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My Almost Boyfriend

24 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by in This Thing Called Love

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4 week—1 officially dating– with Blue flew by with the kind of blissful excitement that can only come out of a new romance. Nights spent in bed listening to alternative music, awesome dates at East Village local Chinese and Austrian restaurants, long easy-going walks and what was shaping up to be a very exciting sex life.

I was finally starting to feel like I could let my guard down. After all of my failed relationships, brief romances and hookups, this seemed to finally be shaping into something I could see manifesting into permanence. It was just easy. And I’ll admit, things moved fast. It may not have been the most intelligent or rational way to go about the relationship but the truth is, it just felt good. It felt good to move fast, to say sweet things and, most of all, to just be myself and let a guy like me just the way I am.

That’s one of the things I liked most about him, that I could just be myself. I wasn’t worrying about speaking my mind or being too forward. I didn’t worry about having too much fun with my friends or getting too crazy on the weekends. He seemed to like that about me. He seemed to really enjoy my openness, my free-spirited nature, my sharp sense of humor and my active social life.

He doesn’t talk much around other people. He’s stoic. That didn’t bother me. It was like he was the wind beneath my wings. Quiet, there if I needed him and never pushy or overbearing. I enjoyed it and I became very comfortable, quickly. It’s extremely unusual for me to let anyone into my life. I tend to live by the whole “No New Friends” mantra, content with my friendships, not really looking for anything serious in the romance department. So, this was different. At least for me.

And, over the last few weeks, I started to feel happy. Really happy. And strangely, it didn’t scare me to feel like that.

—

As it happens not everything could keep swimming along so easily. Reality had to come knocking and it decided to do that knocking this weekend, when I turned 24 years old.

The night before my birthday party was perfectly normal. My best friends, Blue and I all had dinner at one of my favorite burger places—it’s my party and I’ll have a burger if I want to!

Afterwards, we drank wine on my roof, and one-by-one my friends disspeared, off to bars or to bed. Blue and I spent a few more hours listening to Sam Smith (my choice, my birthday) and talking.

The next day was just as carefree. We laid in bed for most of it, and then took a long walk with my friend GH, who was staying with me from Paris until the following Monday. After Blue left to head downtown, GH told me Blue looked like a husky puppy. His hair is almost completely grey and he has stormy blue eyes I can’t get enough of.

My birthday party was a blast. I, of course, was very drunk. It was my birthday, what better excuse could I have? My roommate and best friend since childhood, ON, had words with one of my friends but other than that, a drama-free evening flowing with too much red wine and champagne.

My new roof neighbors, a group of young twenty-something guys, were also having a party and we all joined together to make one muddled, wildly fun gathering. I don’t really remember going to sleep, but I remember having a marvelous time.

A great way to bring in the arbitrary age of 24.

The next morning, my actual birthday, was when things went terribly wrong. Blue bluntly said, “I don’t think I can keep up with your lifestyle.” Dizzy and still slightly drunk, I recalled he’d gone to sleep early, leaving me to dance the night away with my incredulous cohorts. His words were sharp combined with the searing sunlight of mid-morning. It took me a moment to understand what was happening: he was breaking up with me.

What happened next, and I can’t recall the entire conversation for having been so exhausted, was a back-and-forth of how it wasn’t fair to judge my lifestyle by what I did at my own birthday party. He commented on my drinking and I shot back that I don’t even drink during the week. Also, I’m 24 years old. If I want to drink on the weekends with my friends, I damn well will. All I kept thinking was, It’s my birthday.

He said if my drinking habits were something I wanted to work on then he wanted to be with me. And in those early hours of that Sunday, I couldn’t think. I wanted to go back in time. Or, better, I wanted to erase the last few minutes altogether. To make them never exist. To make it so he had never said those words. But he did say them and I didn’t want him here, near me. Not now. Not now that I was so exposed. I was being judged. His judgement made my skin crawl. It made me want to fade away from him. It made me want to undo every decision I had made to put me here in this moment.

“You should go.” I said. He gathered his things and left without saying anything more.

Over text, we decided to see each other that week, try to talk things through, try to forget or fix whatever it was that had broken between us.

Over the next few days I did a lot of thinking. I tried to stay busy with work, to try and fill my days with as many tasks and assignments as I could so that I wouldn’t have to process my emotions.
But, when night crept in and everything was quiet in my apartment, when all I could hear were the muted sounds of the city through my glass porch door, the thoughts would creep into my mind. For days I lay awake thinking, feeling.

My heart began to close again. An icy frost slowly slithering over the exposed ventricals and mixed emotions until there was no pain at all. Only logic.

I knew that I couldn’t trust this relationship anymore, that we had become too happy to fast and that broken thing Blue and I were meant to discuss later in the week was not just something between us. It was us. We were broken. Broken after only 4 weeks. And what can you do then?

The more I thought about it the more I realized this couldn’t be fixed. At least not right away. We couldn’t just go along in some dreamland pretending like nothing had happened. My trust was gone. It had evaporated like the alcohol from the half empty bottles on my porch.

I knew that no matter what he said, no matter what words, that if I even touched alcohol in front of him I would feel guilty, I would feel judged. And that made me angry and it made me sad. I had almost had a boyfriend. He had almost been something. But it wasn’t meant to be. Like Juno put it, he was a piece of furniture in my weird life and no matter how much I wanted it, he just didn’t quite fit.

I knew I had to end it.

He called Wednesday night. The conversation was brief but I was firm. I know he felt badly. I wish I could say I didn’t think he deserved to but he did. He managed to sabotage something that I actually began to want after so many weeks of doubt. Now doubt was all there was left.

As the rain came down in icy sheets against my porch, washing away the residue of yet another New York day, as I lay in bed, alone again with my thoughts, I knew that this was for the best.

We’re still friends. I’m sure we always will be. We care about each other, that was never a question. We just didn’t quite work. The idea was there, the execution, lacking. I think he’s a very nice person and he still thinks the same of me. There was no nasty, heart wrenching, crying-for-days breakup. Just a realization early in the game.

That’s the thing about almost boyfriends: they can always be your friend because they never even finished the race.

The Science Of Giving A Shit

13 Monday Oct 2014

Posted by in This Thing Called Love

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I woke up Saturday morning and kept my eyes tightly shut, consumed with desperate prayers that when I finally let my eyelids crack that I would be faced with the familiarity of my own apartment.

I didn’t get so lucky. Since I didn’t remember getting to this apartment I instinctively knew that something awful has happened last night. That I had had too much to drink, in all likeliness had acted absurd and obnoxious and was now going to be forced to face a situation I wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

—

I’ve been seeing Blue for a while now. I probably should have acknowledged his presence in my life on this blog before today but I didn’t expect that this was going to end up being something and figured I could just hash it out later as things would come to an end sooner rather than later. And I guess part of me didn’t want to jinx it. What did I do to even deserve an actual nice guy?

I’m a sex writer and have a blog where I openly discuss my life and the events surrounding it. What man in their right mind would want to date a person who does what I do? Obviously, I wouldn’t want to be with a man who didn’t accept my work and acknowledge the value that it brings to the world without dismissing it as vicious smut., but I didn’t really think there were many men out there who were actually understanding and, honestly, appreciative of my work.

But Blue is different. He cares about my writing and seems to care about me as well. I plan to post some of his writing here as he’s currently grappling with the realities of dating me: an emotionally unavailable millennial female.

I’ve resisted him as much as possible. I didn’t have any interest in having a relationship and certainly nothing serious. I guess reason has won out.

—

When the going gets tough it’s easier to run away and not deal with the situation than it is to actually confront it. I’ll openly admit that I am great at running. I could have a PHD in Running The Fuck Away.

Waking up this morning I laid very still for several minutes deciding what I was going to do and how I was going to make my escape from Blue’s apartment to the salvation of my walk up on the Upper West Side.

How far am I from the train, again? Is it too early to get home so I’ll have to explain what happened to PW? Would Blue wake up if I tried to sneak out? Shit, my backpack with all of my stuff was in the living room. Could I be quiet enough to get dressed and peace out?

My panicked thoughts were abruptly halted by Blue’s voice. He sounded somewhat annoyed, clearly perplexed and obviously frustrated.

We’d gone to a comedy show the night before, prefaced by a happy hour with my best friend from Paris, GH, and a bottle of wine with the steak we had at dinner. I didn’t need any more to drink at the show but I did—because I’m an asshole and have issues with limits.

Blue related what happened. A cringe-worthy mixture of obnoxious screaming and tears. I was mortified. I couldn’t even look at him.

Up until now I had nothing to lose. What the fuck did I care about this dude? Who was he to even get me to feel this shameful about my actions? I hated how vulnerable and emotionally raw I felt. I wanted out and fast.

“I’m leaving.” I declared and started putting on my clothes in a hurry, desperate to hightail it to the train even though it was raining and I had a terrible headache. “Why?” he asked. I explained that I was uncomfortable, that I didn’t want to be there anymore—the usual speech I give for why I don’t face my mistakes and instead run away and pretend nothing ever happened.

He asked me to stay. I kept getting dressed. I wasn’t staying there. Hell no. I looked at him lying there. He was confused and upset and asking me to stay despite the fact that I had been a complete jackass the night before. I didn’t understand why he was even asking me to stay. I brushed it off, curtly, as his being polite.

When he asked again I stopped in my tracks and just stared for a long moment, deep inside my head. Why was I running away from this guy? It was easy to run away before. I never gave a shit about anything enough to make it better. I didn’t have time to pick up the pieces. I just had to leave them there, messy and broken and move on to the next chapter, storing away those unwanted memories in the back of my mind. To admit that I cared meant that I would have to take action and set off on a course to (hopefully) remedy the situation.

What I felt next made my cheeks warm and sweat collect on my brow. Holy hell. I cared. I actually gave a shit. I didn’t want to run away. I wanted to mend the cracks and make it better. I wanted to fix it. And I wanted Blue. I didn’t want to never see him again as I had been planning only a few minutes earlier, as I lay plotting my escape.

I put down my things, climbed back into bed and legitimately had a real conversation. I admitted I was wrong, that I was red hot with embarrassment and sorry I behaved like such a petulant child. And what was crazier was that I meant it all.

He forgave me, which made me like him even more because it showed an amount of character uncommon in most of the men I’ve dealt with in my (almost) 24 years on this earth and nearly 5 spent in New York City. I acted like a dick, he was angry, I apologized and we both cared enough to make it better.

I call that progress. Progress for my maturity and progress for my sometimes-unmanageable pride. To admit defeat was the first step. And admitting defeat didn’t mean that I was defeated. It meant that I was a human being and human beings are flawed.

Anyway, I guess I have a boyfriend now. This is territory I haven’t been in in a very long time and I’ll admit I’m terrified while still being excited.

I’m grateful my heart wanted something enough to master the science of giving a shit.

Gay Men Are A Girl’s Best Friend

05 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by in Single in New York

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I’m not knocking on my lady friends here, nor am I looking to generalize all gay men into one category or push them into certain stereotypes, but there is a lot to be said about having a gay man as your BFF.

My best friend and I have been super close since we were 12 years old and living on Maui. We both moved to New York for college and have lived together ever since.

He’s my main source of support, my rock in this concrete jungle.

I know I can depend on him for anything and he knows the same about me. We’re like brother and sister, Batman and Robin, Seth Rogen and James Franco. In short, we’re unbreakable, unshakable and remarkable.

I have to say that I think a lot of what makes us such a power couple (he’s clearly my gay husband) is the fact that he, as a gay man, shares so many fantastic qualities with myself, but from a male perspective.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Gay men are the best. They have all the emotional wherewithal of a female, while having the same kind of power that we feminists are trying to achieve in the workplace and in relationships.

They’re like women 4.0, and I adore them all. I know that it isn’t fair to lump all gay men into one (although absolutely perfect) category, I just think that gay men make the best friends for any female. Here are the eight reasons why I love having a gay best friend:

1. They always support you

My gay best friend wants me to be the very best that I can be. He isn’t afraid to push me, to challenge me and to make me fight for my goals. He’s been the greatest safety net when I’ve felt my most afraid and my shoulder to cry on when I’ve felt my most vulnerable.

Gay men aren’t afraid to show their emotions; that’s what makes them a lot like girlfriends. There’s no hard exterior or “Mr. Cool Guy” act going on; they just generally want to be there to support you unconditionally.

2. They want to gab about boys, etc.

I love that I can talk to my best friend for hours on end about boys and about my relationships. Likewise, he wants to talk to me about his relationships. I never have to worry about being tuned out, judged or embarrassed about anything I divulge.

Not to mention, you know we have fun playing with his Grindr app while we pregame.

Your gay best friend is the easiest person to talk to because he doesn’t care you were making out with that rando at the bar last night because he was right there with you. This is a time when having a gay best friend is like having a best girlfriend; he’s always up for anything and is always right there by your side.

3. They are (relatively) drama free

I tread lightly when I say this, but gay men just have less drama than women. They are no-nonsense, get-to-the-point kind of people.

I love this about my gay husband. If I do something to set him off, he tells me how it is. He’s not into sitting around, being passive aggressive and talking a bunch of sh*t behind my back. He just tells me what’s going on and how he’s feeling, and we mutually find a way to remedy the situation so we can hightail it to happy hour.

4. They tell it like it is

If I look like a beached whale in my horizontally striped, mid-length, body-hugging dress (yeah, not my best fashion choice), my gay best friend is going to tell me straight up that I look like Shamu.

I love that he doesn’t lie to me because what service does it do me to spend an entire Friday evening out on the town looking like Rosie O’Donnell?

I appreciate the honesty I can always count on, even if it does sting a little.

5. They’re clean

Hygiene in the gay community is non-negotiable. My gay husband is borderline (okay, completely, sorry!) anal. It can be a little annoying since I tend to be a bit of a slob, but I appreciate that he wants a clean home and is always clean-shaven with a trendy haircut and smelling like Burberry Homme.

6. They dress to impress

My gay husband is impeccably dressed. I can’t even deal with all of these straight men in their high-tops and jerseys. Give me J. Crew, tailored jeans and V-neck sweater kind of guy any day.

7. You always have a shopping partner

Okay, not true of every gay guy, I know. They don’t all love shopping, but my gay husband LOVES shopping. It’s so nice to be able to spend a carefree day with a male who I know is going to love hitting up H&M and won’t mind holding on to my purse while I’m trying things on.

He also won’t hesitate to tell me my ass looks fat in those jeans.

8. You always have a handsome +1

I love being single. When I get invited to fancy par-tays, I can always rely on my fantastic, gorgeous BFF to be my arm candy for the night. Sometimes it can be a little tricky finding nice boys since they tend to think he’s my boyfriend, but it’s so worth it for all of the awesome photos we’ll take throughout the evening.

Hopefully we’ll both get lucky.

An Aside–

My only lament about having a fabulous, amazing gay husband is that all of these things aforementioned are the qualities of nearly every hot guy in New York. Sigh, I feel like all the good ones are gay. It’s actually quite depressing sometimes, but at least I have the best friend I could possibly ask for.

I love you, PW!

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

7 Ways That Going to College Far From Home Changed My Life

21 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by in The New Chapter

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Going away to college in a far away place can be a scary thing. You’re out of your comfort zone, you don’t know anyone and you don’t have your family or old friends as safety nets.

It’s easy enough for some high school seniors to pick a place within driving distance from their hometown. While it may seem like the safest decision, it might not be the best one.

To choose a college far away from home can completely change your perspective on life. You’re out there in the big, bad world alone, but you will grow stronger because of it.

Here are seven reasons why going to college far from home is the best:

1. You get to spread your wings

Going to college far from home is definitely intimidating, but that shouldn’t stop you from flying the proverbial coop and getting out into the world.

Being on your own forces you to grow up and learn to depend on yourself, to trust your judgments and learn from your mistakes. By the time you get out of college, you’ll be leaps and bounds ahead (maturity-wise) of your friends who decided to stay near the nest.

This is the time to build yourself up so that you can become the strongest you can be.

2. Mom won’t show up to the dorm with a casserole, unannounced.

When you’re at college, you’re doing college. So if Mom and Dad can just randomly show up any time they want, it might become an issue.

While you’re all cracked out on energy drinks and anxiety while studying for exams or “accidentally” sleeping with a guy down the hall, you don’t want your parents to interrupt.

If you choose a far away college, you are fully safe potential from unplanned familial awkwardness. Can I get an amen?

3. You can make a life that’s entirely your own

Sure, being near home has its advantages. You get free food and you’re near your friends — but in college, being near friends isn’t necessarily a good thing.

This reality puts you at risk for staying in your old routine, seeing the same people and going to the same places.

Being somewhere new forces you to meet new friends, make connections and learn a lot about yourself. Being far away doesn’t mean you’ll be forever alone — it just means you’ll start fresh and begin to build a life that belongs to only you.

4. You’ll learn how to grocery shop

You’ll learn a lot of things when you’re in college, out there in The Great Unknown. Some of the things will be tasks that you probably never had to do while you were growing up.

Well, now you do. You’ll learn to buy your food and then (GASP!) cook your food. You’ll learn how to clean your bathroom and will finally realize when you need more toilet paper.

It can be tough to take care of yourself but ultimately, it’s totally worth it.

5. You get to follow your own rules

When you’re far from the watchful eyes of your parental units, you get to live the way you want to live.

Whether that means spending all day in the library (yeah, right) or hitting the local dive bars until 4 am, no one is there to give you side eye when you walk through the front door or question where you’ve been all night.

You’re an adult now — plain and simple. You can do whatever you want and that is a beautiful thing.

6. It forces you to find adventure

You’re now in the wonderful world of the undiscovered, in a new place where you’ve never lived before. Think of all the amazing new things you’ll try and bars — I mean, places — you’ll get to see.

Going to college far away from home is like an exciting four-year adventure. So, get out there, in the open air and breathe it all in.

Maybe you’ll fall in love with this new place and want to stay forever. I definitely did.

7. Leaving your high school boyfriends at home

No. Packing them is not an option.

When you go away to college, you get to leave all of those boys behind. Who we are in high school and who we are in college tend to pain very different pictures. If you’re holding onto past loves, it’ll likely stunt your growth.

There are plenty of other guys out there on that new campus, many, many miles away from home.

If you choose to leave home and cut the cords, you’ll be that much more ready for the next phase of this journey called life.

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

Yes, I’m Crazy: An Open Letter to Men

16 Monday Jun 2014

Posted by in Single in New York, This Thing Called Love

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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?

13 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in The New Chapter

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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?

How I Got Pressured into Being a Youtuber’s Cohort

06 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Single in New York

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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.

The Challenge of a New Beginning

18 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by in Single in New York, The New Chapter

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I’ve just begun an awesome new job, and I’m definitely not looking to complain about having a full-time offer right out of college, considering I was given this fantastic opportunity at an amazing company, surrounded by really interesting and talented new people. However, I think it’s important to voice the challenges of finding a balance when you’re starting something new and still in school.

I’ve found that over these last two weeks I’ve been putting school on the back burner. And while I know this isn’t the best of plans, all I can think about is how I’m so happy to be working where I am and doing what I love.

I’m truly trying to delegate my time, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult when I have all of these seemingly pointless assignments that have nothing to do with my new career. If I hated my job, and was working in a miserable environment, I honestly think it might be easier to focus on my schoolwork.

The truth is, like so many seniors about to embark on fabulous new journeys into life—I’m just done. I’m in no way suggesting that I plan to blow off my assignments or fail any of my classes—I just feel like, at this point in my life— I want to be finished already. Graduation is only four weeks away. I know I need to muscle through, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling. I’m managing content that I love and writing pieces that I’m crazy about and meanwhile, I have looming papers and projects to finish in order to get a piece of paper that is supposed to somehow validate me when I feel like I’ve already been validated.

I’ve been profoundly anxious that if I slack at all at my new job by wasting my time with school, I’m going to have them end up thinking I’m not as dedicated, not as talented as I am. I’ve been working my hardest to try and juggle everything all at once. I’m multi-tasking, and that is a challenge I accept with thanks. I’m very lucky. I’m completely aware of that. How many seniors are walking out of college with the job they dreamed they might have?

What I fear most, above all other things, is failure. Can I do this? Can I make it? Well, of course I can. I think it’s just difficult to be able to remember that everything is important and that nothing can be left behind.

I long for May 17th, when I can role into graduation and think, “Wow. I did it. It’s over. I’m here.” I need to power through. I need to believe in my abilities and I need to be willing to put in the extra work until I’m finally free of the chains of higher education. I am so eternally grateful for everything that I have. I don’t mean to whine or complain. It’s just that my plate is so full right now that I’m scared it will topple over and everything will fall apart.

I’m being strong. I’m trying to be brave. I’m neglecting my friendships and I’m so thankful that all of my lifers have been so supportive through this massive change in my life.

Cheers to new beginnings! And cheers to making it through the next month!