all these bridges, and i still can’t get over you.

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i try. i think really hard about it too. all these bridges, and i still can’t get over you.
i don’t even need to try. it’s right there in front of me. our future failures, the reasons we can’t be together. the reasons we aren’t together.

i can’t talk to you about things. i can’t talk to you about anything. at least not without second guessing myself. first. without feeling judged. without wondering if i sound stupid. without holding back.

i tell myself you are not for me. you won’t understand my needs. or appreciate my jokes. or accept my quirks. you’re always on your phone. and you don’t even wait for me to get out of the car before walking to your front door. 

i remind myself that i deserve better. that i am better. that someone will love me. that i love me. that i am worth the effort you never gave. that you never even tried, nor wanted to. I REMIND MYSELF THAT WE ARE NOTHING. 

i remember the pain. i force myself to, even though i tried so hard to forget. the anxiety. the drowning in my tears, and not being able to breathe because i can’t stop swallowing the lies i tell myself about myself. the sinking feeling in my stomach everytime you liked one of her pictures. everytime i knew you would be out. everytime someone breathed your existence in my direction. 

but i just can’t do it. i try. i think really hard about it too. all these bridges, and i still can’t get over you.

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Just the Tip #1

I recently read an IG post that said to delete the numbers of all the men who treated you wrong. If the act hadn’t backfired for me, I’d strongly suggest it. Except every single time I’ve done this, I ended up memorizing the number after seeing it on my screen so many times. I DON’T EVEN KNOW MY MOM’S NUMBER BY HEART. Dafuq. 

Thus, I would suggest changing their name on your phone instead. “Fuck Boy”, “Asshole”, and “DO NOT PICK UP” seem to be popular. Or you can take the sad, but effective “He doesn’t want you” approach. Whatever you do, leave out any desired adjectives in his name. When you’re drunk or vulnerable, “Big dick bastard” will only read as “Big dick”. 

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A Letter to my 21 Year Old Self.

Happy birthday you beautiful bitch! I bet you think you’re a big girl now don’t you? Well, I have good and bad news for you: you’re not even close. You may never be. Until you are, here’s some advice from your 35-year old self who I promise can still keep it lit AF. Don’t worry, you’ll understand what that means in about 14 years.

1. YOU ARE ENOUGH.

2. You’re going to get your heart broken. You’ll think you’re going to die. You might a little. And then you’ll get over it. Then, you’ll get your heart broken at least 2 more times. But guess what? You ALWAYS get over it. Sometimes it takes longer than before, but you ALWAYS get over it. Remember that.

3. You don’t stop getting your heart broken when you “grow up”.

4. If you’re going to charge 4 flights on your credit card, PAY THEM OFF IMMEDIATELY. I repeat – IMMEDIATELY.

5. Only accept enough Financial Aid to cover tuition and school supplies.

6. Your mom loves you, no matter what she says.

7. You love your mom, no matter what she says.

8. Don’t let the approval or rejection of someone else validate your worth.

9. Speaking of college, do broadcast Journalism.

10. Giants in 2010. 2012. AND 2014. I’ll write you back in a few weeks to talk about 2016.

11. YOU ARE ENOUGH. Continue reading

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Homegrown x YouLovePoon x Jame Poquiz Photography x SF Barbershop

It’s been a while since I’ve been on a flyer – what more with clothes on lol. 

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No Bodies Business.

Growing up, I was called a lot of names in regards to my body. “Midget” and “mosquito bites” were a few of my favorites. I had no tits, bad skin, big thighs, and zipping boots over my calves was always a struggle. It got better in high school, because I heard the term “thick” for the first time and found out it applied to me. However, I still wished I was at least three inches taller and could actually fill up my moms bras that I borrowed because I was too lazy and embarrassed to get measured and buy my own.

Now? Now I get to see Instagram models with both real and fake bodies getting “famous” and paid to be beautiful. Now? Now I am constantly reminded of every unwanted and wanted pound. Of every non-existent curve. Of how my clothes fit loose and tight in all the wrong places. Sometimes I look at old pictures of myself and sulk over how I left myself go. Other times I feel like a tween’ waiting for puberty to hit amongst a world full of beautiful women with hips and cleavage and pole wrapping legs. 

Yet, I feel as if I’m not allowed to vent my frustrations. I feel bad for feeling bad, because I live in a world where if we aren’t an extreme – “fat” or “skinny”, we aren’t allowed to complain. Either I’m fishing for compliments, or need to shut up, or am simply being silly. 

“HELP. How do I do this correctly?”

I am still in the process of loving myself for everything I am – and am not. That, I feel is a never ending journey. But I have learned a little something along the way. I’ve learned that it’s OK to FEEL. I’ve also learned to accept that everyone is entitled to do what they want to their body, whether I agree with it or think it’s “unfair”. But most of all, I’ve learned not to dismiss other people’s complaints (unless they’re just being petty lol). 

I used to tell my friends, “You’re not fat. Stop complaining, etc.” But I’ve realized that when I say this myself, I’m not fishing for compliments – I’m looking for motivation and support. Thus, telling my friends otherwise discredits their feelings. So instead, I say “I would kill for your curves. But if you want to run with me sometime, or do anything let me know!” The response is usually a blank stare followed by a, “Never mind I’ll just be fat” but at least I put the offer out there. 

Abs may start in the kitchen, but a positive self-image starts in your head. 

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Fixer Downer.

I had a conversation with my ace this morning. It started with me trying to figure out what tropical island I was going to spend money I don’t have on, then quickly spiraled into a pity party of 1. Instead of cake and confetti, this party had insecurities and self-loathing. I told her that I lurked the Instagram pages of the exes of any man I’ve kissed in the past year and wished I had their body, their hair, their lips, their confidence, their job, their anything and everything I didn’t have. Then, I told her how I started personal training today, so at least I could “fix” that part of me.

I took a double take at what I messaged her and silently screamed to myself,

“BABY GIRL YOU DON’T NEED TO BE FIXED!” 

Fix? I say it again, FIX? No honey, you do not need to be fixed. Silly girl.  Continue reading

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Nothing and Everything.

I have amazing friends. They’re beautiful, and talented. Thoughtful and funny. Smart, and cultured. Every now and then we’ll summon our 25-year old selves and do something crazy like put heels on, drink all the drinks, and stay out past midnight. We laugh until our tummies hurt, and cry unfamiliar-but-becoming-more-of-a-thing happy tears when we see one of us walk down the aisle towards the love of her life.

But when those familiar-not-as-frequent-but-wish-they’d-be-non-existent tears do appear, I feel alone. I’m on the outside of inside jokes, and I no longer know who is doing what with who or where. Catching up used to be, “So did you fuck the guy from last night?” to “Wait. You have a boyfriend? Who? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN AND WHY DON’T I KNOW ABOUT HIM?!”

At work I know what shelf the very last paperclip is on. I like my co-workers, and they like me. I think. I’m taking on new responsibilities and getting my feet wet in the HR and recruiting pool. I received a bonus and got a raise earlier this year. I have my very first business trip Sunday, and I don’t have to wait for lower back pains to go away because I don’t have to worry about health insurance. 

However, I am currently living my biggest fear as a senior in high school. My Journalism degree is just a very expensive piece of paper (which I can’t even find), and at times I can do my job on auto-pilot … from a plane with smoke coming from the engine

I’m tired of being tired, but never have the motivation to execute. Yet, I seem to always have just the right amount of energy to complain.  Continue reading

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