The Ladies Room is Anything But(t)

It was a Friday night and I needed to use the bathroom. We were at a minor league softball game, and the toilets were inside a trailer. That already spelled trouble. If someone is storing something inside a trailer, that person is basically saying “I give zero fucks about this.”

As soon as I stepped inside, I was slapped in the face with the stench of human excrement. I swear to god, the US Government could have bottled the smell in that trailer and used it at Guantanamo Bay. Of course, I didn’t really expect a public restroom inside a metal trailer, in a dirt lot, at a minor league softball game to have a pleasant smell. But this was over the top. What in god’s green earth caused such a horrid, gut wrenching smell?

Mount Poopsuvius.

Someone had taken all the toilet paper rolls from each stall and sculpted a sort of science fair volcano. In order to sculpt the TP into a volcano shape, they used urine. Nature’s glue, if you will. And of course they needed lava coming out of the top. Because what kind of amateur hour are we talking about if this person wasn’t going to include lava? With that in mind, this person (or persons) decided to squat over this TP volcano and shit on top of it. And this wasn’t just regular shit. This was diarrhea shit. Which meant this person had to prepare for this. They had to purposely ingest food that would give them diarrhea so that later, when they attended a minor league softball game, they could go shit on top of a TP volcano in the corner of a public restroom within a trailer on a dirt field. The piece de resistance, though, was the word “POOPSUVIUS” scrawled in shit on the wall.

The toilet is not your enemy, I promise.

The error, it seems, is on my part. I expect too much from the general public. I expect that when a human being enters a public restroom, they continue to behave as a human being and not a rabid animal. What’s even worse is calling it a “Ladies Room” because there is nothing lady-like about anything inside of it. I have walked into a bathroom stall to see a lump of shit on the floor. Inches from a toilet. The person wasn’t willing to move a few inches. I’ve seen a woman in a stall urinating with the door wide open. Getting a little breeze on her cooch. No big deal. Do you know how much hair I have seen plastered to the rim of the toilet bowl? Who is pissing/shitting so aggressively that they are ripping out their pubic hair?

Beyond the 3rd world country-like conditions of the bathroom stall, the one question that has always bothered me is the tampon dispenser. Because there is no way that a woman came up with that idea. At least, not a thoughtful woman.

I envision a group of middle-aged men hunched over blueprints. All of them puzzled. What to do with the tampons and pads. Can’t flush them. Can’t leave them on the floor. What to do, what to do? Wait! They’ve got it! A metal box! Line it with the thinnest paper and/or plastic imaginable. On second thought, fuck it, don’t even line it. The women can then take the tampons/pads that are seeped with blood/vaginal fluid/urine, wrap it with TP, and dump it into this box. Actually, nah, don’t even use the TP. Just toss it right in there. Perfection! Hearty handshakes all around. Wait a minute–one last question: where do we put the box? The metal box, with no built in system for odor removal. The metal box, brimming with soiled feminine hygiene products. The metal box, which when opened, has the distinct smell of Fisherman’s Wharf on a steamy July day. Another stroke of inspiration! Put that metal box 2 inches from the woman’s face! Eternally shaming her of her body and its naturally occurring functions! Hurrah! A round of beers for all!

Perhaps this post will inspire women and men everywhere to put a little more thought into their trip to the bathroom. Like, for instance, placing bodily fluids into the toilet bowls, and not the floor/toilet seat/door handle. Or, that sinks are for washing your hands, not dispensing vomit. And for the love of god, keeping your volcanoes where they belong: at home.

Workplace Survival Guide Lesson 5: Tube Tops are for the Beach

No one ever taught me how to take shorthand. No one ever taught me how to use an abacus either, but I can still add. So just because I don’t know what shorthand looks like, doesn’t mean I can’t do one hell of a job faking it. And that’s exactly what I’m doing as my boss continues to ramble on with his memo. Words like ‘because’ and ‘particular’ quickly dissolve into ‘b/c’ and ‘particy’ with a twist of my pen.

I’m in the middle of reading back what I have so far when he asks if I would repeat the last line. There,  he says pointing to the line, make sure that’s ‘see’ as in s-e-e and not s-e-a. Because apparently, he thinks I may have trouble deciding if he meant to use the word that means “to perceive with the eyes” or the word that means “the salt waters that cover the greater part of the earth’s surface.”  


If you can believe it, that was one of my better bosses. In the workplace, there’s a very fine line between a boss you respect and a boss you’d like to see thrown into a wood chipper. Here’s a few examples from my worst experiences with bosses. See if you can relate. Maybe we can go halfsies on some therapy sessions.

Gathering us around the conference room table, my boss is discussing the possibly of initiating a ‘Question Hour’. A Question Hour, as I later learn, means that for one hour before lunch and one hour after lunch, you are allowed to venture beyond your four cubicle walls to another employee for work-related questions like:

Where are the staples?
Have you seen my fax?
Isn’t this a stupid fucking idea?

Once that hour is up, that’s it. Back to your filthy little pit minion! Don’t come out until you are summoned by the Question Hour Czar!

Fast forward a month. Now we’re gathered in the conference room and threatened. We’re told our parking procedure is atrocious. Employees are sporadically leaving their desks to shuffle cars around the six car lot that we decided will now handle 15. Aren’t employees already wasting enough time with bathroom breaks and state-mandated lunch hours? The ultimatum: either work out a better parking policy or have employee parking privileges revoked, forcing us to ride public transportation like savage animals.

During their interviews, coworkers regaled me with stories of the type of questions they were asked:

I’m surprised you’re even interviewing for a job like this. You should be on a catwalk. 
So you live with your boyfriend? Are you planning on starting a family?
Do you have any siblings? (This one was my personal favorite, because it was mine. When I answered ‘no’, he sighed. Loudly.)

I made the mistake of wearing a sleeveless blouse to the office. It was August, and a/c is apparently more precious than diamonds, so I was hot. The blouse had straps, which were 2-2 1/2″ thick. When I brought my boss a fax that had just come through, he asked if I wouldn’t go put on a sweater because tube tops were for the beach. Or should I say, tube tops are for the s-e-a.

After planning the office Christmas party, I asked my boss for some feedback on the event. The one and only comment I got was that he was displeased with having to walk through the restaurant to get to the private dining room in the back. Foolishly, I hadn’t asked for the blueprint layout of the building when I made the reservation.

How’d you stack up? Have you had worse bosses than this? Leave me a comment below and let me know. I’m serious, therapy is expensive. Just think how much we could save by splitting that bill. And afterwards we could go get froyo. Because nothing says sorry about your traumatic, soul crushing work experience quite like frozen yogurt.


This Intimidated Youth Sponsored By: Mattel

This isn’t my drink. I know this because I didn’t order it. The Barista, however, disagrees. She’s holding my cup at the end of the counter, waiting for me to come claim it. As I make my way down the bar, I completely intend on telling her she made a mistake. I don’t care what she says. Just a few steps closer. I’m not taking that drink from her hand. Almost there. If she thinks I’m walking out of this building with that drink. Here it comes.

Taking a sip from my pumpkin spice latte, it occurs to me that I might have a problem with authority.

The amount of times that I have been in that exact situation, with that exact conversation going through my head is depressing, and quiet honestly, increasingly alarming. Sometimes I think I should be on Intervention with all my friends and family gathered around me, promising a better life if I can just stand up to the supermarket cashier.

The most embarrassing part of all of this is trying to explain to people who are with me why I’m eating a salad when I ordered soup, or why I bought a $300 shirt that I thought said $30. Because the waitress and the Macy’s woman terrified me, that’s why. It’s illogical. It’s like trying to explain my fear of flying. 

“You’re afraid of flying?” people say, somehow shocked that a person could be afraid of floating in a metal box thousands of miles above ground, trusting a man locked inside a metal room with another man. “But, it’s the safest way to travel. You know that right? You’re way more likely to careen off a cliff and die in a fiery pit of gasoline and metal than a plane.” Well then, nothing to worry about after all.

While it may not make sense to anyone else, I still wanted to figure out why I was like this for my own sake. And it wasn’t until recently that I had a flashback to a weekend at my Dad’s house, a girl named Molly, and a hot pink Barbie car.

Molly lived in the house at the top of my Dad’s street and it was clear from the discarded mess of toys and gadgets scattered across the front lawn that Molly’s parents were overcompensating for something. I remember Molly took me on a tour of her house once. Let’s just think about the fact that a six-year-old took another six-year-old on a tour of her house. Like her lemonade stand somehow helped with the down payment.

Don't you just want to punch her right in her smug little face?
Don’t you just want to punch her right in her smug little face?

I was invited over that day to marvel at yet another attempt to buy their child’s love. Parked in the driveway was a brand new, hot pink, two-seater Barbie car. This was a statement. Any girl growing up in the 90’s knew it, and whether you owned one or not decided just what kind of statement you made. For Molly it was: Why yes, I am the top bitch.

For a while I watched her drive up and down the driveway. Then she decided  that I could run along side it as she drove. What a privilege. Finally sweating and out of breath, I asked if she wouldn’t mind letting me sit next to her. Begrudgingly she agreed and I squeezed myself in. The feeling as we drove down the hill was utter joy. The wind in my hair, the envious looks from the neighbor kids. I had made it. I was at the top.

Then the car died. Or so I had thought. When we suddenly jerked to a halt, all I heard was Molly screaming at me that I had somehow broke it. Pointing at her house at the top of the hill, she demanded that I push the car back to her driveway and then tell her father what I had done.  First, she said, I needed to stand on the other side of the road and close my eyes. Out of sheer obedience, I obeyed. And by sheer obedience, I mean some obedience and a whole lot of stupidity. No sooner had I closed my eyes, I hear the tiny engine come back to life and I see Molly driving back up the road, only turning around once to stick her tongue out at me.

Flash forward to today: I’m waiting in line at Starbucks thinking about that moment and how it potentially destroyed the rest of my entrees, drink orders, and retail purchases. All because I didn’t want a confrontation. The Barista asks me my order. Our eyes meet.

“I’ll have a vanilla latte please, and hold the pumpkin.”


Land of the Free, Home of the Jobless

How would you describe yourself?

A. Hispanic or Latino
B. Not Hispanic or Latino
C. Unknown

I know what you’re thinking. Not too much wiggle room in the Unknown category. But think of this: Unknown sounds so…mysterious, doesn’t it? Unknown. Like a phantom of the night. I can see it now, the HR rep set up in a cramped, badly lit office, stacks of applications in front of him, paper cut after paper cut after paper cut. He reaches for mine, unenthusiastically, and quickly begins to scan the page. He’s about to throw it away, to pack it all up and head for Miami, for the retirement village he saw in the catalogue when…wait. What’s this? Unknown? His brow furrows. Unknown. He slams his fist down on his desk. Unknown! He reaches for the receiver, his fingers pounding the keys:

“Johnson! We found her! The Unknown candidate. By God, we found her!”

Unfortunately none of that actually happened. My application, like many others, was screened, dissected and discarded. But you can’t blame me for trying to keep it interesting.

In fact, there’s nothing all that interesting about job applications. It’s the interview that’s the real nail biter. The one in a million chance that the big guys let you come inside the clubhouse  to prove why you deserve a set of keys. Kind of like pledging to a fraternity except with less beer and vomit.

InterviewhorrorThe interview is your fifteen minutes of fame. Are you going to dazzle or drizzle? Some people are natural interviewers. I like to call these people assholes. Interviewing for a job is about as unnatural as Joan Rivers’ face. How can you feel comfortable sitting in front of a person, or people, that are openly judging every word you say?

Some interviews I’ve had have gone really well, despite me being nervous, and some have been…not as good. For instance, I’ve had phone interviews were I was slam dunkin’ questions left and right. I felt like an unstoppable force. Biggest strength? BOOM. Five year plan? KAPOW. The problem with phone interviews is they can sometimes give you a false sense of confidence. I feel comfortable talking over the phone because the  HR rep can’t see that I’m in my peacock PJ’s scrolling through my Facebook feed.

The in person interview is the real killer. Here’s the true test of how you stand up against the other candidates, and how well you do under pressure. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have royally tanked some interviews. It happens. Sometimes that’s in your control, sometimes it’s not. For example: I was waiting to be interviewed in the lobby of this construction firm when my interviewer came out and introduced himself. No big deal, right? Well he was a midget. Maybe I would have been okay if someone had said to me that a representative from the Lollipop Guild would be conducting the interview, but they didn’t. And I’m pretty sure I made a face because then he made a face and then there was this awkward air between the two of us as he asked me questions and I tried to figure out if he could reach the sink in the bathroom without a step-ladder. Needless to say I did not receive a call back.

That was something I probably could have controlled but didn’t. But in comparison to some of the other horror stories I’ve heard, it wasn’t so bad. Like the woman who came to her interview with a cold and kept blowing her nose into a tissue, crumbling it up, and placing them on the desk of the interviewer. Or the candidate that was offered some candy from the interviewer’s desk and then proceeded to eat the entire dish through the course of the 20 minute interview.

Do most people enjoy job interviews? Probably not, but does it help you become better through experience? For most of us, yes. As long as you try to learn something through it all. For me the lesson is simple: be more confident, be less tall.





If I Walk Through the Drive-Thru, Does That Count as Exercise?

Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, I wondered how I had gotten to this point. I should mention that while I was standing there the pants that had fit so snuggly a few months ago were now slowly cutting off circulation to my thighs. So there I stood, my calves undoubtedly turning blue, wondering how my metabolism could have given up on me so quickly. Did I really go to McDonald’s that often? The inside of my car would suggest I owned a franchise. Why did it seem like it had happened overnight? I shot an accusing stare to my yoga pants. You. You did this to me. You, with your stretchy, comfortable, oh-go-ahead-it’s-only-one-more-chip acceptance. You lulled me into a false sense of security. Liar.

If only blaming inanimate objects solved all our problems. Whether I liked it or not, it wasn’t going to do any good pretending the dryer shrunk all my clothes, or that Lay’s printed the nutrition facts wrong. Whether I liked it or not, the time had finally come.

The gym. The place where millions of Americans feel pathetically out of place. Any place that hits you with the smell of sweat and shame the second you walk in the door is no place to call home. But there they were, the athletes, the body builders, and the skanky college girls with their pink Nike sneakers and Baby Gap tank tops. I was a stranger in a strange land.

I gazed across the sea of equipment. I cautiously entered the cardio station, joining the ranks of the runners, the bikers, and the masters of stairs.  Something I never understood about running: if I’m not being chased by a murderer or a wild animal, then why am I doing it? For enjoyment? What sadistic son of a bitch came up with that? On the weekends, I enjoy a nice run before bashing my skull in with a tire iron!

My time on the treadmill was mostly spent observing my fellow exercise enthusiasts. Like the college girl next to me, who happened to have the time to not only coordinate her entire outfit, but slap on some mascara and blush before hopping on the treadmill. What’s worse is she was really cruising on that damn thing. Isn’t it enough that she’s skinny and pretty? Does she really need to be here? Never in my life have I wished for a boob to pop out so badly.

Here’s something else–what do people at the gym have against wiping up after themselves? The sweat puddles I have come across, my god, you could drown in them. And what’s worse, I know how that sweat puddle formed. It wasn’t no head sweat, or arm sweat. Those I could maybe deal with. This was butt sweat. Stranger’s butt sweat.

Fast forward a few months and I’m still at it. I traded one of those big gyms for the small one in our condo. Sure, it may not have all the equipment of one of those big chains, but it does have one very important benefit: nobody uses it. Just me, the treadmill, a sweat stained t-shirt, and all the daytime TV I can stand.

Who knew Steve Harvey would be the most motivating part of my workout?


Hiding Behind the Curtain and Other Stories of Intimacy

First, don’t panic. You’re not alone. Americans all across the nation have reported waking up to find someone sleeping in their bed, eating their food, and using their personal belongings. If you or someone you know is experiencing these symptoms, you may be suffering from what professionals have termed an Intimate Relationship. Other side effects include:

  • “Puppy Dog” Eyes
  • Excessive Poetry Reading
  • Extreme Hand Holding
  • Acoustic Guitar
  • The Snuggles

For some of us, taking that step from casual dating to intimate relationship can be intimidating as trying to leap across the Grand Canyon. You’re handing your heart over to another person, giving them the sole power to either nurture it like a baby dove or smash it into a malleable powder. Too bad we can’t hand over some other less delicate part of ourselves. I’d have no problem giving someone control over a tonsil or my left armpit.

First, you have to get used to the idea that around 50% of your stuff is going to be handled and shared by someone else. Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal to those of you who had siblings but in an intimate relationship when someone shrinks your favorite t-shirt or eats the last bag of popcorn but puts the empty box back in the cabinet, it’s usually frowned upon to give them a purple nurple or chase them through the house with a kitchen knife.

Couldn't have been #75, could you? You cold hearted French Canadian bastard.
Couldn’t have been #75, could you? You cold hearted bastard.

And it’s not just your material possessions; you’re sharing 50% of your day too. So goodbye Toddlers and Tiaras and hello The Walking Dead. Like waking up lazily on a Saturday, perhaps strolling out of the bedroom around noon? Well this 8 a.m. jam session should put a stop to that. You’ll be surprised with how little control you have over your new life. Take the thermostat for instance. It took me three months to get my boyfriend to agree on the house temperature. Three months to agree on the temperature of air. Now its set to Mario Lemieux. For those of you wondering, yes, we now identify numbers in our house by Pittsburgh athletes. Mario Lemieux = 66 degrees.

Soon enough you’ll start letting your guard down. At first it’s small things like burping in front of each other, or not showering for an entire weekend. Then you’re walking around the kitchen naked, or clipping your toenails on the bed. Suddenly you’re peeing with the door open and farting under the covers so badly, your partner bangs their head on the bed post trying to escape.

Maybe you’re thinking that when it gets to that point, the relationship isn’t working anymore. And sure, I was worried about that too. I had it in my head that a relationship was supposed to be like a  fairy tale; you think Snow White cut one when the Prince leaned down for that kiss? But the more time I spend in a relationship, the more I change my mind on what it’s supposed to be. Maybe instead of a fairy tale it’s supposed to be like the ending of the Wizard of Oz  when Dorothy pulls back the curtain on the Wizard, revealing  he’s nothing more than a regular man with a smoke machine and a microphone. We’re all hiding behind smoke and mirrors to some extent, and putting our trust in another person is like letting them pull back the curtain and see us for who we really are. Even if the real us is eating Nutella with our fingers at 3 a.m. That’s love, in all its hazlenutty goodness.


What Do May Flowers Bring? Relatives.

Thanksgiving. The time of year where we  put aside all our petty differences and join together to Instagram the turkey. Where, whether you’re a Jolie-Pitt or a Kardashian, you know that Thanksgiving means spending quality time with your family. Without that, how the hell are you supposed to fill the time with your therapist?

I have to admit, Thanksgiving isn’t one of my favorites. Mostly because there’s no presents. We take an entire country from an established race of people and nobody thinks that deserves a Starbucks gift card?

turkeyMy problem with Thanksgiving stems from something as simple as a seating arrangement. Since I was the only child for a while in both families, it didn’t really make sense to have a children’s table. That meant I got to join the “adult” table. A move that, while seemingly glamorous, only held that shine until I actually sat down. With each year, and each rotation, a new family member was plopped down beside me. As the faces changed, so did my patience (and appetite).

First, I got my stepmother’s great grandmother. This woman, and I only wish I was exaggerating, was 103 years old. She remembered the first time she ever saw a car or owned a color TV  but couldn’t remember to close her mouth while she gnawed away at a turkey leg. Since she was around during Lincoln’s assassination her hearing wasn’t what it used to be, which makes it difficult for her to carry on conversations with anyone else. I, however, was just close enough to enjoy her yarns about the cotton mills and the time she french kissed FDR.

The following year I was upgrade to sitting next to my uncle. Uncles are great. They’re like second dad’s that care even less about what you’re doing or how old you are. The only downside is when your uncle eats with his mouth open, everyone around him gets seconds without realizing it.

Then finally another child was brought up to the ranks. My step cousin, who was only a few years younger than me, seemed like he’d be a saving grace. Too bad I didn’t count on the fact that he’s a little boy, and therefore obsessed with touching his penis. How do you concentrate on mashed potatoes when your table neighbor is slapping his dick against the pilgrim tablecloth? 

Who knows what’s in store for me this Thanksgiving, or the many Thanksgivings I have left. I’m keeping my fingers crossed I get my Mom but if not, Aunt Gretchen does have teeth that click when she eats. It’s like my own personal symphony!

Happy Holidays everyone!


Nice But No Dice: Ten Excuses Nobody’s Buying (Part II)

Sorry, I’m Pretty Busy Tonight/Made Other Plans

No your lame ass did not. Why would I be calling you if I thought you actually had something worthwhile going on? And no, re watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Netflix does not constitute as worthwhile.  It’s cool if you want to rock those Scooby-Doo PJ’s on your mom’s couch, just be honest about it. It’s nice that you don’t want to disappoint me, but lying about having other plans is disappointing–it’s disappointing that you think I don’t know you well enough to know your other plans involve television and Cheeto’s.

My Girl/Boyfriend Wants to Hang Out

Where’s a tidal wave when you need it?

I imagine the couples that use this excuse are, instead of hanging out with me, whispering Shakespearean sonnets into each others ears while suckling Moscato wine and tickling each other until they throw up. It’s nice that you found your soul mate at a keg party, but that doesn’t mean you have to be attached to each other’s side every waking moment of the day. Everybody hates those couples, they just don’t say anything because of the “well you’re just jealous of our love!” comeback. No, we’re not jealous. Nauseous, but not jealous.

Cough, Ughh…I’m Sick

This one may be a little unfair, I’ll admit, because maybe you really are sick. It all depends on how and when you use this; if there’s a huge proposal waiting on your desk or it’s Free Donut Day at Dunkin, it may not be as believable as cold day in January. Everyone uses the excuse now and again, whether or not you’re really sick, but it’s the people who get cocky that wind up bumping into their boss at Starbucks, or get tagged in a Facebook photo on a slip n’ slide instead of the Emergency Room. *Note: This excuse does not reflect the author’s own sicknesses–those were all legitimate, near death instances….

Don’t Have a Ride

You lazy bitch.

Take a bus. Rent a car. Hitch a ride on an empty cargo train. Steal a horse from the circus. Invent bird-like wings. Push a kid off his scooter. I knew a girl who didn’t get her license until she was 23. She had a baby before she learned how to drive. You know what happens to people who always use this excuse? Their land locked asses get left behind, since nobody wants to play Driving Miss Daisy.

I Need to Take Care of (insert animal species here)

Someone told me how their friend broke up with his girlfriend because she kept using this excuse every single night. I’m all for humane treatment of animals, but Fido isn’t stopping you from going out and having a few drinks. What could possibly happen in a few hours? It’s not a pack of ravenous wolves living in your apartment, it’s a puppy that needs to be house broken, or a cat that needs a new scratching post, or a fish that can wait a few hours to eat whatever they put in fish food that makes it smell like fresh death. Breathe easy, leave the pet at home, and worse case scenario, locate the nearest Petco.


Nice But No Dice: Ten Excuses Nobody’s Buying (Part I)

 I Slept Through My Alarm

I worked with someone a few months ago that used this excuse constantly. “Hi,” he would mutter groggily through the receiver, “I uh, slept through my alarm but I’m coming.” Well thank god the Sultan of Slumber has decided to grace us with his presence! Be honest—you snoozed it. You snoozed it so much that even your alarm fell asleep. And hey, we all snooze it occasionally, but if you’ve got an alarm set then chances are you’re expected to be somewhere. The rest of us begrudgingly dragged our tired asses out of bed, didn’t go on a shooting spree when the radio DJ’s discussed the latest Kardashian drama (GET THE FUCKING PENTAGON ON THE LINE—KIM KARDASHIAN ADOPTED A KITTEN) , got to work on time, and are now waiting for you to finish up the last 15 mins. of Maury (hint: he IS the father). People, let’s put this tired excuse to bed.

 There Was a Lot of Traffic

Why is this not a viable option?

If this were Back to the Future, maybe we could all travel by jet pack and not only avoid the tension migraine that is the daily commute, but scare the shit out of some birds. Alas, this is not the future Hollywood promised, so using this excuse when there’s about fifty million apps that can calculate exactly how bad the traffic is at the moment you log on isn’t as believable as you’d hope. Also, don’t use the ‘there was an accident’ routine unless you plan on causing one. Get up early, learn shortcuts, and if all else fails, blast some Phil Collins and rock that commute silly.

 I’m, Like, Really Low on Cash Right Now

Yeah? Well that makes it you and every other person in the US plus a few counties in Europe. Ever notice that the people who use this excuse the most are also the people who want to go out the most? That means spending your hard-earned cash on their 7 Bud Lights, 2 nacho plates, and 30 min cab ride home. I refer you to the old, but extremely useful saying: Gas, Grass, or Ass—Nobody Rides for Free.

My Dog/Cat/Rabbit/Pot Bellied Pig Ate My Homework

“OMG Jennifer, I tots dropped my baby! LOL JK she’s fine.”

What are you, carrying around an abacus? Technological advances have made it near impossible for people to be without their phones/laptops for a mere moment, let alone give it up entirely and start scrawling on a notebook. Look at this woman on the left–she dropped her baby but not her iPhone. HER BABY.

Nobody’s leaving their $500+ laptop near something with teeth. Take the F and move on.


I’ll Start Eating Healthy Tomorrow

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made this promise many a time, often as I’m surrounded by every single item from Wendy’s Dollar Menu. Don’t punish yourself. If you’re going to make a commitment, then stick with it. If you’re unsure, then grab a friend to help you hold strong to your goals. The last thing you want is for food to hold you hostage. YOU hold food hostage, not the other way around.