The Love Monster

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Another wonderful piece from one of my favorite young writers, Roxana. Check out her first Cigars and Jewelry piece here. And enjoy what she’s brought today.

Do you know the feeling when you’re swimming underwater and you run out of air, and that second you raise your head above the water, the feeling of air filling your lungs? That awful sensation of drowning goes away in the blink of an eye.

I think that’s what I was to you, a breath of fresh air in the routine you were in. A fun distraction from all your day-today activities to kill time. I was a challenge for your macho skills, to see that you still had it. I was someone who was keeping you company when you were bored… feeding your ego with that lost look on my face while listening to the echo your fingers on the piano left in the air.

But you, my baby, you were the monster that grabbed me with your smile and threw me far away from my comfort zone, and showed me a different world. Everything seemed to change its color, its smell, and its whole essence. You showed me that there is something else out there and that I could still dream big for myself. You were the man who made me restless and calm at the same time. You were the one who made me want to settle down and dream in long-term perspectives. Every word that came out of your mouth crystallized a new meaning for me. You made me feel that giving myself to you was the easiest and hardest thing to do.

You had this power over me, to lift me and to bring me down, to make me feel so small, yet the center of the universe, or at least your universe… Which would have been enough for me.

But there was this feeling eating me from the inside, that I’ll never rise to your expectations, yet you grew a desire in me for so I was willing to spend my whole life trying to meet those great expectations.

There were these obscure thoughts, spreading through my mind like a spider’s web, that I was alone in this, and that you didn’t love me like I knew you could love someone.

And I was right. One time you told me I will be one of the toughest “what if’s” of your life. Now you are mine. You also told me never to settle for anything less that I know I deserve. I promise, I won’t.

Carrie was disappointed when Berger left her through a post-it. Well, I’d say she’s pretty damn lucky he had the guts to say, “I’m sorry”, even on a bright yellow piece of paper. But what do you do when your loving monster doesn’t have the balls to say goodbye? Not to mention an explanation.

One more thing, from one love monster to another, just keep in mind that what goes around, comes around.

Always.

Roxana Sava is a “newborn”, but very determined blogger with high ambitions. She’s receiving a degree in Public Relations and Journalism in a couple of months and is about to take a big leap; starting a new adventure, in another country, on another continent, having an ocean between her and her comfort zone.

Currently she’s posting her thoughts and feelings on her blog Always Hope. Never Expect, where she hopes you’ll see something extraordinary through her ordinary experiences. Her articles and musings are a reflection of her passion for discussing relationships, arts, social events and all the fundamental elements that bind us together in our shared existence. Her blog is an extension of the discussion on how her passions and inspirations relate to topical subjects and the world at large. In a short period of time she managed to develop an appreciative worldwide fan base.

For more of Roxana’s opinions and editorials go read her blog!

Reading Saved My Life

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Reading has always been a love of mine. Ever since I was little I’ve always been hungry for literature. I always read things way outside of my age group, I have my father to thank for that. He loves the classics and stories about adventure. I remember being 8 or 9 and lying on the sofa in our first house in Hawaii, listening to him recite the prose of Red Wall with my head on his lap, curled in a ball to stave off the chilled breeze coming off the ocean so near our front door. I picked up my first Hemingway novel at 12 and instantly fell in love. I’d always rip through anything that was handed to me. I guess it was the writer in me, or the soon-to-be-discovered writer, anyway.

In recent years I haven’t been reading as much. I was in college and there was so much required reading to do anyway that I suppose it was easy to lose touch of my treasured novels. I picked a new best friend, wine.

Recent, unfortunate personal events and some very undesirable behavior have been linked to my drinking. I had a meltdown at Gay Pride and fled the scene and I’ve lashed out at several people that I love as a result of being too drunk. I’ve always had problems with control. I never know when enough is enough. It’s a character flaw that I’m aware of and have every desire to change and control.

I realized I’d been drinking mostly out of boredom. Long days at work, followed by the sprawling hours of the evening before bed. I walk 5 miles home every day to kill time and clear my head. I write when I get home, sometimes, but usually I’m so creatively drained by then that I don’t have the patience to “produce” anything else. So, I usually end up at Wholefoods buying a bottle (or two) of their $3 cabernet and sitting in my apartment, watching Netflix and drinking. The truth is that I really do like drinking—love it even, but after so many personal mistakes due to the alcohol-induced nightmare I have more frequently become, I think it’s time to redirect my time. Not to mention binge drinking is extremely hazardous to my health in the first place.

That’s where the books come in. I realized, after some careful consideration and self-reflection, that reading may be just the medicine I need before things truly spiral out of my control and I end up irreparably destroying a friendship or in a jail cell. So, I asked all of my lovely Facebook friends to help me out. I asked for a Summer Reading List.

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Many people came through and gave me amazing recommendations. After a week the books arrived and I’m steadily making my way through each one. This remedy hasn’t entirely stopped my drinking. I still can have a night or two of fun and obviously I’m not going to give up every Sunday brunch, but I think this is going to be a great tool to fill my mind with knowledge and to keep my hands off the bottle. I’m excited about this summer full of new adventure into the lives of these crafted characters just like the ones I hope to create myself one day. I never knew as a little girl, sitting in my living room in Hawaii that reading would actually save my life.

Looking Back on Those Island Days: 27 Things Only Maui Kids Will Understand

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Getting to live on Maui for 11 years of my life was truly a blessing. I had a wonderful childhood filled with adventures like jumping off waterfalls, climbing volcanoes and surfing in the delightful Pacific.There is also some serious insanity that happens among the community of locals, however.

Like most destinations, actually living in Hawaii is a vastly different experience than coming for the sights.

Whenever I tell someone I’m from Hawaii, the response is always along the lines of, “Wow, that is amazing!” Yeah, a lot of sh*t was amazing, but this one is for the real Maui people.

Here are 27 things only Maui kids will understand:

1. For the ladies, your bikini bottoms were micro-mini

Being a Maui girl means embracing the Brazilian bikini. Saggy bikini bottoms were the best way to pick out a tourist on the beach (well, that and a sunburn). You also had more bikini options than underwear options.

A Maui girl has an ass-out, no-shame bikini collection. Disclaimer: I’m 23 and I still wear them — even in the Hamptons. F*ck saggy bikini bottoms; they look like wet diapers and it’s NOT cute.


2. Even the white kids could speak pidgin when wasted

Pidgin is a hybrid of several different languages, brought to Maui by the multiplicity of cultures that live on its sandy shores. It’s a mix of Japanese, Tongan, Hawaiian and English (and few others, I’m sure). People who live on the island, who are exposed to all of these different cultures, speak pidgin.

I’m a white kid who was born in Chicago, so I thought I could speak pidgin when I really couldn’t. Pidgin is sort of English, and yet, it’s sort of not.

It includes phrases like, “da kine,” which means… well, it means many things… and “ono grindz,” which means “good food.” Anyway, only when heavily intoxicated would a white, non-native person like me decide to speak pidgin and make a damn fool out of herself.


3. Party locations were in very “natural environments”

Only a Maui kid can understand the beauty of a party in Poli Poli Park or a random cane field. Natives are used to doing keg stands using and tree for support or wandering through forests, looking for the light of the antics that are taking place.


4. You use the word “trog” and now all your mainlander friends know what a trog is and probably use it sometimes, too

The common myth on Maui is that a “trog” comes from the combination of the words “troll” and “frog,” but despite this folklore, it is simply not the case. Trog comes from the world “troglodyte,” which is a cave dweller.

It can be used either as a noun like, “You are such a trog” or, “That girl is such a trog.” Or, it can be used as an adjective like, “That is so trog” or, “Why are you being so trog?” It’s a word of complicated meaning, with many different implications, but you used it and still use it, nonetheless.

That’s not trog at all.


5. You always knew to take your shoes off before going into a private residence and even school

On Maui, people follow the Japanese custom to remove shoes before going into someone’s house. You aren’t supposed to track outside dirt inside — it’s dirty. It’s a sign of respect and part of the culture.


6. You know that a Banyan tree provides for the best fort

With their cavernous, loping trunks, deeply grooved bark and insanely long, hair-like tresses, these trees were perfect for childhood hideaways. We used to hunt for Jackson chameleons inside of them when we were little.


7. Flip flops are not a thing

Flip flops? WTF are flip flops? No. You were regular wearer of “slipahs,” which is what Maui natives call them. You wore them everywhere, every day.


8. You didn’t understand the concept of “outerwear”

You wore sweatshirts on rainy, 60-degree days, shivering and complaining of the frigid cold. Needing a winter coat was a foreign concept, reserved for mainland travels in which you experience a real winter.

Lucky for me, I spent Christmas breaks in Chicago, so I had a very different experiences than most Maui folk. But, my first full-length winter was snowy, wet and sad.


9. OH. MY. GOD. Lifted Trucks

They were everywhere you looked, on every street and in every parking lot. Maybe you even had one, who knows? Lifted trucks were super “hip” to have and the island was crawling with them. The tints were always way too dark to possibly be legal and many had gold rims or other chic details.


10. You did NOT pass your driving test the first time

I took my driving test THREE times before I passed. Why is it SO hard to pass a driving test in a place that has about four roads, one highway and is 70 percent forest? I’ll never know.


11. Lahaina was a town to troll for boys and hotel parties

What were we doing partying in hotel rooms at age 15? I’m still not sure, but it was awesome. Since the other side of the island was tourist central, you obviously celebrated birthdays down there and raged the place up, probably making a huge mess and not caring at all.

It was always like going on little vacations.


12. Halloween was like Mardi Gras of the Pacific

You’d see 14-year-old girls dressed in nothing but thongs and body paint. If you were a girl, you were one of them. Oh, and bonus: You also saw your teachers and they not-so-shockingly judged you for dressing like a baby prostitute, just as you judged them for being in a place where it was expected to wear a thong and body paint.


13. Speaking of teachers, yours were very “unusual” and seemed to be everywhere

Ahhh, my history teacher saw me flash the lead singer of 311 while on the shoulders of a nice Tongan man I did not know. Those were the good old days.


14. You learned very quickly what the “Aloha Spirit” meant: really slow

Are you an early riser? Do you like to get your errands over with and then move on with your day? Well then, that sucks for you. Shops are open whenever the shop owner feels like it, which will probably never be early in the morning, so plan accordingly.


15. You had a liver of steel by the time you were 15

As a Maui kid, if there was one thing you were really good at, it was drinking. It wasn’t at all unusual for you to pick up a handle just to have for yourself.

Speaking of which, you could just walk into Foodland, pick up a handle of liquor and walk out without being stopped. Getting alcohol was as easy as getting Gatorade.


16. Instead of The Boogie Man or monsters under your bed, you had menehune and night marchers

I still have nightmares to this day.


17. If you lived upcountry:

Seeing a traffic light was like seeing a unicorn. You were used to waiting behind a line of 15 cars to get to school at four-way intersections. You also had to allow for time in your morning commute for the hoards of inexperienced bikers taking tours of the crater.


18. If you lived in Kihei — or anywhere near sea level:

You always had sunshine, but you lived near nothing.


19. The cops were nice to you…

… If you were a girl and if you cried. One night, two of my friends and I snuck out to meet up with some boys and proceeded to lose one of our friends — or maybe, she went off with some guy? So trog.

Anyway, rather than looking for said friend, we waited in the car for her. Along came the cops. We were way passed curfew at this point and they wanted to take us in… so, in our blacked-out state, we cried and they let us go. If you are a boy living on Maui, this would never happen. Your ass would be in jail in a hot second.


20. Three words: Paia, Flatbread, Life


21. If you needed new clothes:

Your option was Pac Sun.


22. You used to regularly swim with sea turtles that were bigger than you

In fact, they were your most reliable meet-up, considering everyone had the “Aloha Spirit” — meaning, they were really slow and no one was anywhere on time, ever.


23. Maui (nearly) destroys your ability to enjoy weed anywhere else

Heard of the Maui Wowie? Yeah well that sh*t is strong and potent. Also, you could pretty much smoke anywhere you want and you know no one will stop you. Smoking on your porch as a cop drives by? Sure. On a beach with families sitting all around you? Go ahead.


24. Transportation without a care just meant hitchhiking around

Where would a kidnapper take you? Maui is really small; there’s simply nowhere to go. Now, in retrospect, this was probably not the safest choice, but you had places to be.


25. SPAM was part of a balanced diet

Who doesn’t love meat from a can? It was even served with eggs at McDonalds. Da kine, Brah.


26. Speed limits were so bad you probably should have just walked

Do you like driving faster than 50 mph on the (basically only) highway? In Maui, we sure wish we could!


27. When someone finds out you’re from Hawaii, it’s always the same, annoying questions, like you’re a space alien

Do you surf? Do you get lava days? Do you live in huts? ARE YOU STUPID?! No, we don’t live in huts. Maui is in America, people! Oh, and I’ve always loved, “Do you take American money?” That one was a hoot.

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

I Was The Other Woman

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My brother is living in the city with me this summer. It’s impossible to express what a wonderful comfort it’s been to have him here. Though he’s at his internship until very late at night during the week, making it difficult to see him, we’ve taken to spending most of the weekend together. We’ve begun a ritual of taking Sunday afternoon creative walks. We walk through the park, trace the glistening water of the reservoir and just discuss whatever creative projects we’re working on in order to flesh them out and figure out which direction we’d like to take our respective works.

On today’s walk we figured out what I was going to write on this blog today. I’ve neglected it the past week, feeling strange and emotionally stunted. As we strolled we began to reminisce about my freshman year of college, which can only be described as a nightmare. It was a dark period in my life that only degenerated further as I would later discover I couldn’t afford to return to college.

Of course it had its glimmering moments of happiness. Many wonderful nights out at the clubs with friends, and hilariously degenerate wine nights in the dorms with Dandelion and our entourage of colorful characters, but overall it was a very damaging experience.

As Junior (aka: CWE) circled the great lawn, watching the sunbathers and enthusiastic baseball players, we started in on a conversation about my love life when I was 19 and first living alone in New York City. I became tangled up in a truly sordid love affair with a boy who had minimal moral judgment, and another girlfriend at home in the woods of Pennsylvania.

The night we met there was an instant chemical attraction that was impossible to resist. We were making out before our group of friends left for the clubs and ended up having the cab turn around on the way to (insert club name here). And that’s how it began. I was hooked. Like a junky on heroin, always waiting for my next fix. He was all I cared about and all I thought about. I liked to wake up with him and I was invigorated by the smell he left on my sheets. I knew it was wrong and I should have known that it would end in disaster, but I couldn’t stop. I kept going back for more. I could really convince myself that the other girl didn’t exist and was so sure that this guy was going to leave her to be with me because that was the only reality I could comprehend. But like most men, he was as cruel as he was sexy. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too.

I remember seeing a text from his girlfriend on his phone one morning when he left it on my night side table. Even seeing her name sent searing pain through my entire body like I had crashed into a tree, sending a branch piercing through my lungs, filling them with hot, thick blood. I should have ended things, I should have stopped. But I didn’t. Like a true addict, I ignored it and continued with the affair.

My roommate came in one morning. She was fidgety, restless. I knew she wanted to tell me something but didn’t know how or was afraid of my reaction, “She’s here. His girlfriend is here visiting him.” I could barely hear her for the piercing sirens in my ears were deafening and the hot tears in my eyes were starting to blind me. I didn’t feel rage. I didn’t feel angry. I felt like someone had just slammed me in the chest with a crowbar and left me for dead in a gutter. She was here and she was going around the city with my friends. Needless to say I wasn’t invited on this excursion. She was here. It was like a nightmarish figure had manifested in reality. This was real. She was real. He hadn’t told me she was coming. Though cowardly, it was understandable considering he didn’t really care about me at all. He just cared about me in my own, foolish mind. I stayed in bed for the whole day, crippled by sadness and regret. I knew it was shameful to let this boy treat me this way—to let him make me feel safe over and over again only to tear my heart out with such vicious carelessness. It was pathetic. And I was pathetic. But I was addicted.

Unfortunately, things got worse that night.

On top of an insidious affair the boy I had been hooking up with before I met my dismissive lover had become a bonafide stalker. Looking back on the time, I can see that this guy was deeply damaged and clinging on to me was some kind of misguided comfort for him. He would show up to my dorm room (dorm life is a truly hellish living situation as there is no escape from anyone) at all hours of the night, looking for sex even though I turned him down—most of the time. When it first started happening I complied—feeling terrible about myself to a degree to where any sort of attention was sought. Then it became creepy and I made it clear that this silliness was no longer taking place. It didn’t stop him. He continued to follow me around like a very horny and aggressive puppy.

It was around 2am. I was still in bed, tear soaked and depressed. I wasn’t strong then. I barely recognize who that girl was.

Then came a knock on the door. It was him. My roommate was sick and tired of this crazy behavior as she was being constantly woken up during the night and forced to listen to angry arguments between my stalker and me until he’d eventually agree to leave. We were all involved in the fight that evening. He was drunk and angry and wasn’t going to leave until he got what he wanted. My roommate got on her blackberry and furiously began texting one of our male friends who lived upstairs, afraid that we were going to need back up. Eventually, I got him to calm down and agree to go back to his room.

My roommate told me all three of our friends upstairs, including my lover/affliction, were about to throw up arms and come down to beat this stalker to a pulp. My lover, lying there in a twin bed next to his girlfriend, coming to my rescue. It was all too much for me. I soon decided to end all physical aspects of the relationship. I couldn’t give him up as a friend, I was too addicted to him, but I knew that I had to take a step back. He didn’t seem too hurt by this declaration.

Things between us ended in a fiery, destructive explosion, for which I still bare many emotional scars.

We went to a club where I met a tiny blonde girl who had had too much plastic surgery. Drunk and dancing, we instantly became best friends. We were all invited to get into her boyfriend’s Escalade and go to what she called an “After Party.” Only my lover and I were stupid enough to think this was a good idea and agreed, “Promise me you’ll take care of her. If anything happens to her, I will literally kill you,” were the last words I heard my friend say as we departed.

This “after party” was actually just my new friend, her drug lord, coke wielding boyfriend, and—what I think was either a security guard or a crewmember—my lover, and myself.

We decided to play dress up with this girl’s lingerie and every few minutes the drug lord would load us up on cocaine. I had never done cocaine. I have never done cocaine since this experience. My lover just stood there, let it happen. Didn’t care. Didn’t stop it. Didn’t do anything. How foolish I was. Luckily, no one was hurt that night. I’m truly grateful considering I put myself in a very dangerous situation. I could easily have been raped or even killed. And, unfortunately, I believe it would have happened with no intervention. It’s moments like these who show you who people truly are.

I was physical with my lover that night—amped up out of control. I’d never felt like that in my life. I was so unbelievably incapable of gripping reality.

The next day, blood stains on my nose down my pillow case, and what was the beginning of a very serious anxiety disorder, was the most awful I had ever felt in my entire life. I told my “lover” everything. That he was a piece of shit, that I hated him, and that I never wanted to see him again. He left. We didn’t speak again after that. Not for years.

I didn’t sleep for three days. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I walked around the city for hours on end just to stop myself from completely breaking down. The reality of the mess I had made of my life had finally hit me. Hard, quickly, and there was no way of going back. I was broken into tiny, scattered pieces and it would take a very long time to glue them back together.

Something changed in me that night. It was a reality check. This isn’t how I wanted to live. This wasn’t the person I wanted to be.

Though the whole thing was a terribly destructive experience, one I am still coping with but, I think it needed to happen. Looking back on that year, looking back on my choices, I can hardly believe it. I’ve changed so much since then. I’ve grown up, taken responsibility for my actions, and I’m using the tools I’ve gained to become a better version of myself. Though there is a long way to go, I know that I’m on the right road to get there. My freshman year of college—and the following year—were the darkest days I’ve ever known, but without them, I don’t know how fully I would appreciate the light of the days that came.

Yes, I’m Crazy: An Open Letter to Men

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Dear Men Who Think All Women are Crazy,

How’s it going? Didn’t call that girl back after waiting 3 dates to sleep with her because she’s “crazy” because she texted you the next day? Cool.

You know, sir, women often get a bad wrap. We’re always being told that we’re crazy. The problem is that we think too much about our relationships and dates because, the truth is, we’re wired to want to try and find love. Yes, we can have casual sex and yes, we can have fun and not get attached all the time, but when things are going well and then I don’t hear from a guy for three days only to get a completely normal, “Hey gorgeous, would you like to have dinner Tuesday night?” It really freaks me out. Because this entire time I’ve been sitting here, thinking about you, trying not to text you, and wondering if you’ve completely lost interest. Maybe it isn’t your fault, maybe you’re just clueless, but these games are ridiculous and I hate playing them. So you know what?

Yes, I’m crazy.

Women are all kinds of insane. We all are. The more quickly we embrace it, the more adept we’ll be at covering it up. It’s kind of terrible that our culture deems us all crazy. Because what we really are is emotional, complicated, loving creatures who are in relationships with highly less emotionally-evolved men. Instead, their complete lack of understanding or consideration for our feelings makes us the crazy ones. Because we expect to be contacted regularly and treated with kindness and respect, we’re crazy and they’re sane. We’re too emotional and they’re just treating the situation normally.

And yes, we do overthink things, and we are trying to make sense of everything you say and to decode every little hidden message in every text even though it’s nonexistent. We’re just wired that way. We’re terrified of getting hurt so we look for the tiniest thing to go wrong so that we have an excuse to be unhappy in the situation. We don’t bounce back as easily as you if we’ve put time and dedication into forming something real and tangible only to have it blow up in our faces. Yes, we’re strong, resilient creatures. We are fierce and we are a force, but we’re fragile too, and our hearts need caring for.

It all stems from that stomach-flip feeling of really liking someone. The feeling you get when you’re laughing at all of their jokes, holding hands and thinking, “Wow, this person is really great.” Being excited about love is the most amazing feeling in the world and it’s hard not to be over the top about it. I try to be rational about things, but women lead with their hearts, not their heads. We have to constantly check our every move because we don’t want to spook you and seem “crazy.”

So, we text all of our girlfriends and gay friends and try to make sense of every situation, of every text message, of every word you say because we can’t possibly talk to you about it. We’ll screen shots our messages and ask what to say back to you so we can seem like we’re really “cool.” So, you’re only texting us every few days because you’re not even thinking twice about it because we’ve made you think that this is fine with us. I claim some responsibility in all of this because you’re unaware of how women feel because we leave you so completely unaware of how we feel. Nobody wants to be crazy, and that’s what being truthful would mean, it would make us sound crazy. So, once again, yes I’m crazy.

It’s really hard admitting this to you. I mean, after all, you’re only just now being told that all women are “crazy” and the ones who don’t seem crazy are just the ones who are really good at faking it. We’re the ones who have really great friends to look at the situation completely rationally because they themselves have no stakes and can advise with their heads instead of their hearts. Yes, we’re talking about that last text message, and yes we’re wondering what it all means, because as hard as it may be for you to understand this, we actually really like you and we like thinking about you. If that makes us crazy then I don’t want to be sane.

You know what? I’ve been on a million dates, swiped right enough on Tinder, pretended to be who I am not for long enough. It’s exhausting. Yes, I’m crazy. You can’t deal? Well, you probably aren’t worth it anyway because someone who was really worth it would want me as I am.

I’m so sick of being punished by you for giving a shit. Because you know what? I actually do give a shit.

Where would we be if women just completely stopped caring? So much compassion and loving would be stripped from this world. Maybe you think we care too much and maybe we do, but that’s just the way it is. I’m sorry for you because you can’t get in touch with your emotions enough to just be open about the way you feel and I’m sorry that you’re not daring enough to feel as deeply I do and to want something concrete and real. But, I bet if you think hard enough, you probably do too.

So here I am, openly admitting it because I do have a heart and I do think about love all the time: Yes, I’m crazy.

Love,
Gigi

Will I Ever Be Ready?

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I keep telling myself that I’ll be monogamous “when I’m ready.” That I’ll fall in love “when I’m ready.” That I’ll really grow up “when I’m ready.” I’ll be an adult “when I’m ready.” But all of this has got me asking: Will I ever be ready?

I look next to my bed. I see the empty tall-boy cans. Too many because I felt the impulse to go back to CVS for a second round. I see my phone balancing on a dirty sock so my alarm won’t startle me as the sunlight squeezes through the cracks in my chocolate brown curtains early in the morning. I’m lying on a mattress with no bedframe in my two bedroom, pre and post college girl apartment and have to wonder: Will I ever be ready?

Am I ever going to stop caring too much about myself to not have drunk make outs and hook ups? Am I ever going to find an apartment with a doorman and make a good living like I have always planned? Am I ever going to have that great idea, that’s right under surface for a best selling novel or book of essays? These questions are always in the back of my head, burning into me a little each day. I’m really fantastic at giving advice and equally as challenged at taking my own. I do a lot of things right, or at least I like to think so, but there are so many mistakes that I make on a regular basis that make me wonder if I’m ever going to be a grown up or if I’ll forever remain in the limbo of a working college girl with questionable morals, that are constantly self justified.

Impulse control. When does that kick in? I’m wondering if there’s some golden age or moment when you wake up and think, “I’m an adult. All of my foolish ways are behind me, and I’m ready to live like I’m in my 30s and have my whole future figured out.” Did I miss the mark? Is the mark coming? I truly hope so because one of my greatest fears in life is waking up at 40 and thinking: Wow I really messed up my life. Already dodged a bullet when I was on the fast track to PR. Luckily I ballsed up and realized being a writer really was the only option.

What life lessons do I need to learn? How many do I need to learn? How many mistakes do I actually have to make before I start making changes? Maybe this is how life will always be. Maybe I won’t ever be ready. Or at least, not the kind of ready I picture in my head. The kind where I have matching furniture, a big apartment on a high floor, with plenty of space and without an urge to drink wine until I fall down instead of just wanting a glass to relax. It’s possible that that picture could never be anything more than a picture. I’m a writer, after all, and the creative lifestyle isn’t always an easy one. I may never be the person I’ve pictured myself becoming, the person I hope that I’m becoming. And then what happens next? Do I accept the frazzled, mattress-bed life style of the starving artist? Maybe the key to all of this is to stop insisting that picture be perfect. Stop insisting that everything be exactly like I want it to be.

The only problem with that is that I know I can never do that. I have a fear of mediocrity that’s why I live an unconventional lifestyle. That’s why I write about love and, why I write this blog; putting my whole life out there for anyone to read so that I’m the one making someone feel less alone instead of relying on someone else to make me feel less alone.

I don’t know what kinds of changes I have to make to get closer to where I want to be because I’ve do what I’m supposed to do so far. I worked hard in school, got an apartment with people I love, and got a job. I can’t help but wonder what happens next because for the first time there is no defined next step.

I feel like I’m caught between two places: college and adulthood, and I’m not quite sure what happens in the interim to get a person from point A to point B. I can’t help but wonder: Will I ever be ready?

Searching For Understanding: Why You Should Never Read Sex Tips

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There has been a question burning on my mind for an absurdly long time. Honestly, it’s something that’s really starting to upset me.

What is with the sex tips that are given to men? In my personal experience, as a young, single woman in her twenties, I’d have to estimate that about 98 percent of men have absolutely no idea what they are doing in the bedroom and apparently didn’t learn a damn thing in anatomy class either.

I constantly find myself wondering — under the certain obvious circumstances: Why is he doing that? Does he think that’s where that is located? What is he doing down there?

One of the funny things about it is that it isn’t just men giving other men horrible advice, there are plenty of women out there, at very noteworthy publications, who are giving men misleading, stupid and, quite honestly, gross tips on how to please a woman.

Herein lies the main dilemma. Yes, there are lots of fun things about sex and many things our partners can do that we ladies will greatly appreciate. Everyone’s got his or her jam, and that’s totally normal and healthy.

Whatever you’re into, the point really is that there aren’t that many tips that can be given because it’s really not that hard to provide an orgasm. I know. Mind blowing news!

The sex tip industry (if that’s what you’d even call it) is really scraping for new and interesting things to tell men (and women) to please their partners.

It’s easy to get angry and frustrated by this unfortunate ignorance, but look at whom they’ve been learning from: bad sex tips and pornography.

If men are constantly being told that we like certain things that we find weird or that something is located where it actually isn’t, well, then aren’t they the ones being misled in the first place? It’s not even their fault that so many of them are clueless because they’ve been taught the wrong things.

I’m not meaning to say that all women are amazing in the bedroom. There are certain things that I’m completely baffled by. And guess what? That’s because we’ve been hoodwinked, too!

We often blame pornography and bad sex advice for our lack of communication with each other. It’s easy to blame guys and ourselves for not having a great understanding of the other person’s wants and desires.

There is really only one solution to this unhappy situation: We have to talk to each other. We have to really talk to each other.

A man is never going to know what you want unless you tell him and it’s obviously a lot easier to just take the advice of dirty movies and men’s (and women’s) magazines and hope for the best.

Without communication, there is no way that this problem can be fixed. We’ll keep trolling through sex tips on the Internet and frequenting pornographic material in a blind search for sexual understanding.

In such a vulnerable situation, asking for what you want can be scary, but if you don’t ask, you won’t receive. As Generation-Y, as young adults, still trying to figure out who we are, it can be difficult to understand another person and feel comfortable enough to seek that understanding.

The human condition is generally receptive and obviously as much as you want to please your partner, your partner wants to please you, too.

So, take the leap, have a discussion, and stop listening to other people who don’t know what they’re doing (probably because they read bad sex tips from someone else, too).

How I Got Pressured into Being a Youtuber’s Cohort

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The answer: wine, of course.

Last week my roommate and gay husband, Jonathan and I made a ridiculous video about alcoholic gummies, and he’s once again gotten me to participate in his antics. What can I say? I’m trying my hand at comedy. We decided to play “The Roommate Challenge” and asked each other some of the most inapropro questions we could think of. The results: we may know each other a little too well. I love getting to spend some quality time after work with Jon, and I certainly don’t dislike being fed wine while I say horrifying, sexually TMI things for everyone to judge me for. I promise more serious writing to come but, for now, enjoy this vid of me acting like a complete jackass! And try not to stare at my frumpy-ass house dress that makes me look like an orca whale.

Getting Cray Making Alcoholic Gummies

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My roommate and lovechild, JT, — who is actually named Jonathan–which I may as well tell you since he for sure blows his name up 154 times during this video– has an awesome YouTube channel where he acts a fool and does ridiculous things like “The Baby Food Challenge.”

For Memorial Day, to honor our troops, we made an instructional video on how to make alcoholic gummie things. And proceeded to get heavily intoxicated in the process. Enjoy!

The 6 Reasons Why I Deleted My Tinder

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Tinder is the dating app of our generation (right now). With the search for new jobs, new lives, new apartments (unless you’re living at home, –that sucks), and new mates, it’s too hard to meet people out at bars and at other social events like our parents did. It’s easy. It’s fast. And it cuts out the complications of conventional boyfriend/girlfriend (hook-ups?) hunting. But the truth is, Tinder is an endless stream of fuggos and assholes. I’ve had nothing but bad dates. Seemingly nice men, inevitably reveal themselves to be the most colossal of dickholes and megalomaniacs. From the Chubby Scotsman to Rusty the Construction Worker, Tinder has been nothing but a hindrance to my life and my emotional well-being. But you know what? I’m not writing off all dating apps. Maybe I’ll find one that works, but Tinder is just not for me. So, these are 6 reasons why I deleted my Tinder.

 

  1. Every guy is a liar
    From height exaggeration to weight underestimation, it happens every single time. 5’5 is not 6’3, fellas. Also, when you post pictures at your most flattering angles, you’re just f*cking lying. When I meet you in person, guess what? All of those lies go out the window. Your fatness and shortness are no longer tricking me into thinking you’re some sexy, awesome total package. So, yes, I’ll let you buy me dinner. But, you’re already a liar, and so, you’re doomed. We’re going nowhere.

 

  1. Tinder is like the homeland of the ugly
    I feel like I’m getting carpel tunnel from swiping left. For every 150 guys I probably give a “good sport” right swipe for about 15. I don’t mean to be shallow, for real, but there’s nothing that kills my dating spirit like concrete proof that New York has a truly heinous straight male population. That sh*t is discouraging.

 

  1. Continuous tragic failures
    Cue my previous stories of Rusty the Construction Worker and The Chubby Scotsman. Sure, they got laid and yes, I’ll give them street cred for providing amazing material for this blog, but what a terrible list of failures that goes on and on. Is Tinder the secret oasis for assholes? Because it would seem so.

 

  1. I hate straight men so much of the time it scares me
    Dear straight guys, you are a woman’s curse. We have to deal with you. You need to stop thinking that just because you have money and are somewhat okay looking that you can treat hot women like sh*t. That is not cute and I’m not having it anymore.

 

  1. Dating makes me tired.
    I like all the free food, sure, but dating is so exhausting. I get tired even planning a date. Where are we going? Where are we meeting? I don’t know, what do you wanna do? Kill me. I don’t even know what this person is like in real life. Between my full time job, this blog, freelancing, and wine obsession, I don’t really have the energy to date. I come home exhausted and disappointed every night to my lonely Upper West Side apartment (probably with a tall-boy in hand to ease the pain of yet another failure). What’s the point of dealing with this nonsense when I have amazing friends, family, and Bob’s Burgers on Netflix?

 

  1. I have to pretend to be someone I’m not
    What is it about first dates? Why do I always act like some different, more together version of myself? Why do I have to flirt and make stupid ass jokes that you’re too dull to comprehend anyway? Frankly, it’s degrading. Boys, I’m a mess and you’re a d-bag. I don’t want to deal with your crap and you don’t want to deal with the strong, ridiculous, complicated woman I am? Well, bye then. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Basic.

Anyway, I deleted my Tinder. And I highly recommend everyone do the same.