Dear Abi | girlsarethenewboys.com

Growing up, I’ve always felt underestimated. In elementary school my mom made me wear frilly dresses with stockings that had hearts on them, and shiny Mary-Janes with bows. One of my favorite recess games to play was kickball. I still remember the very first time I time I went up to base, everyone came in less than 15 feet from me. I guess I couldn’t blame them. I was the second shortest person in class, and a girl at that. Needless to say, my kickball debut was a hit and I made it to second base. And the day I caught Daniel Graham’s ball outfield in my frilly dress and shiny shoes, was the day I became one of the third grade’s most valuable players.

Fast forward to the present, and not too much has changed. Instead of my kickball skills, it’s my intelligence, wit, talent, and topics of interest that are always chopped and screwed. It’s become predictable at this point. Unfortunately, it even makes me underestimate myself sometimes. It’s part truth, part inferiority complex. Fortunately, I’m too stubborn to let it defeat me. The stigma that stems from my party pics, vulgar language, and addiction to silliness help me weed out the crabgrass in my life, and adds fuel to the fire in my soul.

The best part about being judged inaccurately, is that you get to prove people wrong. And when people underestimate you, there’s no way to go but up. The redemption is sweeter than guava chiffon pancakes. The truth is, you don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Long as you prove it to yourself.

I try to refrain from posts like these, because I always feel that complaining about something you despise only makes what you despise stronger. However, I also feel like we’re all entitled to a free rant now and then so here’s mine in no particular order:

Fishermen. Not those who go deep sea diving, I’m talking about people who fish for compliments. Like people that post pictures with no makeup on with captions like, “OMG I’m so ugly without makeup!” BITCH GTFOH. We all know that if it was really that bad of picture a picture, you wouldn’t post it. Who does that? Not me, that’s for damn sure. And if I did but just didn’t give a flying 747, I wouldn’t draw attention to it with a caption like that. The best is when the person is still wearing makeup in the picture albeit just concealer or a little eyeliner. Ho, I know the tricks of the trade, I use them!

Mine vs. Mines: Maybe it’s the Virgo in me. Maybe it’s the Journalism major in me. Maybe it’s the writer in me. Or maybe it’s the psychotic anal bitch in me. Either way, I was taught the difference between mine and mines in KINDERGARTEN PEOPLE! It’s probably one of the only things I remember from school (so sad). But even worse than there, they’re, and their is when someone says, “That’s mines!” No motherfucker. Mines are holes in the ground.

People who don’t use their turn signal. I just don’t understand how one can complain about using something that has no negative side effects to it. I know it’s just a stupid light that blinks for a few seconds, but there is no harm done in using it. Not using it on the other hand, can mean the difference between a five car pile up on the freeway or me honking at you for the next three exits. Now I wouldn’t say I hate people that don’t signal before they turn, I just wish they’d all drive into a divider.

Bicyclist. Before all you fixie owners get your riding spanks all in a bunch, let me clarify by saying not ALL bicyclist annoy me. I happen to have quite a few lovely friends who ride bicycles. I’m only referring to the ones who think they’re the “Blade’s” of the bike lane. Those who want the best of both the pedestrian and automobile worlds. The ones who want to run with the big boys, and cause traffic on the street, yet refuse to stop at red lights, nearly run over real pedestrians on foot, and then want to be treated like a pedestrian once they get into an accident. Pick one jerk-off! Everyone else is excused.

Being late. Now. I’m a girl, so being late is almost in my blood. I’ve apologetically had people wait outside my house sometimes up to 10 minutes while I frantically tried to find my keys or apply a false eyelash, but when it comes to shit with time constraints I’ll be there 30 minutes early before ever being 10 minutes late. This especially applies to people who have no reverence for live shows, movies, or sporting events. And don’t even get me started on those who leave during halftime and chill at the bar until the middle of the fourth. Unless your uncle is Larry Bird, there should be no reason why you don’t care to not only waste your money, but disrespect the sport!

Readers, consider my blog today a venting free for all. If you have anything you’d like to add or agree with, feel free to comment below! Now don’t go fishing, don’t forget to signal, don’t be an asshole on a bicycle, remember that it’s MINE not MINES, be on time, and have a good fucking day!

The first time I heard about Molly, she went on an all girls trip with the Wolf Pack in Vegas about two years ago. I didn’t quite understand where she came from, or who she was exactly. I just knew she was a good time. More recently she made an appearance at Wonderful at The Mezzanine, but I spent most of the night hanging out with my girl Mary-Jane nd missed her. My friends on the other hand partied with her ALL NIGHT.

Since then, I kept hearing more and more about her and couldn’t help but feel curious. Why haven’t we met yet? We rolled in the same crowds, and truth be told she got around. But I’ve been feeling emo, and anti-social so the last thing I wanted to do was make a new friend. Alas New Years Eve came along and she was all everyone could talk about. I was starting to feel jealous.

I remember it quite vividly actually. It was 11:00 o’clock PM December 31st. I was with Scrubs and Crystal said we had until 11:30 to figure out if we wanted to meet her or not. 11:24 came, and Crystal wouldn’t take no for an answer. We met by the bar. Molly’s introduction was brief, but her presence was felt throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

As me and my girls made our way through the crowded dance floor in time for the countdown, I could tell Molly had been there as well. Everywhere you looked people were smiling harder, laughing bigger, and dancing with their eyes closed as if they were in a room by themselves. That bitch was good. She was everyone’s date that night. What a ho.

Still, we saw each other twice more after that. The last time at Immortal. Her, me, and Crystal had a threesome. And let me tell you, it was the best date EVER. I thought I saw a man’s aura on stage. It was blue by the way. We had an amazing time, but once again, just like before – Molly was gone before sunrise. That’s when I realized I couldn’t take the bitch seriously. She was only there for me during the good times and you know what they say, “If you can’t handle me at my worst. Then you don’t deserve me at my best.”

See, Molly is the perfect booty call. She cartwheels into your life, then tippy-toes into the morning light without so much as a bobby-pin, or earring, or trace of perfume left behind. She doesn’t care who else you see, she’s not needy, never wants to talk, and doesn’t care if you don’t ever want to date her. So you don’t wife a chick like her. Which is completely fine by me, ‘cuz I ain’t lesbian anyway.