stuck to chairs. I get lost often. Even with a GPS. Even in my home town.

I like puppies and bunnies and being nice to people, and I’m so over feeling embarrassed or stupid for who I am. 

Sometimes I’m hard on myself because I feel like a ditz and I think that’s all people think of me. Just a blonde girl who likes makeup and puppies and can’t read a map.

But I also like a whole bunch of other things! Like genetics and European history and foreign language and shit. I’m diving head-first into the world of improv which I’m more in love with than anything else in the world (except 90’s Leo, to whom I will always be faithful) and I don’t even eat noodles anymore. I DON’T EVEN EAT NOODLES ANYMORE YOU GUYS. I should be praising myself every god damn day that I don’t eat Lunchables so basically I treat my body like a fucking temple now compared to my turkey and mayonnaise sandwich eating days of yore. 

So here’s the deal, here’s the advice that I would give myself if I ever fucking listened:

Don’t compare yourself to others, laugh at your “flaws”, and know that they make you an authentic, relatable, beautiful human being, and don’t be afraid to like what you like and give yourself some fucking credit every once and awhile.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

paris-nicole-22

 

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Tammy

aunt-gail

Compared to my early 20’s where I wore little black dresses and red lipstick everyday, my mid-20’s is  all about leggings with a hole in the thigh and a sweater long enough to cover said hole. I work behind a computer and I bike to to work, so I spend most of my time in sports bras and soft fabrics.

I’ve gotten so far away from the version of myself that I used to know, that I came up with a name for my dumpy new alter-ego. It’s Tammy.

Think about what I just said. I have a DUMPY ALTER-EGO NAMED TAMMY. What even is that in terms of something someone says?

This all boils down to one question: How the hell do I have a boyfriend?

You heard me right. I have a DUMPY ALTER EGO and have been managing to see someone romantically for about the past 6 months. Let’s explore this further……

Reasons why I am baffled and extremely fortunate to have male companionship:

  1. Yesterday as a 26 year old woman, I learned how to fold a box so that the lid stays shut.
  2. I strongly believe that if you wear leggings, it’s okay to sleep in them and wear them out the next day, so long as you change your underwear.
  3. I don’t floss.
  4. I have hit 5 parked cars with my car total.
  5. I am the messiest eater. My hand eye coordination is for shit. 40% of all tortilla chips end up on the table in front of me, on the floor, or in my circle scarves.
  6. I talk so loud that I went to an audiologist to sort out my hearing problem, only to find out that I don’t have a hearing problem, I just really like shouting.
  7. I cry at every movie I see, and get popcorn down my shirt at every movie I see.
  8. I was born and raised in Eugene, OR and my parents bought me a GPS on my 18th birthday so I would “stop getting so lost all the time.”

I used to beat myself up a lot for a lot of things, and it is still a habit I’m trying to break. I would give myself the hardest time when I felt “Disty” or “Stupid”.  I wanted so bad to be the chill, cool girl, who knows how to work on cars and pronounce words correctly. A self-sufficient bad ass, with the chic, bohemian vibe of Serena Van der Woodsen. But that’s just NOT ME.

I care a lot about things. I like reading 1940’s mystery novels and talking in an vaudeville accent. I like staying in and doing needlepoint and wearing sweatpants. I spill coffee down my front a lot, and once a week my dress is on backwards. BUT I AM FUCKING COOL.

The way I see it, is no matter what, you have to love yourself, laugh at the wack ass shit you do, and enjoy the things you enjoy. Don’t be ashamed or shit on yourself for not being or acting the way you feel you need to based on comparing yourself to others.

Once you start loving yourself and stop the act of trying to be someone else, that’s when the magic happens.

XOXO,

Tammy

 

 

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The Daily Grind

office stock photo

I’ve been going through this phase, where I desperately want to quit my job and be a cartoon.

Don’t worry, I’m not referring to a long-term acid trip where I start to only see in two dimension. I’m referring to being the voice of an animated character for a living, but it’s really a little column A, a little column B.

The cartoon thing may or may not be a phase, the quitting the job thing has been pretty concrete since the day I started and reinforced by  the multiple panic attacks I’ve had in the communal restroom since.

I’m over-worked, under-paid, and a homeless person punched me in the arm on the walk to work today.

The only thing currently keeping me from walking out are the following insecurities:

  1. I have seen the way unemployed people live their life and it is admirable and terrifying. I’m pretty confident top-ramen isn’t gluten free, so I have to have another job lined up. Keeping a job I hate VS a diet of russet potatoes is pretty much what it boils down to. (See what I did there?!)
  2. I go back and forth between wanting a lot of money and security, and wanting to quit my job and work at the coffee shop across the street from my house so I can have the emotional capacity to write, play, create etc.

I just want to spent my days cooped up with a bunch of hilarious people, recording the weirdest possible sounds my voice can make.

So  how do I do both? How do I pursue my dream of comedy, and still be able to pay my rent? Can I make a decent salary with PTO, 401K and dental while also knowing that i’m advancing in the world of improv, comedy writing and cartoonery, or do I have to risk everything and join the masses of blonde waitresses in Los Angeles who are waiting for their big break?

I don’t want to be just a marketing person at a company. Yesterday at improv class I got to be a down-on-her-luck  lunch lady named Ezmarelda, and then 10 minutes later I got to be a suit-hating Dead Head by the name of Chonky Fellow.

I’m legitimately too weird for this corporate, desk job shit.

I just want to find my place in the universe. Some people were born to be a writer, or a dancer, or an open-heart surgeon, but I finally found out at 26 that everything I enjoy (writing, people, psychology, faking accents, having the spotlight on ME) boils down to some sort of comedy career.

I don’t know quite how I’m going to swing it yet, or when it’s going to happen for me, or even what the hell I’m doing right now, but I find comfort in the fact that I finally know what I should be doing with my life, even if I don’t know the how quite yet.

I’ll leave you, dear readers, with a quote that I think may be comforting no matter what your aspirations are:

“I hope you will not give up. As in all of the arts, fortune follows the persistent much more than the merely talented.” – The Definitive Guide to an Unpredictable Career in Comedy

Also, I don’t feel great knowing that the only funny thing in a blog dedicated to how I want to be a comedian was the potato joke. I’m sorry about that guys.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

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Karaoke Kaylee 

karaoke

If any of you know me, or have even read a blog or two of mine, you would know that I’m riddled with self-doubt and a raging case of body dismorphoc disorder. Instead of being a confident, chill person, I’m always thinking about how to do that, and what that looks like, and oh shit have I been talking too loud? Did I just cut that person off? Am I sweating? Oh fuck  oh fuck.

Needless to say I’ve been working with a therapist for the past two years trying to figure out how to be in the moment and tell those 2,000 simultaneous self-critical thoughts to STFU.

Could you imagine how wonderful it would be to just sit down and have a beer with your friends and enjoy their company instead of thinking, “Fuck I have to stay here until midnight because that’s when my direct deposit comes through, and I have to be better at budgeting which means I shouldn’t be doing this exact thing right now…..” You catch my drift. Not being in the moment is a total drag.

Some people say that meditation helps with being in the moment, but for people with anxiety, it just gives you more time to be in your own head. I’ve found that physical activity is the best bet for keeping my crazy head distracted. “See the ball, go get it! Go get the ball!”

Another place that I apparently shine and allow my authentic self to interact with the world is when I do karaoke. I don’t really know why, because I have a shit singing voice, but maybe that’s the thing. It’s the one time where I’m not trying to be perfect. Be the perfect friend, have the perfect body, be the funniest girl in the room, the list goes on.

I’m just there to watch the words on the screen, hold the mic up to my face, and belt out the words to “Oops I Did it Again” in front of a bunch of strangers that I don’t give a shit about, and a few friends that I give a lot of shits about and who are there cheering me on.

Kaylee: Where did this laissez–faire attitude come from? And you only knew half the words to “Semi-Charmed Life”, You’ve never known all the words, I don’t know why you would pick that song, and have you been smoking more? Your voice sounds like a bus driver.

Karaoke Kaylee: Yeah, but the words I did know were AWESOME. And don’t get on me about this quitting smoking thing again, not tonight man, I’m chill as fuck right now. Also, stop talking to me, I’m trying to read the crowd and figure out if they would be more into”Getting Jiggy With it” or “Welcome to Miami.”

Kaylee: Are you seriously going to sing again? You did it once, and it was rocky. Remember when you tripped over the mic stand? Maybe you should just sit down, drink five more ciders and go home and write in your diary about how you need to get a better handle on your life.

Karaoke Kaylee: Maybe I’ll drink five more ciders, and maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ve already had five ciders! It’s none of your business. But I’m certainly not going home to write lists on how to be a better version of myself again. That shit is B-O-R-I-N-G. Besides, those middle-aged elementary school teachers on summer vacation drinking the Mike’s Hard Berry? Those bitches love me. They are pretty much demanding an encore. Isn’t that right ladies?!

I think you catch my drift. Now the trick is, how to be Karaoke Kaylee all the time?

Well guys, you are going to have to buy the book, because I’m not giving away all my secrets for free. I’ve paid a pretty penny, and spent a lot of years at the shrink for this knowledge, so it’s going to cost you. Also, I may or may not be still trying to figure the answer to that question out myself, but I think I’m off to a pretty good start. It’s what my therapist would call a “breakthrough.”

Also, maybe I’ll write a book. < see that confidence?!

XOXO,

Karaoke Kaylee

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aftercollegelife comedy hobbies lifestyle pacific northwest pdx self help Uncategorized

All the Small Things

blink 182There’s something about spending  82 days in a leg brace and 6 months in physical therapy that really puts things in perspective.

I think it’s ingrained in the human condition, something about always having to search for better resources as a Neanderthal or some shit, where we can’t just chill out and reflect on how far we’ve come. How often do any of us really sit down and think, “I can breathe, I can walk, I can even pay my electric bill when I put my mind to it. I’m a decent human being and everything is pretty o.k.”

For me, the answer is never. I’m constantly in a state of mind, where I’m beating the shit out of myself, like frigging Tyler Durden. The internal dialogue ranges from, “Holy shit what am I doing with my life, and why am I not famous already?!” to, “Man, I really should have done a load of laundry last night.” It’s as if the fact that I’m not on SNL and don’t have clean underwear are the the defining characteristics of who I am as a person, and that person is lame with a capital L.

Well I’m over it, and am going to sincerely do my best moving forward to not be so hard on myself, which is a hefty effing task if you know anything about me. I can’t even take naps because I feel like I’m wasting valuable time that I could be running laps or dusting something.

I think we should all be more supportive of encouraging people to focus on the positive. Like, have you ever noticed when you ask someone how they are doing, the answer is always “okay,” or ,”good.” How come no one is doing fucking phenomenal? I want someone to be like, “Oh me? I’m doing mighty fine today, because I cooked food for myself and made a credit card payment.” If someone said that to me, I would be like, “That’s fucking awesome Rhonda. You celebrate that girl. You fucking bump that credit score to the heavens and get some essential nutrients today, dawg.”  (*I have no idea how credit cards work.)

We shouldn’t be so worried about sharing our accomplishments in the fear of making others feel bad or less successful or whatever. I’m reading this self-help book right now (because extensive therapy, medication, and extremely supportive friends and family just ISN’T ENOUGH DAMMIT) and it says that when you try to do something positive, especially something that is radically different from your current state, the “universe” is going to try to push back. Like, let’s say that all of a sudden I decide to get off the sauce, quit smoking, and dedicate myself to yoga practice.  I’m going to get all sorts of wack feedback like, “So what, are you not drinking anymore?” “Is that just soda water?” I know this to be true because it’s already happened to me numerous times. Way to encourage my drinking problem guys.

And we are totally all guilty of it. I had a friend that started hitting the gym hard, and she would always post Facebook updates about going to work out and “crushing it” and then take photos of herself looking like a total fox. I remember one night scrolling through my news feed while straddling a plate of Mexican food, and saying, “Fuck that betch. Fuck her right in her six-pack abs.”

But imagine if instead of nay-saying, and shaming people into hiding their accomplishments, we took inspiration from the success of our peers, and used that to fuel our own journeys to fulfillment?

As Taylor Swift so eloquently put it, “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”

I think whether it’s your own demon brain thoughts, or someone else tripping on your newly adopted paleo diet, or career change, or WHATEVER,  you got to “shake it off.” and just keep doling out those positive vibes. Share what makes you happy, and celebrate other people for making dope life-decisions.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

 

 

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Games 


Game is something I don’t have. My friends over the years have given the usual advice: Don’t always be the first person to text. Don’t tell them you like them until they tell you first. Don’t always be available all the time. Say you’re busy. I always take this advice in …and then completely ignore it, which is probably why I’ve been ghosted like 2,009 times. 

I’m just at this age where I’m too busy doing cool shit to have the energy to be anything more thought out than who I actually am. 

If that’s coming on too strong, talking about unpopular subjects, being over enthusiastic or even the exact opposite at times, that’s just me. Sorry bout it. 

The thing about games is you can’t play them forever. Like how long do you keep it up for? When is it finally appropriate to be like, look, I know I’ve been playing it cool and ignoring the fact that you don’t know how to recycle glass, but my medical record states “neurotic,” the strongest feeling I have towards children is indifference, and I smoke methol cigarettes everytime I have more than 2 glasses of wine. Take it or leave it, fuck boy. 

I just feel like there is this conflicting message out there for young women that you need to “be yourself,” while also catering to a timeline that makes your  partner more comfortable, that makes you more appealing, less needy. Be yourself girl… but be a little less available next Tuesday, it makes you look codependent.  Guys hattttteee that. Also consider highlights.

I blame magazines mostly. My desire to be a “professional” writer  died  when I read a Cosmo article that featured the tragedy of bulimia, one girls survival story, and then the next page recommended that if you really want a guy to like you, you have to please him sexually all the time, and don’t forget to rub icecubes on your nipples and tie a ponytail holder around his shaft. Like, what the hell guys? American journalism at is fineist. They didn’t even site their sources, like, it’s not as if Roger from Sacramento was quoted, “yeah, my lady tied up my genitals like a messy bun and I was wicked aroused!” I think that idea was just a wild hair up someone’s ass and a severe lack of editing.

So what?! I say if you are free next Tuesday and you have a love interest, ask them to hang out if you want to. If you’re thinking about them, send them a text. Do exactly what you want whenever the frigging heck you want, and if you don’t get a positive response back, that person is maybe just less dope than you originally thought. 

This is coming from someone who romanticizes everything, so I get it. It sucks when the cute, indie  bartender doesn’t respond to your friend request, but I have never been happier being and saying whatever I want, and being 100% authentic instead of fretting over every text message in a “I should have, could have” fashion. 

Sometimes I say weird shit. Let’s roll with it. 

Anyway this PSA wasn’t really sparked by anything in particular, I’m just thinking about stuff I used to stress about that I feel a lot better not stressing about and thought it might be helpful to share.

As a side note, probably don’t share your medical records.