i need to get a grip and stop falling in love with people on the internet based on 4 pictures, a smart ass comment that is an unreliable measure of actual humor levels, and 109 weeks of instagram back catalog to pour over (if i’m lucky). i am not someone i would call a romantic by any means; i’m certainly not entertaining these delusional fantasies about the boys i know in real life non pixelated form. yet before it even says, “it’s a match,”  i’ve determined he’s my soul mate and planned out our life together. 
he finally messages to say hi, accompanied by a mustache man emoji, and i can feel my face slowly morphing into the smiley face with hearts for eyes. he moved here from boston. boston sounds horrible to currently reside in, but the idea of a guy being from there is appealing. it’s manly, it’s tough. if he can handle boston, he can handle me.  we will fly back east for the holidays to see his family, working class accents straight out of good will hunting. it will snow as we walk through the city and everything will be magical, as our life always is. he used to be in a band, and they will play a reunion show, just so I can see him in action. i’ll know all the words, as i secretly stole their 2004 burned cd from his long forgotten cd collection. his mother will make us entirely too much food while he watches sports with his used car salesman dad and cheesy buff brother who looks like CT from the real world. we will pose for pictures in front of the christmas tree and promise to come back soon, before we escape back to the sunshine in silver lake and our pug named Tuna.
 we talk some more. by now, i’ve exhausted his google search results page  all the way to his amazon reviews. he loves his garmin gps he got last year. It’s great for spontaneous roadtips, he says. 12 out of 12 people found this review helpful. of course they did, because everything he says is perfect and amazing. his facebook says he  likes del taco and built to spill, just like me, and we will grab the garmin gps and drive out to joshua tree on a whim with burritos and “broken chairs” playing in his jeep wagoneer that is on it’s last legs, and it will be impossible for me to love anyone else as much as I love him in this moment.
“awkward internet dating question, how tall are you?”i ask,  trying to  determine the heel height i should choose for our first date and/or wedding pictures.
“5’7. you?” “5’8.” silence. and just like that, the dream is dead.  i guess its true that love never lasts. 

i need to get a grip and stop falling in love with people on the internet based on 4 pictures, a smart ass comment that is an unreliable measure of actual humor levels, and 109 weeks of instagram back catalog to pour over (if i’m lucky). i am not someone i would call a romantic by any means; i’m certainly not entertaining these delusional fantasies about the boys i know in real life non pixelated form. yet before it even says, “it’s a match,”  i’ve determined he’s my soul mate and planned out our life together. 

he finally messages to say hi, accompanied by a mustache man emoji, and i can feel my face slowly morphing into the smiley face with hearts for eyes. he moved here from boston. boston sounds horrible to currently reside in, but the idea of a guy being from there is appealing. it’s manly, it’s tough. if he can handle boston, he can handle me.  we will fly back east for the holidays to see his family, working class accents straight out of good will hunting. it will snow as we walk through the city and everything will be magical, as our life always is. he used to be in a band, and they will play a reunion show, just so I can see him in action. i’ll know all the words, as i secretly stole their 2004 burned cd from his long forgotten cd collection. his mother will make us entirely too much food while he watches sports with his used car salesman dad and cheesy buff brother who looks like CT from the real world. we will pose for pictures in front of the christmas tree and promise to come back soon, before we escape back to the sunshine in silver lake and our pug named Tuna.

 we talk some more. by now, i’ve exhausted his google search results page  all the way to his amazon reviews. he loves his garmin gps he got last year. It’s great for spontaneous roadtips, he says. 12 out of 12 people found this review helpful. of course they did, because everything he says is perfect and amazing. his facebook says he  likes del taco and built to spill, just like me, and we will grab the garmin gps and drive out to joshua tree on a whim with burritos and “broken chairs” playing in his jeep wagoneer that is on it’s last legs, and it will be impossible for me to love anyone else as much as I love him in this moment.

“awkward internet dating question, how tall are you?”i ask,  trying to  determine the heel height i should choose for our first date and/or wedding pictures.

“5’7. you?” “5’8.” silence. and just like that, the dream is dead.  i guess its true that love never lasts. 

my friend’s imagining of me as lyft driver: cruising in the wienermobile hopped up on bud lights. how could anyone not give me 5 stars :(

my friend’s imagining of me as lyft driver: cruising in the wienermobile hopped up on bud lights. how could anyone not give me 5 stars :(

a few months ago, we met some random kid in a jumpsuit outside a bar and we were wasted so invited him over, and he slept on our couch. in the morning, i was chosen to deal with him and went out to wake his ass up and make sure he hadn’t made off with our laptops and camera equipment. he asked me if he could take a shower before band practice, and i said i didn’t have a towel, trying to evict him from his new couch home as quickly as possible. but he said it was fine, he would just lay on the deck naked and the chill cali summer vibes would dry him, and i informed him that before he got a chance for the chill vibes to do that, the police would probably be called because we live across from a junior high school. so instead, he went on the deck and preceded to do yoga for the next thirty minutes while we took videos of him from the living room. he somehow now has my phone number and texted me a shirtless pic of him holding a chainsaw a few weeks ago. then he sent a link and password to a private  video of him, STILL wearing the same jumpsuit, wandering around town creepily acting like the cameraman is paparazzi.  today, i got an invitation to his “ethereal experience” podcast on “creative cumming,” asking me to send my thoughts via audio file or to stop by in person for a coconut water tasting. i don’t even know if this is serious or ironic or some combination of the two.  honestly, sometimes i think i am the most normal person in LA, and that is really saying something. 

a few months ago, we met some random kid in a jumpsuit outside a bar and we were wasted so invited him over, and he slept on our couch. in the morning, i was chosen to deal with him and went out to wake his ass up and make sure he hadn’t made off with our laptops and camera equipment. he asked me if he could take a shower before band practice, and i said i didn’t have a towel, trying to evict him from his new couch home as quickly as possible. but he said it was fine, he would just lay on the deck naked and the chill cali summer vibes would dry him, and i informed him that before he got a chance for the chill vibes to do that, the police would probably be called because we live across from a junior high school. so instead, he went on the deck and preceded to do yoga for the next thirty minutes while we took videos of him from the living room. he somehow now has my phone number and texted me a shirtless pic of him holding a chainsaw a few weeks ago. then he sent a link and password to a private  video of him, STILL wearing the same jumpsuit, wandering around town creepily acting like the cameraman is paparazzi.  today, i got an invitation to his “ethereal experience” podcast on “creative cumming,” asking me to send my thoughts via audio file or to stop by in person for a coconut water tasting. i don’t even know if this is serious or ironic or some combination of the two.  honestly, sometimes i think i am the most normal person in LA, and that is really saying something. 





some boys do: my experience in a physically and verbally abusive relationship
I think most people have a vision of who abuses women. It’s the stereotypical Ray Rice football player whose bicep circumference is larger than his IQ. It’s the alcoholic in the stained white tank top who lives in the trashy apartments on the wrong side of town. Certainly not a twenty something hipster who wears a beanie and jeans in a smaller size than me. Never a guy who listens to Animal Collective in between shifts at American Apparel. Until one day, suddenly it was.
At first, it was just that my on/off boyfriend was an asshole. Once, when we were on a break, he told me he would love me more if I lost 15 pounds so I would be as skinny as his exgirlfriend.  I wasn’t even overweight to begin with, so his constant harassment over my size didn’t even really bother me. I just brushed it off as his pathetic attempts to wear down my confidence and fuck with my mind, so it never did much beyond a stray hurt feeling. I had already decided I was not going to take any shit from him. In fact, instead of trying to lose weight, I hooked up with the singer of a band he liked. I let him know the singer didn’t seem to mind the 15 pounds my boyfriend was so obsessed with.
This just made him more mad, and he shifted his attacks from my weight to my sluttiness. We were long distance at this point because I was in London, and if I so as much didn’t respond to a text within 10 minutes, it was because I was having wild group sex with dozens of british skateboarders obviously. I was certainly not an angel by any means, but this was definitely an extremely confused version of reality. He made sure I knew that I was a slut, so I did not deserve him. I was lucky he would even be with me; he was doing me a favor. Meanwhile, he was screwing half the town and lying about it. Once I would find out, he would tell me it was different because he was a man. He could do whatever he wanted, but when I did the same, it made me a whore.
He had an excuse of course for everything he said. He probably was an alcoholic.  He had a fucked up family. His dad left and didn’t love him. He just didn’t want me to leave him too, and I did so now that’s what I deserved. But it was all just words up to this point though, and words I could handle.
When I came back from abroad, I was staying with him, and the abuse quickly became more than words. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, probably something along the lines of I was a fat, ugly slut, when he grabbed me by the neck and choked me against the door. I was absolutely in shock. This was not something that I ever thought would happen to me at any point in my life. This happened to strippers and teen moms and on very special episodes of like 7th Heaven. Not to white college graduate girls wearing Urban Outfitters. Not to me.
He apologized the next day. He swore he never would touch me again. And I believed him, just because it seemed so absurd that it had happened once, let alone the possibility it would happen again. But within days, he had thrown my beloved baby blanket in a tree, lit it on fire, chucked my clothes on his lawn and locked me out of the house. We broke up and I went back to my parents’ house.
But as the weeks went by, the reality of what had happened slowly started to fade, and soon we were talking again and back together. He swore it would be different, and it actually was. We were getting along, he stopped being so mean, and it seemed like maybe we could make this work.
It didn’t last long. On Halloween, we were dressed up as Sandy and Danny from Grease, dueting to Summer Nights at karaoke one minute, and the next he was throwing my purse across the bar in front of all my friends and kicking me repeatedly outside. The next day, he claimed to not remember any of it. It wasn’t him, it was the whiskey. He would stop drinking. I would give him one more chance.
On New Years Eve, we all slept at my friend’s downtown. We were on the floor in the sleeping bag and he wouldn’t wake up, so I went and laid in my friend’s bed, where several other people also were hanging out and talking. When my boyfriend finally got up, he had been so drunk that for some reason thought I had slept in the bed with my friend, and he went completely insane. He was screaming at me in front of everyone at the party. He grabbed my hair forcefully at the nape of my neck and pulled me back by it when I tried to walk away. I told him I wasn’t going home with him, and someone else would drive me home, just to leave. Instead he followed us to my friend’s car, screaming at me, opening the door and demanding I get out and leave with him, as my scared friends told him to get the hell away because I was not going anywhere with him.
I dumped him again. Everyone was happy, as none of my friends liked him and everyone knew he was bad news, but unfortunately I was too stubborn to let anyone tell me what I should be doing when it came to this guy. But I thought the break up was for real this time, so I even started to tell people outside my immediate circle of friends all the awful things he had done to me. Some were sympathetic, but I could tell others didn’t believe me, just because it seemed so unrealistic. there were whispers that I was just lying for attention and to get back at him for cheating on me so many times.
However, even after publicly broadcasting his abuse, I found myself talking to him again. I honestly don’t even know why. I knew he was horrible, and realistically, he would probably harm me again. But I was living at my parents house, extremely bored and unhappy, with no other romantic options on the table unless I decided to start dating high schoolers, geriatrics, or married fathers of toddlers. No sooner had we started hanging out again that he again found some reason to be furious at me, and as he drove us away from the city, I was shaking in fear. He refused to take me home and kept driving the wrong way from my house, and when I begged him to stop and take me home, he hit my legs over and over again until they turned bright red and I was sobbing. But 2 weeks later, I was back talking to him again because in my head there was just nothing else I could possibly do with my endless hours of suburban boredom if he wasn’t in my life.
Finally, after six months at home, I had saved up enough money to move to New York, which I also saw as likely the only option to get out of this relationship for good. In the weeks before I left, I remember him pushing me down in my room after I got mad he was texting his exgirlfriend. He claims I slipped. But thankfully it was time to move, and I was finally free. We slowly stopped talking as much until our conversations were reduced to a trickle. I still saw him a few times when I came back to visit. Once we slept at our friends after going to the movies, and he pushed me out of the bed and onto the floor when I didn’t want to have sex with him. But somehow we ended up being sort of friends, even after everything he had done to me. I rarely ever saw him though, until one day he came to meet up with us at a bar. He kept saying he had no money, clearly wanting me to ask him why. I finally did, and he said it was because he got this horrible girl who he knew I hated pregnant and had to pay for her abortion. I told him to leave the bar, and I never have seen or talked to him again since that day. In the time since then, I know he has physically assaulted as least one other girl.
When I think back on these three years of our relationships, it seems crazy that I stayed with him. Yet, in my head I was being so strong and bad ass, or something like that. I was Rihanna, and I could handle Chris Brown and all that came with him if that’s who I wanted to be with. But toxic relationships like that will always damage you in some way, no matter how unbreakable you think you are. While my confidence and self-esteem might be as high as they always were, there have been other repercussions. I find myself attracted to dramatic relationships with guys who don’t value me as a person. It’s hard for me to get close emotionally to anyone I am seeing for fear of being vulnerable enough to let something like this happen again. I flinch when in a heated argument. “Did you actually think I was going to hit you?” a boy recently asked me, mid-fight. I nodded. “I would never do that,” he told me. It’s hard to believe now though. Because maybe he doesn’t hit women, but some boys do. Some boys definitely do.

some boys do: my experience in a physically and verbally abusive relationship

I think most people have a vision of who abuses women. It’s the stereotypical Ray Rice football player whose bicep circumference is larger than his IQ. It’s the alcoholic in the stained white tank top who lives in the trashy apartments on the wrong side of town. Certainly not a twenty something hipster who wears a beanie and jeans in a smaller size than me. Never a guy who listens to Animal Collective in between shifts at American Apparel. Until one day, suddenly it was.

At first, it was just that my on/off boyfriend was an asshole. Once, when we were on a break, he told me he would love me more if I lost 15 pounds so I would be as skinny as his exgirlfriend.  I wasn’t even overweight to begin with, so his constant harassment over my size didn’t even really bother me. I just brushed it off as his pathetic attempts to wear down my confidence and fuck with my mind, so it never did much beyond a stray hurt feeling. I had already decided I was not going to take any shit from him. In fact, instead of trying to lose weight, I hooked up with the singer of a band he liked. I let him know the singer didn’t seem to mind the 15 pounds my boyfriend was so obsessed with.

This just made him more mad, and he shifted his attacks from my weight to my sluttiness. We were long distance at this point because I was in London, and if I so as much didn’t respond to a text within 10 minutes, it was because I was having wild group sex with dozens of british skateboarders obviously. I was certainly not an angel by any means, but this was definitely an extremely confused version of reality. He made sure I knew that I was a slut, so I did not deserve him. I was lucky he would even be with me; he was doing me a favor. Meanwhile, he was screwing half the town and lying about it. Once I would find out, he would tell me it was different because he was a man. He could do whatever he wanted, but when I did the same, it made me a whore.

He had an excuse of course for everything he said. He probably was an alcoholic.  He had a fucked up family. His dad left and didn’t love him. He just didn’t want me to leave him too, and I did so now that’s what I deserved. But it was all just words up to this point though, and words I could handle.

When I came back from abroad, I was staying with him, and the abuse quickly became more than words. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, probably something along the lines of I was a fat, ugly slut, when he grabbed me by the neck and choked me against the door. I was absolutely in shock. This was not something that I ever thought would happen to me at any point in my life. This happened to strippers and teen moms and on very special episodes of like 7th Heaven. Not to white college graduate girls wearing Urban Outfitters. Not to me.

He apologized the next day. He swore he never would touch me again. And I believed him, just because it seemed so absurd that it had happened once, let alone the possibility it would happen again. But within days, he had thrown my beloved baby blanket in a tree, lit it on fire, chucked my clothes on his lawn and locked me out of the house. We broke up and I went back to my parents’ house.

But as the weeks went by, the reality of what had happened slowly started to fade, and soon we were talking again and back together. He swore it would be different, and it actually was. We were getting along, he stopped being so mean, and it seemed like maybe we could make this work.

It didn’t last long. On Halloween, we were dressed up as Sandy and Danny from Grease, dueting to Summer Nights at karaoke one minute, and the next he was throwing my purse across the bar in front of all my friends and kicking me repeatedly outside. The next day, he claimed to not remember any of it. It wasn’t him, it was the whiskey. He would stop drinking. I would give him one more chance.

On New Years Eve, we all slept at my friend’s downtown. We were on the floor in the sleeping bag and he wouldn’t wake up, so I went and laid in my friend’s bed, where several other people also were hanging out and talking. When my boyfriend finally got up, he had been so drunk that for some reason thought I had slept in the bed with my friend, and he went completely insane. He was screaming at me in front of everyone at the party. He grabbed my hair forcefully at the nape of my neck and pulled me back by it when I tried to walk away. I told him I wasn’t going home with him, and someone else would drive me home, just to leave. Instead he followed us to my friend’s car, screaming at me, opening the door and demanding I get out and leave with him, as my scared friends told him to get the hell away because I was not going anywhere with him.

I dumped him again. Everyone was happy, as none of my friends liked him and everyone knew he was bad news, but unfortunately I was too stubborn to let anyone tell me what I should be doing when it came to this guy. But I thought the break up was for real this time, so I even started to tell people outside my immediate circle of friends all the awful things he had done to me. Some were sympathetic, but I could tell others didn’t believe me, just because it seemed so unrealistic. there were whispers that I was just lying for attention and to get back at him for cheating on me so many times.

However, even after publicly broadcasting his abuse, I found myself talking to him again. I honestly don’t even know why. I knew he was horrible, and realistically, he would probably harm me again. But I was living at my parents house, extremely bored and unhappy, with no other romantic options on the table unless I decided to start dating high schoolers, geriatrics, or married fathers of toddlers. No sooner had we started hanging out again that he again found some reason to be furious at me, and as he drove us away from the city, I was shaking in fear. He refused to take me home and kept driving the wrong way from my house, and when I begged him to stop and take me home, he hit my legs over and over again until they turned bright red and I was sobbing. But 2 weeks later, I was back talking to him again because in my head there was just nothing else I could possibly do with my endless hours of suburban boredom if he wasn’t in my life.

Finally, after six months at home, I had saved up enough money to move to New York, which I also saw as likely the only option to get out of this relationship for good. In the weeks before I left, I remember him pushing me down in my room after I got mad he was texting his exgirlfriend. He claims I slipped. But thankfully it was time to move, and I was finally free. We slowly stopped talking as much until our conversations were reduced to a trickle. I still saw him a few times when I came back to visit. Once we slept at our friends after going to the movies, and he pushed me out of the bed and onto the floor when I didn’t want to have sex with him. But somehow we ended up being sort of friends, even after everything he had done to me. I rarely ever saw him though, until one day he came to meet up with us at a bar. He kept saying he had no money, clearly wanting me to ask him why. I finally did, and he said it was because he got this horrible girl who he knew I hated pregnant and had to pay for her abortion. I told him to leave the bar, and I never have seen or talked to him again since that day. In the time since then, I know he has physically assaulted as least one other girl.

When I think back on these three years of our relationships, it seems crazy that I stayed with him. Yet, in my head I was being so strong and bad ass, or something like that. I was Rihanna, and I could handle Chris Brown and all that came with him if that’s who I wanted to be with. But toxic relationships like that will always damage you in some way, no matter how unbreakable you think you are. While my confidence and self-esteem might be as high as they always were, there have been other repercussions. I find myself attracted to dramatic relationships with guys who don’t value me as a person. It’s hard for me to get close emotionally to anyone I am seeing for fear of being vulnerable enough to let something like this happen again. I flinch when in a heated argument. “Did you actually think I was going to hit you?” a boy recently asked me, mid-fight. I nodded. “I would never do that,” he told me. It’s hard to believe now though. Because maybe he doesn’t hit women, but some boys do. Some boys definitely do.

nights like saturday are why la is my favorite place
i had decided i was going to stay in. it was already midnight,  I hadn’t showered, no substantial plans had materialized, and I was basically over it. I was perfectly happy with making some popcorn, watching Lords of Dogtown and dreaming about being a skater groupie in the 1970s. but then my roommate decides she wants to go to this party and begs me to come. “I’ll give you some adderall,” she bargains. Okay, fine. I was in. Finally leaving the house at 1 am an hour later, we are at this like pseudo rave behind a tattoo shop and psychic on hollywood blvd. an 80 year old man is groping me in line for the bathroom asking me if I know how to use urinate in a sentence. i am asking random mexican teens if i can have one of their thirty pack of modelos. and all of this is ridiculous but weirdly entertaining. then we hear of another party, a mansion party in beachwood canyon, and so we get in a lyft and take the winding roads up to a decidedly different scene, where the mexican teens are replaced by music video directors and there’s an open bar and bartender in the courtyard. i go up several flights of stairs to use a bathroom and inside I find a rolled up bill on the counter. am i ghetto enough to steal this coke dollar? um, yes obviously, and when i unroll it to stick it in my purse, i discover that it is actually a 100 dollar bill, and i thank the lord for dumb coke heads trying to show off because they have now enabled me to pay my credit card bill this month. so i go back down to the party in the best mood ever, and this cute boy starts talking to me. he likes my jacket, my side bangs, and the idea of banging me. but we get split up and i don’t talk to him the rest of the night really, only catching him glancing over at me a few times. so at 5 am when we finally decide to go home, i go over to say bye, and he says he has to tell me something. he starts dragging me up the flights of stairs and pushing me against a wall  making out with me. this is certainly fine with me,  but my lyft is coming so I run out, leaving him my phone number.  I have no idea what his name is, but he starts texting and I eventually google the number, and am able to track it down and start stalking. the first thing that comes up is paparazzi pictures of him and that jena malone chick from the movie saved like making out all over each other at lunch somewhere. oh great. so he dates famous chicks, i’m sure he will be very impressed with my 200 dollar life savings, no car, and no real job. i’m obsessed with stalking him now at this point, and the next thing i find is beyond amazing. a (now deleted) tweet from jena malone. “(guy’s name) is a liar, a cheater, and a  complete scam artist. he should not be trusted with a woman’s heart.”  loll. wow, i really know how to pick out the shadiest dude in a crowd no matter where i go.  but i think cheating lying scam artist could be just my type? said he’s gonna text me wednesday, so maybe we will find out.

nights like saturday are why la is my favorite place

i had decided i was going to stay in. it was already midnight,  I hadn’t showered, no substantial plans had materialized, and I was basically over it. I was perfectly happy with making some popcorn, watching Lords of Dogtown and dreaming about being a skater groupie in the 1970s. but then my roommate decides she wants to go to this party and begs me to come. “I’ll give you some adderall,” she bargains. Okay, fine. I was in. Finally leaving the house at 1 am an hour later, we are at this like pseudo rave behind a tattoo shop and psychic on hollywood blvd. an 80 year old man is groping me in line for the bathroom asking me if I know how to use urinate in a sentence. i am asking random mexican teens if i can have one of their thirty pack of modelos. and all of this is ridiculous but weirdly entertaining. then we hear of another party, a mansion party in beachwood canyon, and so we get in a lyft and take the winding roads up to a decidedly different scene, where the mexican teens are replaced by music video directors and there’s an open bar and bartender in the courtyard. i go up several flights of stairs to use a bathroom and inside I find a rolled up bill on the counter. am i ghetto enough to steal this coke dollar? um, yes obviously, and when i unroll it to stick it in my purse, i discover that it is actually a 100 dollar bill, and i thank the lord for dumb coke heads trying to show off because they have now enabled me to pay my credit card bill this month.

so i go back down to the party in the best mood ever, and this cute boy starts talking to me. he likes my jacket, my side bangs, and the idea of banging me. but we get split up and i don’t talk to him the rest of the night really, only catching him glancing over at me a few times. so at 5 am when we finally decide to go home, i go over to say bye, and he says he has to tell me something. he starts dragging me up the flights of stairs and pushing me against a wall  making out with me. this is certainly fine with me,  but my lyft is coming so I run out, leaving him my phone number.  I have no idea what his name is, but he starts texting and I eventually google the number, and am able to track it down and start stalking. the first thing that comes up is paparazzi pictures of him and that jena malone chick from the movie saved like making out all over each other at lunch somewhere. oh great. so he dates famous chicks, i’m sure he will be very impressed with my 200 dollar life savings, no car, and no real job. i’m obsessed with stalking him now at this point, and the next thing i find is beyond amazing. a (now deleted) tweet from jena malone. “(guy’s name) is a liar, a cheater, and a  complete scam artist. he should not be trusted with a woman’s heart.”  loll. wow, i really know how to pick out the shadiest dude in a crowd no matter where i go.  but i think cheating lying scam artist could be just my type? said he’s gonna text me wednesday, so maybe we will find out.

a few weeks ago this boy is at my house, and he asks to use my computer to look something up. “sure, no problem,” i say nonchalantly as i get up from the couch in the living room to grab the computer from my bed. however, as soon as i am behind the door in my room, i start more or less hyperventilating as i enter code red panic mode thinking about how i am going to hide the massive amount of incriminating evidence in my browser history. i open the computer, and his exgirlfriend’s instagram pops up as literally my most visited site, and that’s not all, i’ve got her mylife page, resume, google map of her address in case i feel like taking this stalking irl, plus facebook accounts of any girl he followed on insta for the last month. levels of surveillance that would completely blow a boy’s mind and send him straight for a restraining order. not to mention extremely embarrassing searches like “odds of getting chlamydia from one sexual encounter” and “get rid of excess body hair” and “real world road rules challenge spoilers 2014.” i frantically try deleting my history and it is taking so long that he actually comes in the room to see what i’m doing and i have to abandon my efforts and open the firefox browser i hardly ever use and hope for the best. as soon as he leaves a few hours later, i check firefox to see if it had exposed me for anything mortifying, and it seemed mostly clear except i somehow have the videos for five-when the lights go out, and la bouche- be my lover favorited on the top of the page?? no idea. i’m guessing he won’t be inviting me to any concerts anytime soon after seeing the music i apparently have on hand for constant access to 90s jams, but if that’s the worst he saw, it’s fine with me.

a few weeks ago this boy is at my house, and he asks to use my computer to look something up. “sure, no problem,” i say nonchalantly as i get up from the couch in the living room to grab the computer from my bed. however, as soon as i am behind the door in my room, i start more or less hyperventilating as i enter code red panic mode thinking about how i am going to hide the massive amount of incriminating evidence in my browser history. i open the computer, and his exgirlfriend’s instagram pops up as literally my most visited site, and that’s not all, i’ve got her mylife page, resume, google map of her address in case i feel like taking this stalking irl, plus facebook accounts of any girl he followed on insta for the last month. levels of surveillance that would completely blow a boy’s mind and send him straight for a restraining order. not to mention extremely embarrassing searches like “odds of getting chlamydia from one sexual encounter” and “get rid of excess body hair” and “real world road rules challenge spoilers 2014.” i frantically try deleting my history and it is taking so long that he actually comes in the room to see what i’m doing and i have to abandon my efforts and open the firefox browser i hardly ever use and hope for the best. as soon as he leaves a few hours later, i check firefox to see if it had exposed me for anything mortifying, and it seemed mostly clear except i somehow have the videos for five-when the lights go out, and la bouche- be my lover favorited on the top of the page?? no idea. i’m guessing he won’t be inviting me to any concerts anytime soon after seeing the music i apparently have on hand for constant access to 90s jams, but if that’s the worst he saw, it’s fine with me.

the cutest old man ever painting at echo park lake

the cutest old man ever painting at echo park lake

yes i would love to fly home to chicago for my ten year high school anniversary at rainforest cafe in a mall. i can have awkward conversations with people who i never liked with to begin with over planet earth pasta as the fake rainstorm rolls in and the animatronic gorillas start  tweaking out.

if it wasn’t for facebook, i probably wouldn’t recognize half the people there as they have slowly morphed into beer bellied and balding insurance salesmen and haggard moms obsessed with updating everyone on their children’s diaper blowouts . facebook honestly has changed the whole reunion game, as the worst people from high school post every single thought they have each day, and i’m not sure if i am supposed to reference this or act as if i have no idea what has transpired in the last ten years. i can already see after one too many cheesy animal themed cocktails drunkenly asking, “so wait your super christian husband really was arrested for banging his 17 year old student? me and my friends group text his mug shot out like once a week, just fyi.” that would go over pretty big, i’m sure. 

our grade was also completely devoid of anything resembling a teenage hipster, so there isn’t even any long lost love there that i would want to make out with in the gift shop behind the monkey puppets . lucky for me, there will certainly be plenty of 28 year olds still wearing affliction graphic tees and obsessed with being edm djs who will probably be blasting like zedd or some shit through the rainforest. very enticing  romantic options.

so unless two randoms dorks have spent the last ten years fanatically watching romy and michelle and plotting some sort of epic maury worthy “geek to chic” reveal, i can’t imagine this reunion could possibly be worth it. i bet the 20 year reunion is probably really where its at, once half the people there are divorced and horny, midlife crisis is around the corner, and people are really starting to look like shit. add some alcohol, and the scene is ripe for some entertaining meltdowns. you can count me in for that one for sure

yes i would love to fly home to chicago for my ten year high school anniversary at rainforest cafe in a mall. i can have awkward conversations with people who i never liked with to begin with over planet earth pasta as the fake rainstorm rolls in and the animatronic gorillas start tweaking out.

if it wasn’t for facebook, i probably wouldn’t recognize half the people there as they have slowly morphed into beer bellied and balding insurance salesmen and haggard moms obsessed with updating everyone on their children’s diaper blowouts . facebook honestly has changed the whole reunion game, as the worst people from high school post every single thought they have each day, and i’m not sure if i am supposed to reference this or act as if i have no idea what has transpired in the last ten years. i can already see after one too many cheesy animal themed cocktails drunkenly asking, “so wait your super christian husband really was arrested for banging his 17 year old student? me and my friends group text his mug shot out like once a week, just fyi.” that would go over pretty big, i’m sure.

our grade was also completely devoid of anything resembling a teenage hipster, so there isn’t even any long lost love there that i would want to make out with in the gift shop behind the monkey puppets . lucky for me, there will certainly be plenty of 28 year olds still wearing affliction graphic tees and obsessed with being edm djs who will probably be blasting like zedd or some shit through the rainforest. very enticing romantic options.

so unless two randoms dorks have spent the last ten years fanatically watching romy and michelle and plotting some sort of epic maury worthy “geek to chic” reveal, i can’t imagine this reunion could possibly be worth it. i bet the 20 year reunion is probably really where its at, once half the people there are divorced and horny, midlife crisis is around the corner, and people are really starting to look like shit. add some alcohol, and the scene is ripe for some entertaining meltdowns. you can count me in for that one for sure

obligatory drunk bathroom pic at el chavo

obligatory drunk bathroom pic at el chavo

really considering hair clinic across the street from me for my next hair appointment. i love the “california style” they offer, which apparently looks a lot like if you took that fat lady from the drew carey show, dressed her from the fashion bug sales rack, and then gave her a makeover for a middle aged cougar chola. am slightly concerned about what kind of facials they are offering.

really considering hair clinic across the street from me for my next hair appointment. i love the “california style” they offer, which apparently looks a lot like if you took that fat lady from the drew carey show, dressed her from the fashion bug sales rack, and then gave her a makeover for a middle aged cougar chola. am slightly concerned about what kind of facials they are offering.

spent all day yesterday at echo park lake playing MASH like it was recess in 1994, and the now 30 year old boys were still refusing to play because they didn’t want to publicly admit any girl they would want to marry. most of the game took on a decidedly darker tone, especially in the  “kids” category, where the usual 0-1-2-3 options turned into “obese step children,” “three abortions” and “illegitimate baby with a mexican.” my future was determined to be a wells fargo bank teller in a siberian apartment with aspergers twins while married to a boy who used to cheat on his gf with me  while alternating between screaming i was ruining his life and making out. sounds amazing, cannot wait.

spent all day yesterday at echo park lake playing MASH like it was recess in 1994, and the now 30 year old boys were still refusing to play because they didn’t want to publicly admit any girl they would want to marry. most of the game took on a decidedly darker tone, especially in the “kids” category, where the usual 0-1-2-3 options turned into “obese step children,” “three abortions” and “illegitimate baby with a mexican.” my future was determined to be a wells fargo bank teller in a siberian apartment with aspergers twins while married to a boy who used to cheat on his gf with me while alternating between screaming i was ruining his life and making out. sounds amazing, cannot wait.

my friends always tease me about being into losers. while they scour potential suitors linkedin profiles to evaluate future earning potential, they joke that my dream boy doesn’t even have one. so a hot skater was driving me home on sunday afternoon and i made a joke referencing this, and he looked at me and was like “linkedin? what’s that?” okay, he could not be serious. “you know, it’s like a social network where you post your work history?” he was completely blank faced and it seemed he had literally never heard of it in his life. i don’t even know why i was surprised considering two hours earlier i realized he didn’t have a computer and he told me he only ever used his non -ipad tablet for watching porn. ugh. how do i stop liking boys like this. please someone help me. the thought of lawyers and doctors physically makes me recoil and i am like getting off to instagram videos of 30 year olds doing kick flips. there has to be some sort of sexy loser aversion therapy program where they show you videos of hot guys in bands with no money, cars or jobs while giving you forceful electric shocks to knock some sense into you and then feed you pizza and ice cream and pump you with morphine as you watch a slide show of clean cut doctors, lawyers and businessmen driving mercedes to their huge mcmansions. i’m guessing this advanced technology hasn’t been developed yet or else my parents would have been like beating down the doors of the building to enroll me in the program, begging the doctors saying “i’ve seen the way she looks at 22 year old stoners in skateparks, and its disturbing, please save our daughter.” maybe one day i can make my parents dreams of banging a guy with health insurance come true, but until then, i’ll keep getting texts like “hey, i’m delivering a pizza on your street come out and say hi.”

my friends always tease me about being into losers. while they scour potential suitors linkedin profiles to evaluate future earning potential, they joke that my dream boy doesn’t even have one. so a hot skater was driving me home on sunday afternoon and i made a joke referencing this, and he looked at me and was like “linkedin? what’s that?” okay, he could not be serious. “you know, it’s like a social network where you post your work history?” he was completely blank faced and it seemed he had literally never heard of it in his life. i don’t even know why i was surprised considering two hours earlier i realized he didn’t have a computer and he told me he only ever used his non -ipad tablet for watching porn. ugh. how do i stop liking boys like this. please someone help me. the thought of lawyers and doctors physically makes me recoil and i am like getting off to instagram videos of 30 year olds doing kick flips. there has to be some sort of sexy loser aversion therapy program where they show you videos of hot guys in bands with no money, cars or jobs while giving you forceful electric shocks to knock some sense into you and then feed you pizza and ice cream and pump you with morphine as you watch a slide show of clean cut doctors, lawyers and businessmen driving mercedes to their huge mcmansions. i’m guessing this advanced technology hasn’t been developed yet or else my parents would have been like beating down the doors of the building to enroll me in the program, begging the doctors saying “i’ve seen the way she looks at 22 year old stoners in skateparks, and its disturbing, please save our daughter.” maybe one day i can make my parents dreams of banging a guy with health insurance come true, but until then, i’ll keep getting texts like “hey, i’m delivering a pizza on your street come out and say hi.”