The Walking Dead.

I’ve always thought the best way to get in shape is to get your heartbroken. Either you’re too sad to eat and so desperate to keep yourself busy that the gym suddenly becomes an option, or you just want to look good in the event you run into your ex’s new whorebag girlfriend, or even better/worse your ex. That’s why I started running and doing yoga, but I kept running and doing yoga because I genuinely loved it

Thus, you should always do things for yourself. Not for the approval of others. Not to make someone  jealous. Not to teach someone a lesson. Eat good because it makes you feel good. Learn how to play the guitar because you enjoy it. Go hiking because it makes you happy. Do shit for yourself.

Always. Unless you’re in a rut like me and can’t find motivation even if it slaps you in the face. 

To say I haven’t been happy is an understatement. I may go about my business like usual, but you can hear it in my sigh and see it in the emptiness of my stare. The problem is I know what I need to do in order to get my shit together, and even worse I know what will happen if I don’t. Yet, I refuse to take even the slightest step in the right direction. I’m in this self-inflicted limbo where I’m depressed and dissatisfied enough to complain about it and hate my life, yet not enough to change my life. It’s as if I’m fine being unhappy.

My biggest fear next to death itself, is living a mediocre life and I am well underway to achieving it. Still, that thought isn’t enough to push me to do better. WHAT THE FUCK?!?! While thinking about my dilemma one day, I started to think of Gail. She was one of the few people I never felt a burden to. I often wonder how different my life would be with her still in it. The relationships I would still have, and the ones I would’ve never started. I told a girlfriend of mine about this and she suggested that if I absolutely cannot do it for myself, then to do it for someone else. 

Live for Gail. You have to find motivation. You can’t give up. Life is too precious and short to not try. People like Gail and my pops don’t have that chance anymore.”


I had never thought about it that way, and it wasn’t until I did that I actually felt something click. I’m not saying I’m cured and that I’m going to finally start utilizing my gym membership or writing my book tomorrow, but apparently I found something more effective than doing something for myself. So instead of living as if I may be die tomorrow, I’ll live for those who have already gone instead. 


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Words for the Birds.

263-c-happens-for-a-reason-card-1_grandeFor someone who writes a blog, I must admit I’m not very good with words. My go-to is to say what people need to hear as opposed to what they want to hear, so it’s hard for me to be honest and tactful at the same time. It’s easy to find the silver lining in bleak situations, but silver linings only distract you from the rain with puddles and rainbows – they don’t stop the storm or make your umbrella stronger.

As negative as I may seem to be, I truly admire people who can have a positive outlook in the midst of even the darkest hours. And although I poke fun of hippie-dippy people who recite affirmations and keep crystals in their pockets, I truly wish I could be like them. Sometimes it’s so hard for me to be positive it actually feels like a physical impairment. 

I swear I’m not a cynic – I’m a realist. The difference is I don’t think everything happens for a negative reason, or any reason for that matter. I think shit just happens and you have to accept it. Everyone deals with adversity differently. Some want to be coddled while some want to be slapped, and as a friend I will do whatever you want me to do. But I will never tell you “It’s all part of a plan”. Never

Ultimately, I believe that we should all pay closer attention to other people’s coping mechanisms and try to be more empathetic towards them – myself included. I have a tendency to always need to say something and I wind up coming off as insensitive. Other times I know that nothing I say will make it better, so I say nothing at all and still come off as being insensitive. I hope that I can make up for the silence with my ability to listen instead. 

I may not be the friend who will have encouraging words to say if you quit your job in the middle of a recession, but I will be the friend who spruce’s up your resume and forwards you every job lead I know of. And I will never tell you that “Things happen for a reason” if your chemotherapy doesn’t work, but I will go wig shopping with you and spark up a fat one until the both of us can’t feel our face, or the pain. 

Editors Note: Shout out to Emily McDowell studio for her cute aesthetics, and endearing empathy cards. I’ve been meaning to do a post about the topic at hand, and her cards inspired me to finally write it. 

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razor tongues slit wrists.

You are not good enough.
You are so fucking stupid.
You are worthless.
You are not enough.
You are a loser.
Look at you, no wonder he doesn’t want to be with you.

What the fuck is wrong with you?
I hate you.

Imagine listening to this verbal abuse all day. Now imagine hearing it for six months. I did. 

If sticks and stones can break your bones, words can definitely scar you forever. The worst part was it came from someone I thought loved me. Someone who should love me. Someone whom I trusted. I never thought they would hurt me like this.

It’s easy to tell me to cut this person out of my life and just separate myself from the negativity, but it’s always easier said than done. Especially when that person is ME. And who needs enemies when I had me? My friends were always supportive, but I could tell they became weary of my text messages and phonecalls. It wasn’t that they grew tired of talking to me, they were tired of the way I talked to myself. 

One would think I was tired of the way I talked to myself, but I wasn’t. Somewhere down the line it became all I knew. Sadly, I had gotten so used to putting myself down I didn’t know any other way to talk to myself. Practicing self love wasn’t just foreign – it was difficult. Everytime I would attempt to say something encouraging or nurturing to myself, it was second nature to commit self-sabotage. It was also easier.

I can’t say I’ve been nicer to myself lately, but I’m definitely not as mean. I’m not sure what exactly made me stop this behavior, but I do know it happened around the same time I started hypnotherapy. I am not good, but I am thankfully not worse. I used to cry because I truly believed all the horrible things I said to myself, and while I shouldn’t be crying at all, at least now I cry because I can’t believe I used to say these horrible things to myself. 

If you are finding it hard to be kind to yourself, here, I’ll do it for you. Even if you don’t believe me.

You are good enough.
You are amazing.
You are worthy.
You are enough.
You are beautiful.
Look at you, even you want to be with you!

Nothing is wrong with you.
I love you.

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Fall For My Type – TBT 12.23.10

I wonder how it feels to be you.

Having to look at me.
Look at him.
The same way I used to look at you.

I almost feel bad. Because I know how it feels to pull a conversation out your ass in hopes that it will make the other person remember a special memory the two of you had. Or maybe, just MAYBE – miss you back.

So how does it feel when I don’t pick up, or reply. Or answer the way I used to? No smiley faces or good mornings. No “I had a great time.”

Remember when I used to sniff your neck and kiss that part right behind your earlobe?
Remember when I used to trace the definition of your muscles and work my way down?

I wonder how it feels to sit across from me during dinner. Just like we used to. Talking about everything and nothing at all. Same ol’, Same ol’ – yet not the same at all.

Because NOW? I’m not looking at you gasping for a breath of fresh air. Choking on anxiety. I’m not trying to search for answers or a way to get in. I’M NOT CRYING INSIDE. I’m not wondering if you’re for real, or second guessing myself. You. Us. Because NOW? Dinner is just a slice of pizza and spaghetti with meatballs for you, and linguine with clams for me. It’s just a formality.

Because NOW? I’m not making excuses for you. Or giving you the benefit of the doubt. Or refusing to look at the facts. You probably don’t even care. And that’s fine. All that matters is I don’t either. I just look at you and see you, your slice of cheese pizza, plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and everything I loved about you … and everything I DON’T EVER want in a man.

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Petty Please.

“I wanted to tell you again it was awesome seeing you. You’re even sexier than I remember”.

That was the message I got from a friend of mine that I used to have “relations” with. I’m an A-cup. I don’t have long legs and my hips are non-existent. My hair is short and I don’t have DSL’s, so you would think I jumped for joy upon reading this. On the contrary, something about it didn’t sit well. I knew my friend meant nothing wrong by it, however, I was almost offended. And that is entirely my fault.

My friend is successful, worldly, adventurous, smart, and I always felt intimidated by him. Because of the aforementioned, my ego convinced me that I wasn’t good enough for him to date. Not because I too wasn’t intelligent or cultured, but because I never gave him the opportunity to get to know that. And by the time I did, he didn’t care to know.

Needless to say, when I read his Facebook message I didn’t take it as the compliment he intended it to be. I took it as a reminder that he only sees – or maybe only cares about my physical attributes.

Not too long before that, a co-worker of mine asked how it felt to be the prettiest girl in the office. Honestly, it felt uncomfortable. He didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, that label did. It makes me feel like I have some sort of title to maintain, when the inevitable is someone prettier is always bound to come along. This shit doesn’t sound pretty, it sounds petty. I sound like I’m playing the “Wah wah wah, it’s so hard being pretty” card, but the truth is I lack self-confidence and that shit is neither sexy nor pretty. 

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t enjoy looking sexy, and of course it’s flattering when someone thinks I’m pretty – I just want people to know that I am so much MORE. Or at the very least,  know that I feel the sexiest when someone brings up a line from one of my blogs, and I feel the most beautiful when I make people laugh. 

Hey friend if you’re reading this, I’ll be seeing you again soon. This time, I hope I’m even more funny, talented, and smart than the last time we hung out. 

And for the record, you’re even sexier than I remember too.


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My Favorite Pain in the Ass.

I watched a movie staring Jason Bateman called This Is Where I leave You not too long ago. In the movie, he catches his wife cheating on him and his immediate reaction is disbelief in the form of utter silence. Although he didn’t say anything, his face said it all and for a split second I was reminded of the anxiety that accompanies betrayal and a broken heart. Having not been in a relationships as long as I have, I cannot not even fathom how it would feel to be cheated on. The thought alone has me panic stricken. 

Getting into a new relationship is as scary as it is exciting, and allowing someone “in” can be terrifying. Even on a smaller scale.You ultimately have to be yourself but one can’t help but be nervous that the other person won’t like you based on your quirks and habits.  For instance, I’m always nervous making the bed in front of someone for the first time.

Did you know that the tag on your blanket determines what side the bottom is? I was unaware of this until a friend of mine told me one morning, and I immediately felt stupid. I should probably mention that this friend slept over the night before. Also, I was very much “in like” with said friend. Though seemingly simple and mundane, making the bed is one of many, petty little things I feel a person of interest may judge me for. And there’s plenty more where that came from.

What if my next crush doesn’t like the way I iron? What if he hates that I fall asleep during car rides home even when I promise I won’t? What if he doesn’t like the way I play with my hair? What if he gets annoyed with the way I drive, or the fact I take my socks off and leave them underneath the sheets in the middle of the night? What if he mistakes my “chillness” for being indecisive or not having an opinion? WHAT IF HE DOESN’T LIKE THE WAY I MAKE THE BED?

The list goes on, but I guess none of it really matters anyway. Your quirks may very well drive the next guy crazy. But if he’s the right guy, those same quirks that drive him crazy will also make him crazy for you.

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Who Gives a Fuck?


Quality over quantity definitely applies to sex. While I can still count my sexual partners on 2 , errr 3 hands, I can definitely say that the quality of the sex made up for it. Surprised I haven’t written about this before, but here are my  Top 3 fucks and the reasons why they made the list. 

3. Mr. Big: Again, Mr. Big wasn’t big. He’s probably what most would call average. But he was a good fuck, because he was a FUN fuck. He liked to talk dirty, sexy, and he was never shy about sending me a dick pic in the middle of the day. One time I received one unsuspectingly, and I swear I couldn’t function for the next hour after that. 

2. Buzz: I liked fucking Buzz because he had a big, old hamburger dick. But I loved fucking Buzz, because he seemed to genuinely love fucking me. He was always so enthusiastic and very vocal about how good he felt. How good I felt. Everything. He made me feel sexy, and the way he would describe our sex and my body made me forget he was fucking other people, and all the insecurities I had about body.

1. I know this is cheating, but it’s tie between Thor and Wolfie: Thor was a nasty motherfucker with an almost 9-inch dick. I can only assume I was in my prime during our relationshit, because we would fuck for hours on end and I’d still get up for work and be on time the next day. One time we fucked throughout the entire Wild, Wild, West movie. I just IMDB’d that shit and that movie is 2.5 fucking hours. Good God. While longevity is a good thing, sometimes it was just TOO long. I had (other) shit to do and places to go. However, he always came and that left me happy.

Wolfie had stamina too. He was a great fuck, because he knew just where to hit it. He wasn’t packing as big as Thor, but he knew what to do with what he had (which wasn’t small by any means). He was strong and vigorous, and had a carnal type of sex appeal about him that drove me crazy. Unfortunately, the fact that he wouldn’t cum all the time drove me crazy too. It made me feel as if the sex wasn’t good or I didn’t please him. 

Now let’s hope I can write a Top 5 list by the end of the year.

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