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comedy dogs friendship lifestyle

Nice guy

 

7libra

I feel like sometimes people think that I have it easy because I’m a kind, sensitive butterfly who wants to improve humanity and pet puppies and free Tibet. But being nice to others, although it is quite easy for me to do, can be fucking exhausting.

Here’s why:

The opposite of resting bitch face can get you in just as much trouble.

Smiling at people is supposed to be a simple gesture to make the world a better place or whatever, but I’ve found smiling at people can also lead to a 30 minute long conversation with a homeless man who wants to play you a song he wrote, and get advice on how he should color his hair. I’ve legitimately been late to work because I can’t get away from conversations with people quick enough. Especially the people at Trader Joe’s. If you’ve ever been to a Trader Joe’s you must know what I’m taking about. The overly cheery cashier that wants to know way too much about you, for someone ringing up your toiletries. She asks you what you are planning on doing with your four bottles of $3 wine and your block of cheese. “Well….I just got done at the gym, so I figured I would drink back the calories I sweated out, watch some Netflix. Maybe have a good cry. I haven’t cried in awhile you know? Sometimes it just feels good to get it all out.” Do you remember the movie Liar Liar with Jim Carrey? All of my human interactions are like that. I get asked a question, and have the terrible compulsion to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, plus every single one of my feelings. 

Creeping people out with compliments 

I’M SORRY that I like the texture of your skin, but I thought it would be nice if you knew. You have good face and neck skin. How is that my fault? No…don’t run. Don’t run away. Everyone’s looking now. God dammit.

Not getting the same courtesy back 

When I stop for you at a crosswalk – which I always will. I need you to lift your frigging hand up and give me a “Thank You.” I’m not obligated to stop for you. If I had a mean bone in my body or enough horsepower in my mom’s borrowed suburban I could mow you down if I wanted. I also get honked at a lot because I let people merge all the time. I’ll be like, “oh you have a dog in the car, you can go.” “Oh you have a nice bumper sticker about equality, you can go.” BUT YOU FUCKING WAVE TO ME GOD DAMMIT. APPRECIATE ME!”

Saying Sorry 

I’m always sorry. If I don’t text you back right away, if I am in the way of the silverware drawer if I accidentally bump into you. But here’s the thing. You say sorry back! If I step on your foot and it’s my fault, You say sorry, I say sorry, WE BOTH SAY SORRY! We should both be equally sorry for being in each other’s personal space which should be very precious to both of us. If I forget to pay rent, you say sorry. If I hit you with my car, YOU SAY SORRY!

Over-committing

Sure, I can help you move out of your house. Oh what, it’s my only day off in 15 days? Don’t be silly! I’d be happy to! You need to borrow my car? Sure! Take it for a week. I don’t need to drive anywhere. It has a full tank of gas, and I’ll tell you what pal, give it back to me on empty okay?

Getting dumped 

I’ve definitely been broken up with because of being too nice. I remember one time an ex got mad at me for “not standing up for myself.” I wasn’t standing up for myself because he was yelling at me and I didn’t want to yell back. Screaming hurts my throat, and sitting is more comfortable. Give me a fucking break dude. I think being too nice can also be a turnoff. I get that. But why? Why is it that when you care, you automatically turn into the Velma instead of the Daphne. (Yeah, that’s right, that’s a Scooby Doo reference.) Like,  I’M SORRY I BROUGHT YOU BROWNIES TO WORK, MY FUCKING BAD! Oh, I complimented your mom on her new dress. EXCUSSSSSEEEEE ME! I helped an old lady across the street, so what? Is that not HOT to you? I just think men should automatically get a hard-on when I say please and thank you. Is that too much to ask?

So as you can see, being the nice guy isn’t always a good thing, but I can’t change who I am, so instead, I’m going to keep complimenting people on their face shape/skin, breaking for people walking dogs, and doing color consultations with heroin addicts.

XOXO,

Milky

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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 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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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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dogs hobbies Uncategorized

When people ask what I like to do in my spare time

my job.PNG

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advice aftercollegelife comedy dogs eating fitness friendship hobbies lifestyle pacific northwest pdx self help Uncategorized

B.F.F.s

friendship.gif

I have the most lovely community of men and women as friends. It’s actually insane how many bad ass people are in my life. Sometimes I think about it too much and I start crying my lil eyes out in awe of the sheer luck & fortune I have to know these people. Shit.

But it’s easy to be a hater, man, I get it. It’s so easy to take one look at Insta and be like “oh man, look at this bitch, she has a picture of a smoothie, and then her next three photos are of the beach, a workout selfie, and her pure-bred dog. Fuckkkkk her.” I don’t remember where I found this quote, but I said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” What if instead of feeling miserable about someone’s health journey, because you’re five breadsticks and a bottle of wine down, you celebrate that someone out there is living the life they want. (If you want to hear more about my opinions on this, check out my previous blog “All the Small Things.”)

It’s a crazy concept, but think about it this way: I now have a few good friends that I was super envious of because they were wicked pretty, super motivated and seemed to be kicking the world right in the crotch. So I didn’t talk to them, I just stalked them on Facebook and followed their posts and was like, “They are so cool. I wish I could be cool….and fuck they just went to Italy. The closest I’ll get to Italy is this bowl of god damn frozen raviolis.”

But if you stop doing that comparison shit, and realize that everyone is a real person with struggles and goals, you can open yourself up to the same opportunities just by reaching out and saying, “Hey, I like Harry Potter, you like Harry Potter, let’s hang out and kill at bottle of merlot.” What’s the worst that can happen? I also literally made a friend with that tag line, so feel free to steal it.

How To Make Friends (Quarter-Life Crisis Edition):

1) Find Common Ground.

  • “You like trashy tv shows? Oh shit, did you see the last episode of Dance Moms?! So. Much. Drama.”
  • “Hey, do you hate this job, because I sure do! What parts about it do you hate the most? Would you like to discuss this over some alcohol?”
  • “Hey there, I see that you have a dog. I loveeeeeee dogs. What is your dogs name? How old is he? Where did you get him? Did you get him when he was a puppy? Does he get along well with other dogs? Can I pet him? Oh shit, I’m already petting him. I got too excited I forgot to ask permission. He seems very friendly.”

2) No One Hates Being Complimented.

  • Imagine this, your new coworker shows up wearing an outfit that looks like it is straight out of an Anthopologie window display. You say, “I love that jumper! Where did you get it?” She looks you right in the eye, flips you the bird, and walks back to her desk in silence.
  • If that actually happens you should try even harder to be friends with this person, because they just won the Hard-as-Fuck Award, and it’s always good to have a sassy lil’ raincloud in your wolf pack to mix things up a bit. Take April Ludgate for example.

3) Don’t be an Asshole.

  • Trust me on this one. This means don’t talk shit about other people just to get on someone’s good side. Take it from someone who worked in the salon industry for 5 years. That shit will always come back to bite you in the ass.
  • Besides being able to open your own juice box now, things haven’t changed much since elementary school. Someone who hates someone today, might end up having a change of heart and loving them tomorrow, and THEY WILL tell them all the shit you said about them.
  • Treat people with common courtesy. Try and give notice if you need to cancel plans. If you aren’t feeling up to a night on the town, explain why and try to set something up for another time. Communicating with people = good. Ignoring texts and blowing people off = Asshole with a capital H.

As my beautiful improv coach fairy once said, “You have to be vulnerable in order to allow yourself to have authentic relationships. It’s one of the scariest and easiest things to do, but it’s so important.”

So, my magestic sea lions, go out into the wide ocean of friendship and swim around. Don’t let comparison be the thief of your joy. Be open to new experiences. And above all, love yourself and DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE.

XOXO,

The Weekday Hangover

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

Blues

lana-del-rey-summertime-sadness-monseiur-adi-remix-official

I’m starting to understand what Lana Ray was all up our asses about that Summer Time Sadness. I’ve been a bit of a funk lately and I’m starting to think maybe there’s something deeper going on here than being depressed about my  naked body splayed out in front of the air conditioner thinking, “Dear god it’s bikini season and I’M NOT READY.”

Perhaps Summer is a time to clean house (mentally and physically) and it can be kind of sad to realize you hibernated the whole winter and didn’t really save any money, or get any thinner or get a boyfriend, so your parents can stop assuming your gay with your roommate/s.

The sunshine is here and it’s like a slap in the face that you’re alive and things are amazing, but what the hell have you been doing for half the year? What are you going to do about it? How the fuck are we possibly going to get a decent ass in time for river float season, and oh my god it’s almost my birthday again and I’m getting so olddddddd.

But now. really now, for reals-reals we are doing it. We are going to be a better person from now on and create allowances, and learn self discipline and not be such an emotional basket-case.

I’m really bad at not letting myself have what I want. If I want to go camping, I will get in the car and go and spend all my money on $7 IPA’s and grass-fed hot dogs and the best condiments money can buy. Chipotle flavored mayonnaise? You would be a stupid idiot to think you don’t need that in the wilderness. I thought about wanting a hammock for 5 minutes yesterday before ordering one online. I am essentially the best boyfriend to myself ever, (Which is why I don’t need one okay Aunt Cheryl?! God. Lay off!)

Summer is an especially hard time for my impulses. Margaritas at 6 p.m. on a Monday? Um, yes. I’ll take 4 please.

Formulating positive solutions based on the present and what I can do right now is something I strive for. It’s all about that balance between letting myself do whatever I want, and being so hard on myself that I’m incapable of feeling happiness. Making it to the gym and also fitting in some homemade margs at the end of the week. Skipping a couple nights out to afford my improv classes. etc. etc.

It’s not something that comes to me easy. I can be having the best time in the world with my best friends and instead of enjoying it, and being in the moment. I’m thinking about how sad it will be when we get older and one of us dies. Really, I think about my friends and family dying all the time. Sorry guys.

Being morbid comes easier to me sometimes than being a super-chill  girl who like, totally loves life, and bright colors, and disc golf and shit. And being hard on myself is way easier than being proud of myself. I could be on the beach with a drink in my hand and not be able to get my mind off when I’m ever going to be able to have the money or the means to do something that fun ever again.

But  this behavior isn’t doing anyone any good. It’s time to start feeling decent about enjoying today. Right now.

Sometimes it’s hard to take a breath and tell myself that I’m only 25 and everything is really going to be okay. And this moment is okay. And this time in my life is okay. And the fact that I forgot to put on deodorant is maybe okay, as long as I don’t get too close to anyone on the MAX.

Deep breaths, baby steps, cheesy positive mantras, a decent tan, and blended alcoholic beverages with tiny umbrellas. This is my Summer Time M.O.  That and getting a killer set of abs. Also I apologize for not having humor be the forefront of this post, but not all weekday hangovers are going to be a walk in the park. Amiright ladies?!

Plus, if anyone else is feeling a little blue, message me, call new, comment on my post. I’m totally hear to commiserate with you and hear you out. Us humans haves to support each other in this bat-shit world where it is 90 degrees in April, so I’m calling it Summer.

Xoxo,

TWH

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aftercollegelife comedy lifestyle pacific northwest pdx

The Offspring 

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If anyone else is a 90’s, late 80’s child like myself, I’m sure you’re noticing the insanely high percentage of your graduating class that have been blasting out children lately.

That shit is all over Facebook, and while I feel like the normal reaction should be something along the lines of “aw cute,” and “good for them,” I find myself repulsed by the thought of growing another human inside me. Not to mention those wack ass comparisons that people share like, “my fetus that I’m feeding through my inside tubes is currently the size of a butternut squash.” Fucking gross. Thanks for ruining most fruits and vegetables for me preggos.

Example here:

Week 16 (3) - with type added 3.jpg

The most frustrating thing about having an aversion to creating a new life form is that people always tell me, “Oh, you will want one some day.” Or worse, “When you meet the right person you will want to give him the gift of children.” No way! If I meet the love of my life, I’ll want to give him a nice watch, a trip to the Bahamas, maybe an old fashioned every once in awhile, if you know what I’m talking about ladies.

I am 99.9% positive I’m not going to want to grow something inside of me, and then pop it out and hand it over like it’s a god damn toaster strudel.

Here are the reasons why I’m opposed to baby-making:

1) Investing thousands of dollars into something that grows up to hate you. I would rather spend my disposable income on Whole Foods and weed, because it’s never going to slam a door in my face and call me a bitch when I take away its cell phone away.

2) Realizing that you don’t really like it either. Do you know how crushed I would be if my sweet little angel grew up to be a conservative Christian? Like no matter how hard I tried to force my Atheist  and liberal free love ideals on it, it begs me to spend my hard-earned money on sending it to bible camp?

3) The insane responsibility that comes with raising a child. If my microwave didn’t beep every 5 seconds to remind me my frozen burrito was done, I would literally starve to death. Once, I went home for the weekend and on the third day remembered that I had a rabbit, and that someone should probably feed it while I was away. I most likely shouldn’t be responsible for a little human’s well being.

4) My shitty DNA. I’m sure by reading a number of my posts you can probably tell that I’m riddled with anxiety, depression, and a terrible body image. Why on earth would I want to pass on this complex to a poor, unsuspecting child? If I had a kid, it would come home from Kindergarten sobbing because it isn’t as good at finger painting as the other kids, and because the teacher didn’t value its opinion that duck,duck, goose is an extremely alienating recess activity.

All of these above points, combined with the fact that I don’t see any near future that involves a life partner, are the reasons why kids are probably not in the stars for this old gal. And that’s okay. I realize this post is probably extremely offensive to those of you who have children, but I just want my decision to not have kids to be just as socially acceptable as your decision to have them. Plus, all my blogs are offensive so you know, you better get used to it.

Seriously though, props to you ladies and gentleman that can welcome little kiddos into the world. Just because I don’t want to do it, doesn’t mean I don’t respect the hell out of you and think your little tike is a god damned miracle of evolution. I will still support you from afar…. while I’m in the Bahamas, eating toaster strudel and giving the love of my life a hand-job.

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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.