Occupy My Childhood Bedroom

More Ovaltine, Please!

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After living with my parents for a year and being so consumed by loneliness that I once considered getting caught naked by the mailman on purpose, I had accepted that my fate was to become a spinster harpy. I was ready to move into a cave somewhere and settle into my mattress of tabby cats. I resigned myself to the way of the world.

Somewhere along the way, my plans changed. I moved out of my parents’ house and I put on a bra, which, along with my obvious charm and advanced social skills, positioned me to snag a Man Friend—a real keeper.

And now we are living together with nary a cat in sight.

Now, there was no pep talk for living with your S.O. like there was a “don’t show boys your parts” talk before middle school and a “don’t get pregnant from boys” talk before college. No one explains how things work or what to expect from living with boys, mostly because it’s too hard for parents to imagine what happens between their sweet angel spawn and her boyfriend in their pre-marital den of sin. For starters, there is a lot of farting.

So in case you are in a similar situation and need a crash course in cohabitation, here’s what to expect from making the big move.

Editor’s Note: If you are the type of person who grew up saying “fanny” and “toot”, don’t read on. You’ll soon find that, clearly, I wasn’t one of those people. BUTTS AND FARTS AND BUTTS AND FARTS.

1. You will break your vow to never fart in front of your boyfriend, meaning that eventually, farting will replace communicating. You fart when you are mad at each other. You fart when you are overjoyed. You fart before sex. Sometimes, a lot of the time, one of you farts during sex. 

2. You will never know if you are looking at your boyfriend’s pubes, chest hair, armpit hair, beard hair, or hair-hair in the sink. On the other hand, he will be one hundred percent certain the tumbleweed that blows from room to room, consuming all other organisms in its path until it creates a vibrating tumor of Ebola dirt, is most definitely a colossal hair ball from your constantly shedding fur. No vacuum will be sufficient.

3. You will learn to never judge a person for a) how many Doritos he/she consumes in one snack attack or b) having a ring of radioactive [RADIOACTIVE!] neon cheese dust around his/her mouth without noticing or caring. This is a no-judgment zone. 

4. Your boyfriend has more clothes than you do. In fact, he has approximately 86 dry fit tees, and more ties than your dad. YOUR DAD.

5. Peeing is no longer considered a private activity. You don’t remember the last time you took a whiz by yourself. As they say, “My door is always open,” but in this case it’s only the bathroom door, and it’s fucking disgusting, and I’m sorry you all know this about me now.

reaction animated GIF

6. You will come so close to pooping in front of that other person. SO G-DAMN CLOSE. You will think about it. You will do a test run and leave the door open a crack for thirty seconds, then panic thinking he realized and slam it shut. You will let a nugget crown while he is in the shower to see how the vibe is, only to chicken out and suck it back into your distended colon of suffering. You will come just close enough to decide that’s not happening until after he’s at least seen a baby come out of your other hole. He will have to stay with you after that.

7. You will both think it advisable to try (and fail) a juice cleanse one sweltering summer Saturday, and you’ll never speak of what happened. 

8. Your boyfriend sleeps like a burrito. 

9. You might have a chance and unwanted encounter with your boyfriend’s taint. 

10. Your boyfriend might have a chance and unwanted encounter with your taint (that is, if you are of the school of thought that lady taints are a thing). 

LOL @ romance.

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Shabbat No-Home

Some people think Hell is a place in the afterlife reserved for baby touchers and murderers and judgmental shitheads (me) and also anyone who’s ever eaten a Chipotle burrito on the subway.

Those people are wrong. Hell is on earth, and it is the soul-crushing, brain-scrambling process that is the New York City apartment hustle.

If you live in New York, you understand the struggle. You’ve lived the struggle. The struggle is real.

If you don’t live in New York, I couldn’t possibly spew out enough metaphors to convey the vulgarity of the New York apartment search. I would do terrible things—like lick a homeless person’s ankle-deposit-puff—if you told me it meant I wouldn’t have to shop for an apartment. 

But here goes….

I’m taking the plunge and moving in with my S.O. More on that later, but before we do anything else, let’s just take a moment and congratulate me. 


He did most of the financial planning for the search, (If left in my hands, I would end up spending our monies on eight French Bulldogs and a monthly candy delivery subscription), while I went to most of the apartments—because I have a meaningless job I can leave for hours at a time and no one will ever notice. (If you noticed, I’m sorry.)

The first apartment was pretty sweet initially. It had something called space. Also, a shitload of closet room, which basically makes it a poor man’s White House. There was this misplaced front door to the street, which was slightly concerning for murderer/robber/rapist reasons, but still quaint for Manhattan. Things were looking good so far.

The realtor jargon described this unit as a “loft”, so the bedroom was on the second level, accessible via staircase. By staircase, I basically mean a tree house rope ladder that would hardly support my left butt cheek if it had feet. 

When I mastered the gym class rope climb and reached the top, only to smack my head on the five-foot ceiling, everything became clear: this was an apartment for elves.

Fuck you, New York.

On my way out, I gave a silent nod to the Quasimodo who lived next door before heading to the next hell hole.


I really thought I hit the real estate jack pot at the next apartment. It was enormous, in Tribeca, and below our price point. This does not happen.  The application process was tricky, but I was ready to show my boobs to whoever I needed to in order to live there. I skipped all the way back to work to deliver the good news to the boyf, when Google crushed my dreams.


This place was the “Happy” of the Bed Bug registries. It was at the top of the charts, and it would never die. 

Clap along if you feel like a homeless person without a roof. And possibly with bed bugs. *Clap*

I went home, burned my clothes, and cried in the shower for two hours.

Fuck you, New York.

I saw a slew of apartments over the next two weeks. One of them had a beach volleyball court made of cat litter in the living room (to be clear: not actually a volleyball setup, just kitty litter fucking strewn everywhere like the aftermath of a cat orgy). Another one cost more than three of my paychecks combined and was the square footage of my bathroom. This is a humorous thing.

The next apartment was in Brooklyn. This meant our broker was an Orthodox Jewish man (very common in those parts) named Zal.  When we met, I almost wrestled him in effort to shake his hand, but that’s only because I’m an ignorant asshole. Eventually I realized he couldn’t shake my hand because I have a vagina, and I plastered on my shit-eating half grin I get when I do really awkward things…so, just my regular smile.


He showed us an occupied unit, which means you get to view it while the tenants are traipsing away, picking their wedgies and clipping their enormous toe nails and eating canned meats. In this case, we bust in during infant meal time (luckily there was no tit on today’s menu). So that was fun.

In retrospect, it was the gurgling baby and infant memorabilia that tainted the experience. We turned it down, only to quickly realize this place would lend itself perfectly to our Sourpatch-eating existence and come crawling back the next day—checks and souls in hand—to end the misery once and for all.

The next day was a Saturday.


Tumbleweeds were rolling through the streets of Williamsburg as we realized, only after sending sixty texts, that our broker—and the entire Williamsburg real estate and management industry—was out of reach until sundown.

The very anxious, sweaty wait began until the first three stars appeared in the sky. During this time, we became very intrigued by Orthodox Jewish practices. What access to technology does Zal have right now? Will he be shunned if he sneaks a peek at his phone? What if we show up at his door? Would we get brisket by any chance?

Eventually, the Brooklyn sky lit up, our broker called us, and we made our offer.

Oh, and we also signed eight million papers and submitted every classified piece of information that no one else should ever have in their possession. But, I guess if that’s what it means to not be homeless, or live in a hobbit cave or a bedbug wasteland, then we will give our social security numbers to anyone! Shabbat Shalom! Mazel tov!

I’m assuming other cities have much more simple rental systems. For that, I will be forever envious.

Fuck you, New York.

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When I was younger—like before my brain fully developed to a point where I could distinguish right from wrong and what places it’s acceptable to fart/pick your nose or front wedgie, I used to think that I was going to be a stripper. Let’s say this was around third grade. (So, yeah, I guess I was still picking my cotton tacos in third grade, and also that I knew what strippers were.)  I was taking dance classes and I just fucking loved hip rolls—I thought they were the greatest gift God gave our bodies. Obviously PedEggs didn’t exist yet, and clearly I hadn’t been fed enough pizza. Also, I already had boobs and all my shoes had baby click-clack heels, so stripping for a living somehow made sense to me. Some things I should mention: I saw “Showgirls” way before it was age-appropriate. Also, I didn’t know about drugs yet or what a strip club actually was (a cesspool of splooge? Yeah, no idea), and I apparently had missed “S” day on Sesame Street for “Self-Respect”, so I really had no concept about anything in life. I just wanted to shake my newly sprouted tits and wear my mom’s high heels, because let’s be serious, my Stride Rites were giving zero people boners.

Flash forward almost two decades. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I have to work for a living for at least the next forty years. So even though I recognize—because it would be socially unacceptable not to—that stripping isn’t the respectable livelihood of bikini dancing that I once glorified it as, there are a lot of days when being a stripper truly seems like the most logical option for me, all kidding aside.

Mostly because you make ALL THE DOLLARS.

AND you don’t have to wear clothes.

Now, before you pipe up and say “Yes, that’s the problem. The nudity is completely demoralizing and degrading”, let me provide you with this counter-argument: Who really likes wearing clothes anyway? Clothes are the worst, and I actually have a lot of trouble wearing clothes correctly as it is.

In fact, I’m pretty shocked I haven’t been fired yet and basically forced to take up stripping by mere necessity. I’ve had a few workplace accidents that I’m pretty sure have a number of rumors circulating about me  being an alien attempting to emulate female behavior, because apparently I haven’t mastered the basic adult art of dressing yourself.

Some of the better wardrobe malfunctions involved the ever-attractive hole in the butt crack of the pants/pencil skirt. Nothing screams “business professional” like a little butt cleavage. Welcome to the cavernous black hole that is my ass crack, please make yourself extremely uncomfortable.

Another favorite was the time I was sitting in my coworker’s office when my dress did that reverse zip thing that is pretty much the 9/11 of zippers. All the way down to my butt. I made him close his eyes as I Mission Impossibled back to my office…


…and then wore a men’s sweatshirt all day, because you know that shit ain’t getting fixed, and also nothing is more subtle than wearing a men’s sweatshirt over a sundress.

But perhaps the greatest one was when I flashed my boss (no, you did not misread that).

My boss has already seen far too deep into my soul, so I guess this was the next logical leap. So, for some reason, I have an office. I tend to get pretty comfortable in there and forget where I am, and the next thing you know, someone walks in as I’m crying to a video of a baby dancing to Beyonce. 

So my boss comes in one day and makes an immediate b-line for the opposite corner of the room. He literally could not have stood farther away from me, and to be honest, he was acting a little autistic.

I asked him what his deal was in the most subordinate way I could, and he just started mumbling incoherently about that side of the room. So I looked around expecting to see the bunny from Donny Darko, but what I saw was worse. Much, much worse. Instead it was my big naked ass cheek.

I was sitting on my foot, which had kicked my dress up behind me, exposing my glorious whiteness to the world.

I immediately began to scream. I mean scream like you walked in on your roommate watching goat porn. And then he started screaming. And I just thought to myself, Please, don’t ever let the screaming end, because the silence of a room with a boss and butt cheek is beyond anything I could possibly handle.

We never spoke of it again. And I have sat like a lady for most of the time ever since.

But bringing this completely sad conversation full circle, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it? It’s simple math. I love high heels. Apparently I prefer to not wear clothing. Is this some sort of latent stripper tendency that has yet to fully manifest? Something that’s been brewing since the third grade, since the first time I watched Showgirls?

Maybe. Maybe I missed my calling.

Or maybe I just have hotdogs for fingers that make it impossible to dress myself.

If one boozy night, you find yourself in one of the many stripclubs around Manhattan, and you see an extremely awkward, notably sober stripper (me), cover her (me) with your jacket, give her (me) some Sour Patch Kids, and send her (me) on home.

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Guys, there is something you should know about me. I was the angstiest pre-teen/teenager/young adult you would ever meet. I think the government injected me with some experimental hormone when I was born, because I was fucking rabid, and I’m pretty sure I was one mood swing away from needing an ark to not drown in my own tears.

The good news is I turned into a relatively normal (key word: relatively) adult who can laugh heartily at myself. (Hopefully my parents can also.) Unfortunately, I left ample hard evidence of my adolescent transgressions in the form of multiple diaries, so I sort of have to laugh, lest I die out of sheer embarrassment. Embarrassment can kill a person, you know.

You see, I felt compelled to write every fucking detail of my life down. I’m talking how many times a day I pooped or what flavor Fruit Stripe I got or how often I re-applied a two-inch ring of eyeliner.  And if you knew me between the ages of 12 and 15, you definitely made an appearance in my diary. You should hope—for your past self’s sake—that you didn’t cross me…if so, you were totally fucked, because I shit so much preteen word diarrhea on all of my enemies, frenemies, haters, God, Jesus, Judas, Bill Clinton, (I went through a real political-religious phase, and touched on concepts that most definitely didn’t go over my head) and anyone who wasn’t Good Charlotte basically.

Here is where I work through my heartbreak from a failed relationship:


Some notes:

1. Two days might not seem like a long time to you…and you would be correct

2. You’ll be pleased to know I grew out of the horrid “that’s so gay” phase.

3. I’m assuming the reason I now swear like a motherfucking sailor is because I started swearing in eighth grade. (Sorry, Mom and Dad. I’m terrible.)

4. Yes, that’s a Good Charlotte quote, and yes, Good Charlotte is an MVP for adolescent diary quoting. Mark Twain? Norah Jones? This Lena Dunham ho?! G.T.F.O. Good Charlotte was the voice of my generation.

The following entry is quite literally the only one where I’m not bitching about the entire school by name or complaining about being fat.







5. “MY PARENTS HATE ME” OMGOMGOMGOMG I didn’t know people actually said this in non-movie situations. Somebody punch me between the eyes.



The next page goes on to talk about the dude I was crushing on obsessed with, because he touched my boobs twice and possibly dry humped my leg. Sadly, I didn’t get nearly this much action in college. Some people peak early.

More on the same dude here:


1. Something else to keep in mind. I’m like 12 here. Why wasn’t I locked in a tower with a chastity belt/straitjacket?

2. Yes, I blacked out that poor boy’s name. I’m so sorry you ever made out with me, because I was so obviously a crazy person. Clearly you just thought I was that girl in the twin set with big jugs, and you had no idea I was going to go home and write teary sonnets about you to the tune of Sum 41.

3.  Also, yes, that’s a John Mayer quote.

4.  Pray for the youth.

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It’s My Motherfucking Birthday!


Time flies when you’re having fun or otherwise ignoring your blog because you can’t stay awake past 10pm (seriously, I find this physically impossible, and I think the only way I’m going to live to see midnight is if I start gnawing on bricks of cocaine…it’s come to that). Maybe my New Year’s Resolution will be to start self-publishing thoughts I probably shouldn’t share with anyone and also the weird things that quite regularly happen to me, like the time I accidentally punched a guy in the dick on the subway…so, yes, if I had to choose a resolution, which, let’s be honest, I’m won’t, it is to sling my brain meat more often at the masses….meaning here’s to hoping 50 of you are in store for more poop and vagina jokes. No, not combo poop-vagina jokes, you sick fuck. Jesus.

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I’m Gonna Go Drown Myself In The Proverbial Gene Pool Now. K Thanks Bye.

After you move out of your parents’ house, going home for the holidays is pretty much the shit. Let’s break this down…I just took a week off to create ass-to-leather imprints on my couch, bloat up like Kardashian Kong from the the array of salty snacks, and Instagram pics of my dog dressed in long johns. That is what I like.

Going home can also be very eye-opening and humbling. Sort of in that ohhhhhhhh-people-are-staring-at-me-because-my-dress-is-tucked-into-my-thong-not-because-I-look-hott-i-wonder-how-often-this-happens-to-me-type of way. 

For example: Your almost-thirty brother cuts your dad the most adult check in history for a billion dollars for his portion of 2013’s family plan phone bill, as you sit there with one thumb up your butt while the other hand shoves delicious Oreo truffles in your mouth. You have two options, and they are the saddest. Eyes forward, just workin’ on that truffle game (btw, Oreo truffles are basically Oreos and crack dipped in chocolate), with no intentions of ever paying for your cell phone. Ever. Or self-deprecating joke about your poverty, with no intentions of ever paying for your cell phone. Ever. 

Next eye-opener: apartment conduct does not translate into the childhood home. When you are FaceTiming your boyfriend, do not assume he’s alone or that it’s a good idea to flash your fun bags, because don’t you know there is no such thing as privacy and clearly just because his parents may be out of your sight line doesn’t mean they aren’t well in sight of your boyfriend’s iPhone and your tits. So don’t show your boobs/taint/weenis to your boyfriend for any reason when you are home for the holidays. Just don’t.

But the greatest realization will stay with you like that time your high school boyfriend threw up on you on Valentine’s Day because he was so nervous. (Just me?)


Perhaps you feel similarly. It’s the millennial way.

…But sometimes you might find yourself wavering, thinking thoughts like Yeahhhh, but MY kid won’t be like that. My kid would have a clean face and butt and would be quiet and calm and a genius.


See, your parents probably went through this very same thought process, and you’re about to find out that they were vastly mistaken with their logic. Here’s what is going to happen: any time you feel weak and submissive to the lure of reproduction, you need to watch home videos of yourself as a kid, because you were Satan’s Hell spawn.

That’s what went down over the entire duration of our family holiday, and here’s what we learned from it:

At any given time, it was almost guaranteed that we were sucking down candy. It appeared as though the candy didn’t even have to be in our mouths; as long as we were suctioning some sort of sweets in our clammy palms, or otherwise smearing it around our mouth area, that seemed to satisfy us enough.

At first this seemed like bad parenting to let us have so much candy, but then I realized it was just a pretty flawless tactic to get us to shut the fuck up and also perform like monkeys at their will. It also might explain why, to this day, if I’m in sight of candy,  I turn into a roided out Paula Deen, and I can’t calm down until I’ve boosted my blood sugar to a dangerous level. When the ‘betes hits, it’s gonna be a quick and jiggly end for me. THANKS, Mom and Dad.

When we weren’t busy rubbing chocolate all over our baby bodies, there is a great chance one or all of us (but usually me) was crying, loudly and inexplicably.

And If we weren’t doing one of those things, we were just ceaselessly shrieking like motherfucking banshees on Ecstasy. Chill the fuck out, Thin Ice is a game that involves wet toilet paper, WHAT ARE YOU SO JACKED UP ABOUT?!

But really, the main reason why you will never want to have children, is because your home movies will inevitably yield a piece of footage of yourself that is so sinister, so nauseating, that you will never want to produce an organism capable of such horror lest you instinctively punt it into the nearest dumpster to save it the embarrassment.

You see, I was a wanna-be child star whose snaggle-teeth and candy problem vices got in the way of my dreams. Instead, I paraded around locals theaters, and made videos like this to quell my passion for theatrics:

I RECORDED THIS TRASH OVER OUR PRECIOUS CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. And of course, I couldn’t even choose Natalie Imbruglia’s hit song, “Torn”, which is a motherfucking masterpiece. Instead, I went with some random deep cut that only me and a handful of other emo shit heads would know some fifteen years later. And let the record show: my older sister was not only the videographer, but also starred in her very own music video cover to “Are You That Somebody” by Aaliyah (R.I.P), complete with a Tommy Hilfiger crop top, but Christmas ‘98 deprived us of that goodness.

Don’t make the same mistake your parents made…You’ll litcherally only have yourself to blame because the exact genes from the child in that video will run rampant in your very own offspring. Seriously, you were probably the worst.

Happy New Year.

Filed under kids natalie imbruglia paula deen aaliyah weenis oreo facetime tommy hilfiger

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Lo Mean To Tell Me I’m Weird?

Ive spent my entire life convinced that Im normal and investing a pretty healthy amount of time making fun of basically every other person for being not normal.

And throughout the years, people have reinforced my behavior. Oh yes, you are funny! Check. That is absolutely an acceptable thing to say out loud! Check. Definitely ask that question, of course! Check.

Hi, I’m normal, nice to meet you, freak.

So, my family and friends are as much to blame as I am. Ive clucked around with this unhindered certainty of my place in the world—not confidence, necessarily, just this sense that I was above a homeless person or Lisa Turtle Lark Voorhies or that sorority sister who always threw up on herself or whatever, and that makes you feel secure in life, you know? I am better than you, because you have weird tendencies and I do not.

If that makes me a bad person, I’m okay with that.

So imagine how I felt when I had this swelling suspicion that a few people at work—how do I put this—thought that I was weird. I had no idea why, but for one thing, I have saucers for eyes, so I could tell this freaked people out when I just looked at them or talked. NOT MY FUCKING FAULT, BUTT NUGGETS. In the beginning I went through my same old mental routine, thinking to myself “OH, YOU DON’T LOVE KEYBOARD CAT OKAY I HATE YOU BYE” and I just assumed that they themselves were the weirds and couldn’t possibly render proper judgment upon me. Now go back to your freak hole and watch Two And A Half Men and The Big Bang Theory and we’ll call it a day.

But then I found myself perpetually trying to convince people of my normalcy: I’M NORMAL AND I KNOW IT AND I JUST NEED YOU TO BELIEVE ME.

Sit at lunch table with coworkers.

Tell tall tales.

Crack jokes.

Make seamless pop culture references.

This is where things started to spiral out of control. For those of you who keep up with me, you know I laugh at fucked up things like tampon jokes and talking about vaginas or bestiality and all sorts of weird things; and also, I rarely mean anything I say.

So, someone got on some ridiculous subject that they found hilarious, and I thought it was a great opportunity to segue into one of my favorite urban legends; some of you may have heard of it (but apparently not as many people as I thought). If you are squeamish or just don’t like squishy things, read no further.

A while back, my brother told me about the lo mein body urban legend. You can find the full story here, but basically it’s about a dude living in NYC who finds out the guy who is subletting in his apartment has a sex doll made out of lo mein. If you don’t quite understand, let me be more clear: he stuck his dick in a bunch of lo mein noodles molded in the form of a human body. I have to assume the were beef flavored, but because I can’t be sure, feel free to substitute in your favorite flavor.

So anyway, I told this story at lunch one day, with these great expectations that I was going to have this huge moment, some amazing coming out where the ground trembles and everyone realizes what an incredible dark horse I was. I imagined the people at my lunch table would hoist me up on their shoulders and declare me the “accidental funny girl” and then ask me to sign their babies’ faces and teach the wee babes my ways, so when they grew up they would have lots of friends and be totally normal and well-adjusted like me. Instead, I got a handful of confused blank stares, a few throat clears, and a mercy interjection with some ratchet news headline from that day.

In that moment, I was officially weird….And I’m not talking quirky dream girl weird. I was very close to going to the bathroom to cry and give myself a swirlie, but I remembered the last time I cried at work, and that was the end of that.

True, I was mortified at my comedic flub. But I was also disillusioned. Lo mein body is the ultimate litmus test, and they had failed, proving that their senses of humor could never live in my world, a world where there is humor in everything from Taylor Swift’s unyielding moose knuckle to the word ‘squirt’. Literally everything can be reasonably laughed at….which made me wonder—what does a person have to go through in their lifetime that they don’t find the lo mein body highly hilarious, horrifying, or at least fascinatingly worth a conversation? The only conceivable answer is that you just have to really suck donkey dick.

So how do I move forward from here, knowing half of my coworkers think I have dead bodies in my basement and that I like to fondle noodles in my spare time? No matter how much I want to send mass emails about the girl who sucked on her own tampon, because that is fucking batshit insane, and the world must know about it….I MUST REFRAIN FROM SPREADING MY WORD. (Plus I would never send that article in a work environment, because that is obviously weird).

So let this be remembered as the time I told the lo mein sex body story at work, and let it be a lesson to you all: Don’t talk about smelly sex dolls made out of Chinese takeout. Just because it’s funny to you, doesn’t mean it’s funny to everyone. Sort of like Jerry Sandusky. Yes, kind of like that.

Filed under lo mein gawker lisa turtle lark voorhies the big bang theory two and a half men keyboard cat taylor swift

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Crying Like A (On Your) Boss

I know what you’re thinking—why should I read this? You abandoned me when I needed you most (when people stopped posting vacation pictures on Facebook come fall), and now you want me to take you back?

I can explain my absence briefly. I’ve been too busy napping, working and starving. Most of you can probably relate on some level to the ceasefire of neurons come 7:00 PM. Asking me to go home and string together words into sentence form is like expecting Kim Kardashian to not get fat as a fucking Orca while she carries that future social terrorist around in her uterus. So please forgive me; I hope the five of you reading will welcome me back into your homes with open arms.

I’ve spent the past few months realizing that going to work is like having someone take a dump on your chest everyday. It stinks. And it’s uncomfortable. And you can’t cry, because the person imposing the discomfort on you would be all, “What, you’re not into this? I though you wanted this steaming load?” No, this is not what I wanted. I want to be at home, watching Boy Meets World reruns and eating string cheese and laughing at gifs and shit.

But everyone reaches that point in their career, some of us earlier than others, when they actually do cry at work. Maybe you are lucky enough to have an office, where you can close your door, curl in the fetal position under your desk, and wail to “Someone Like You” like you are Adele’s newborn.  If you are like the rest of us and have a cube, private crying is nearly impossible. And finally, if you are like me, the first time you cry will be directly facing your male boss—eyeballs parallel, full-frontal exposure to cry face, in a room with no escape.

The cause was the silliest bit of office politics. He barely sat down before I felt the female fire brewing in my hormone place, which I’m assuming is near my vagina. It must travel quickly, though, because I had only starting throwing around distractions for myself (BALLOON ANIMALS! TAYLOR SWIFT WITH A PENIS! JESUS ON A SEGWAY!) before the first squirts began. And you ladies out there know that once the hormonal torrents erupt, they are relentless.

And like that, I was spraying my boss with my salty eye water and making wookie noises.

At the same time, I was also trying to choke out “I can’t believe I’m crying in front of you! I hardly ever cry!” but unsurprisingly, he did not look convinced. I’m shocked I didn’t then yell out, “It must be this new birth control! MOOD SWINGS, AMIRITE?!!!”

Afterwards, we had a good laugh because of how not serious the situation was, and also probably to diffuse the situation because I had crazy eyes and possibly looked like I might whittle my pen into a deadly weapon. And anyway, who needs dignity in the workplace? What I took away from this experience is, if you are a female, never look your boss in the eye. Ever.

Filed under crying taylor swift segways jesus kim kardashian boy meets world

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6 Reasons You Shouldn’t Feel Too Awful About Moving In With Your Parents

Those of you who live with your parents, as I did for the past few months, can probably relate to the frequent horrors of inhabiting the same bedroom you did when you had braces.  Suddenly, you’ve got two middle-aged roomies and are surrounded by constant reminders of how awkward you were as a child. (See: senior picture; middle school diary; mix tapes; jean jacket collection; Beanie Baby display.)

And then there’s always that defining moment when you are on the cusp of bringing someone home from the bar—whispering sweet nothings about “hanging out later” strategically before the last-call lights come up and you both turn into drunk, sloppy pumpkins—and then you realize, “Oh wait, ‘home’ is a shared residence with my parents, who are probably waiting up until I get back to make sure I’m not dead in a dumpster.”  And you can just imagine you and your anonymous suitor walk-wrestling up the stairs and slobbering all over each other as your parents look on, mortified.  I hope for the sake of all parties that you aborted the mission at this point.  

I understand. Having the ‘rents for roomies is….hard.  But the following are the noteworthy disadvantages of living on your own that I had kept in my arsenal to brandish in the faces of independent young professionals who boasted the luxury of bringing a stranger home from a bar and not needing Dad to drive them home the next morning…it made me feel better about sharing a room with six American Girl dolls. Now, I share a crawl space with six cockroaches.

1. Gone are the days of fully-stocked refrigerators and home-cooked meals. Cooking is hard, especially when the only groceries you have are tuna, peanut butter, red wine, eggs and jarred pasta sauce minus the pasta. This will require extensive creativity from a brain that has long since jellified into tapioca from your day on Pinterest at work. You will likely use three times more dishes than necessary, and if you are me, you don’t have a fucking dishwasher, because you are poor and might as well live in a halfway home.

2. No roommate will ever be as okay with you walking around pants-less as your mother is. At first, he/she might be cool if you do the whole tee shirt and skivvies thing when you crawl out of bed on a hungover Saturday morning clawing for Advil, but once you start rubbing your exposed butt cheeks into the community couch while you shovel down handfuls of Pop Chips and watch The Bachelorette, the peace might be slightly shit on.

3. The convenience of in-house laundry done by your in-house maid mom dissipates when you cut the cord and move into your shoebox apartment, forcing you to resort to the hobo/bag-lady conventions that are Laundromats and apartment building laundry rooms. Those sneaky dryers static cling undies in hidden nooks where lazy 20-somethings won’t reach—and suddenly, the chances of unwittingly wearing your neighbor’s underwear significantly increase. Next thing you know, you’ve got a weird itch and your doctor is calling in a script for adult diaper cream.

4. Who is going to guilt you into cleaning your room/going to church/calling your grandma/showering daily? Obviously, roommates are useless for such things, because they are just as drunk, dependent and worthless as you are. Nothing is as effective to get you to shave your leg fur as a finger wagging in your face and that perpetual parental squawking. 

5.  Since you’re no longer accompanying your parents on dinner dates where they invariably pick up the tab, eating out at restaurants now means you can’t order everything you want on the menu without suffering from violent financial remorse.  Oh, you eyeing that market price lobster? Not unless you are planning to sell your body tonight to make up the cash money.  Don’t be surprised if you spontaneously clothesline a passerby after realizing you spent a week’s worth of grocery money on one night’s dinner and drinks….even if it was at Dos Caminos and you crushed like ten pounds of guac to the face.  Still hurts.

(Might look something like this)

6. Understanding how your parents figure out how to pay bills and have medical insurance and do all the tax return nonsense is too much for your young adult pea brain to comprehend.  Also, no matter how sick you are, you must resist medical care basically until your jaw is pendulum-swinging from your ear, because now that you pay for your own healthcare, your coverage is about as good as a homeless person’s. Mandatory secession from the parental insurance plan might have been the proverbial nail in the moving-out coffin.

As you can see, offspring-tenants might suffer socially, but you should cherish the fact that you have been able to ward off the perils of real adulthood for another few months/year(s). Exploit the spoon-feeding while you can, because before you know it, you’ll be cruising around in a stranger’s socks as you try to translate the twaddle that is your 401K. Also, you might find yourself crying on the floor of your apartment next to the cockroach roommate at some point. Those critters tend to do that to you.

Filed under Beanie Babies The Bachelorette Pinterest

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Vice Capades

A friend of mine recently told me that the key to living in New York City was managing your vices. He didn’t realize that, as he was relaying his incredibly sound advice to me, I was sitting in the nail salon right below my apartment getting a manicure from a Vietnamese women named Phuong.

Obviously, a year of home-cooked meals, a late-night pick-up service and the Bank of Mom and Dad makes my dramatic entrance into the city the human equivalent of Sassy from the movie Homeward Bound. (…Not that I relish comparing myself to a cat, because cats suck, but I dare you to watch that video till the end and not cry like a pregnant woman.

So I’ve compiled a list of funds-sucking vices, some of which I already fall victim to, while others I could see myself adopting in the near future ‘cause it’s the New York way. If we are being realistic, the chances of me heeding the following advisory list are about as good as a Star Wars fan having sex with a female human…and then I can expect the result to be a week’s worth of financial dilapidation and, subsequentially, unintentional starvation, where I wake up gnawing on my bedsheets like they’re a tortilla.

1. Let’s start at the very beginning. Fucking BRUNCH. If you are a New Yorker, you brunch like someone pays you in stacks of hundreds and cocaine. I don’t care how hungover you are, you always feel the need to drag your dehydrated, city-berated ass out of bed just to order a mimosa and some fancy Eggs Benedict with your friendz you saw the night before. So there you have it people, you’ve just spent enough money to feed me rice and beans for a month (see below). Oh, and side note: Mom and Dad, when you come visit, DO NOT CALL IT BREAKFAST. It is BRUNCH and you will EMBARRASS me in front of my friends.

2. Froyo. Every girl knows frozen yogurt holds the power to end the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. Walking into 16 Handles or any other frozen yogurt dispensary takes practiced self-control to not suction your mouth to the nozzle like the frozen dessert version of Two Girls One Cup. These places charge by the ounce, and you think you are being all restrained, grabbing just a little taste of everything, until your thing weighs as much as a newborn baby. Sorry ‘bout it.

3. Eating in general. Oh, you thought eating was a necessity? Nope, sorry. Eating is a luxury. You’ll come to find that the first time your parents come visit and take you out to dinner, it’s going to look a little something like Katniss stuffing her face with lamb stew at the Capitol, and it won’t be cute. (Yeah, I just made a Hunger Games reference. No, I haven’t seen the movie.)

3. Drinking. This point is certainly not about giving up drinking so much as reevaluating your drinking habits. I am not a huge drinker, but I have the misfortune of enjoying whiskey, and only whiskey, when I like to get toasty. And do you know how much whiskey costs in comparison to a nice PBR at bars? A fucking lot. And I know it’s extremely fun and cool to be seen frolicking around New York’s elite at places like the Boom Boom Room, (I’m still not sure what this is, but I think it’s some underground sex cult that you have to be initiated into by Tom Cruise), but I’m willing to bet they don’t even offer good ‘ole Pabst there. So take some lessons from your college days, funnel an entire fifth of liquor before you go out, and stick to brewskies at the humble bars. Remember, liquor before beer—you’re in the clear.

4. Smoking. Blame it on the months living with two squares (the people kind) in a picket-fenced suburb, but…people in America still smoke cigarettes? HOW DO YOU AFFORD TO IGNITE THOSE MONEY STICKS TO SUCK DOWN INTO YOUR LUNGS?! That is all. 

5. Shopping. Because I formerly got paid to basically just shop for large chunks of time and then reinvest my money back into the company that employed me, living in one of the commercial capitals of the world will prove to be difficult. And plus, I MUST HAVE FIVE PAIRS OF TOMS AND RAY BANS OR ELSE THEY WILL KICK ME OUT. I’m not even going to try here. Same goes for mani/pedis.

6. Cabs. When the sun goes down, we all become lazy as fuck. This is where the remainder of your pay check will be going—when you are out at night and can’t figure out which subway line will get you home or which way is north. Strangely enough, I can’t figure these things out sober. But this is the worst financial offense; so from now on, come 3 AM, if you need me, I’ll be in the dregs of the metro with Manhattan’s creatures waiting for the 1 Train while the homeless guy on heroin tries to crawl underneath the rotating door.

There you have it. Certainly this is just a starter list, and I’ll rapidly stumble over more of the dumb shit that’s going to make and keep me poor in this amazing city.

Here are some hipsters drinking PBR. You can be just like them!

Filed under Vices PBR Froyo Boom Boom Room Hunger Games Katniss Homeward Bound