Archive for the ‘Fun’ Category

Advice My 30’s Self Would Give To My 20’s Self

January 29, 2016 2 comments

I often think about how awesome it would be if I were able to get advice from myself in the future. Future-me could tell present-day me that new job I  left my old, comfortable job for was a smart choice, or whether or not “planking” for pictures will stick around as a trend. (Do you guys remember planking? What hipster bullshit was that?)

In life, the only way to gain insight is to live through challenging situations that create character. But as an anxiety-prone person I just want to know:

Am I doing life right?

That being said, now that I’ve left my 20’s behind, survived them really, and I’ve reflected on some choices that if I had the ability I’d go back and advise about I would. Some serious, and some not.

I’d have a productive little chat with my sweet, dumb 20’s self:

1. Hey girl, just tell your friends you don’t like nightclubs

I cannot tell you how many mind-numbingly loud, smoky, dance floors you will be dragged across, but it will be a lot. There will be $20 vodka-crans, men with frosted tip hair and Ed Hardy clothing. My God the Ed Hardy. This isn’t your scene and you should just simply tell your friends that.


You’ll smile for pictures and dance but you’re faking it. You will witness a woman wearing an Ann Taylor pantsuit hump the face of her companion so hard she breaks his nose on stage at Opera Nightclub, and that will still not be the end of your night. Those girls you met while waiting in the bathroom line are not your new best friends. Go home, old soul.

2.Hey girl, if you have a good boss and job, appreciate how rare that is

There will be an opportunity for you to leave a good job, and a boss who had your best interest at heart, for one that is more exciting. You won’t fit the new company, and the company won’t fit you. You’ll be laid off and it will break your heart.

The injury of this time in your life will change you forever. You’ll doubt your abilities and you’ll flounder in self-hate, but you’ll recover. You will be ok. Know you are not alone in experiencing something like this as a young person, and remember you’re still valuable.

3. Hey girl, strangers should always be a little strange

If you meet someone and they instantly call you his or her best friend: that is a crazy person walk away. If you don’t, you’ll be at a dinner party where Crazy tells you they paid to have research done on you on the internet, and you’ll have to Irish goodbye the hell out of there.


4. Hey girl, be careful about the water in the Dominican Republic

This should go without saying ya idiot, but don’t brush your teeth with water from the sink. Things will happen to your digestive system, horrible things. It’ll eventually get so bad you’ll yell “Avenge me!” to your friends on the other side of the bathroom door. Bottled.Water.ONLY.

5. Hey girl, stop comparing yourself to others around you

You’re not on their path and their not on yours. Especially stop comparing your life to the “lives” you’re seeing on social media. That shit isn’t real. What’s real is you Comet scrubbing your bathtub while you listen to embarrassing music choices on your secret Cranberries Pandora station you hope no one knows about. That’s real and no one posts stuff like it, because everyone is curating a life online.

6. Hey girl, put aside money just for Bridesmaid dresses/duties/bachelorette penis straws

At this time in your life you’ll be a part of several weddings. It will be fun, and it will be costly. On average a bridesmaid today spends approximately $1,500-1,800 dollars per wedding*. That’s a lot of bones. In 2013, you will be in 7 different nuptials.

Learn to be more firm and say no sometimes. Yes, you will love the weddings and it’s the bride’s day, but she won’t have to live in a box because she’s broke after the wedding you will. Also no, you will never wear the dresses again.

7. Hey girl, write often, write more

Persue this because of the simple fact that it’s your favorite thing to do. See where it goes. Write even if it’s hypothetical advice to yourself.

8. Hey girl, don’t worry about being single

Dating in your 20’s is a tumultuous, boiling pit of trying to force things to work. Trust your gut, and don’t let being single or what label you think people affix to you because of that status means. If someone truly judges you because of it, they’re a dick. When you’re on a date and someone gives you a “No” feeling, you’re right. Do you own thing, and in time the right fella that it just works with will come along and you can’t control when that will happen. Stay open and positive. Be selfish about yourself because you can.


9. Hey girl, try out meditation sooner

This is a tool you’ll scoff at, but it’ll help you to observe your thoughts and emotions and not be hijacked by them. Sitting on the sidelines of what’s going on in your head will put you at peace, and it’s not something you should put off. Maybe grab a kombucha after you’re done, ya hippy.

10. Hey girl, you’re ok

You’re doing fine, and you’re making mistakes. Your 20’s are a huge juxtaposition of major successes and failures. It’s a time of fun, pain, peace and chaos. Use it as a time to figure out what you’re about, and stop beating yourself up. Eat all the French fries your metabolism is so fast right now, and try to stop worrying so much you’re doing life right.

** Facts from


Found: A Note From My 6 Year Old Self

May 7, 2014 1 comment

So I found an old diary of mine the other day, and besides the rambling musings of little girl I also found this gem:
It reads:

This is a free contry
This is a free HOUSE
You are acting like you are the QUEEN!!!
But you are just a Big old BULLY!


P.S. I might run away

I think this is a note I had written to my mom, being so incensed about something but had never actually worked up the cojones to give it to her as it still resided in my diary all these years.

I have thoughts on this first being:

I don’t know what my mom had done, but I don’t think it would have ever warranted this much sass. No one got away with that much ‘tude in our house and lived to tell the tale.

Secondly, I like how I left in some wiggle room with the use of the word “might” in the post script. I knew even then, that me and my Strawberry Shortcake suitcase couldn’t get too far from the house without getting scared. I mean, the house was where the Teddy Grahams were, so I wanted to put in that caveat without losing any power from the threat of running away.

Glad I never gave it to her, what a little brat. Happy Mother’s Day ya’ll.

Arstidir: Punk Rock Angels of Death?

May 7, 2014 1 comment

I’ve recently happened upon this video of an Icelandic Group singing an 800 year old hymn. Apparently, they had just finished a concert and the video was taken late night in a German Train Station with them singing impromptu.

It’s possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard:

I couldn’t help but wonder though, if I had just gotten off of that train, I’m sure I would just assumed that I died.

Literally the thought would be “Oh wow that’s a beautiful, ethereal sound. Wait, WAIT am I dead? Like did I die on a train? Oh man I died in a train station and the angels greeting me are dressed like punk rockers WIERD.”


Also, did you see the guy still holding the beer while he sang?  The late-night style is strong here.

The Time I Accidentally Sexually Harassed a Personal Trainer

I’ve been on a workout kick lately. I usually have a pattern of realizing that summer around the corner in late spring and then go into beast mode. Beast mode being, I get on a treadmill and bro out in the mirror at my gym with the 10 pound pink weights. You know hard-core.

I go to a small gym that is across the street from my office, and it has regulars. If you go there enough you’ll recognize literally everyone who walks in. There aren’t strangers and everyone gives one another an obligatory chin nod when you walk in. The gym also has trainers who run their sessions there. My story has to do with one of them:

One seemingly innocuous evening a trainer, whose name I don’t know because we’re only at the chin-nod stage of our acquaintance, was finishing up a session. I was also finishing up making a fool of myself with a medicine ball on a mat. I was trying to do an ab workout, but I feel like what I was doing looked like a poor attempt at a rhythmic gymnastics routine. (There were far too many unintentional leg kicks and wriggling to look like I was doing anything athletic.)

Russia's Daria Dmitrieva competes using the ball in her individual all-around gymnastics qualification match at the Wembley Arena during the London 2012 Olympic Games

Yeah I totally looked like this.

As a note of description: the trainer in question is super nice, and looks like a young, non-mullet having John Stamos. I know that he isn’t everyone’s dream boat, but those people may not have been 90’s kids who religiously watched Full House. I mean HAVE MERCY!

So Stamos-doppleganger finished with his session and standing in front of some stacked cubbies everyone uses to store their stuff in while working out when I walked over. My cubby was underneath the one he was using and he had his back facing me while I awkwardly stood there waiting. He hadn’t noticed me, and I wasn’t sure how to let him know I needed to get to my stuff.  I opened my mouth and this bomb fell out:

“Hi excuse me, I just need to get to my cubby-”

*He moves out of the way*

“Oh yeah thanks I didn’t want to do a reach-around and…”

At that moment all time and space held its collective breath while all the blood in my brain raced to my feet. I think it did that out of self-preservation because the pain of processing the embarrassment coming my way was enough to take me to point break. I grabbed my stuff and walked to my car while looking at my phone like it had the answer to time travel in it to avoid eye contact.


I was so embarrassed that I had to sit in my car and just stare while I thought about what I had just done to myself. Also during the drive home and for much of the night, right when I started to relax I thought of what would happen when I went to the gym again and saw Stamos trainer guy as I knew I would. Right when I was worrying about that the whole recent scene would pop up again and I’d hear myself say it “reach-around.” Like an ever-present ouroburos that was just hovering in the background of my thoughts, the cycle of hearing the moment would start head to tail any time I’d relax.


Yes, I have been back to the gym since the unintentional service offer. And yes it did take a pump up speech from me, to me, to get me back in there. Turns out it’s fine, and I’ve been doing my regular late-spring gym ratting in peace ever since. To Stamos the trainer guy’s credit, I didn’t hear a laugh from him or even feel a stare. I prayed that he didn’t hear me, but I know that was unlikely.

Thanks Uncle Jesse look-alike. You’re a pal.


Bug Battle

October 16, 2013 Leave a comment

If ever it’s scientifically discovered that a creature living here on Earth originated in the mouth of Hell, I’d bet good money that that creature is a cockroach.


You unholy terror. You disgust me

I have an aversion to roaches that is so strong that even picturing one in my mind’s eye is enough to send shivers down my spine.  This bug can live without its head for a month because it doesn’t have blood pressure or a central nervous system, it simply clots at the neck and then there is no uncontrolled bleeding. Breathing is also done through spiracles on the body, so being headless ain’t no thang in the respiratory department for a roach.* I’m not an expert, but sounds like demonic energies could only explain and animate something like that.

I had a recent encounter with one of Hell’s lessers and it tested my mettle more than it probably should have.  Living in the city means it’s inevitable that you will come across a roach or two, so I should be used to them but no; even a picture of one is enough to make me cringe and push my shoulders up for fear that one might crawl in my ear.

I was at home, and was putting makeup on in my bathroom when in my peripheral vision a black shadow zipped across the glass of my shower door.  I put down whatever brush I was holding and turned my head hoping that what I saw was just a play of light from the window. My hope was dashed when I looked and saw the unholy beast.  He waved his antennae at me taunting my weak head-needing humanity, and I shrunk back against the door in a wave of nausea.

I needed him out. I needed him dead. I needed someone else make that happen because I was cowering and trying not to look directly at him. My roommates would not be home for hours so I knew I couldn’t let him have the run of my shower for that long. What if he used my shampoo? Bastard! I had to woman up and take him down myself.

Immediately after putting on my running shoes, (somehow having bare feet made me feel more vulnerable to Beelzebub of the Shower) I looked in the mirror and prepared myself for battle by jumping around saying “ Ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ok ok I should do this ok ok ok”


My weapons of choice were paper towels and ant spray (we had no proper roach spray). After I got them from the kitchen, I spotted the vacuum and briefly considered sucking Beelzebub in there, but then dismissed the thought. He would technically still be in the house and would likely survive the suction. No, he needed to die.

There was more pacing and an air-punching pump up speech before I opened the shower door poised to strike. My first assault was chemical warfare with the ant spray. I sprayed the shit out of him. Then, with my ears fully itching from disgust (and maybe the airborne pesticide), I threw five paper towels on him and slayed the beast with my shoed foot. All the while I was stringing together an impressive quilt of expletives.


A lot like this.

I’d forgotten the worst part. The scrunching of the paper towel around him to get rid of the carcass. I pictured me doing it, and then him falling out of the wad in my hand still alive and then scittering up my arm. I gathered the courage, gathered the bug and then ran like Hell to the outside garbage can.


Me post-slaying….Just kidding of course, but look at my cartoon abs.

I won the day that day. I slayed the hellbeast in my shower. Cockroaches still terrify me, but now I know not to fear if I’m at least equipped with ant spray, running shoes and paper towels I can smite bugs with the best of them.

*All roach facts are from Scientific American. I don’t just know these things, I only know they need to die.

The time I was asked to leave a Haunted House

October 31, 2012 Leave a comment

So with Halloween looming I thought I’d share a lovely/teen angsty story about me and horror. I’ll start by saying I scare incredibly easily. I still vividly remember being 7 and seeing a horror movie promo on TV where one of the characters is shown having their life force sucked out through their face. Just to give you a scale of my scaredy-catness, after witnessing that I wore a scarf on my face for two months when I slept to protect myself from probable soul sucking monsters. To this day, I can’t handle scary movies. I become a koala-esque animal that clings onto the nearest person like a eucalyptus tree with white knuckled claws…It can be uncomfortable for all involved.

Fear is not a fun feeling for me. It’s not a rush, and I hate the feeling of needing to protect myself.

What I want to know, that has NEVER been properly explained to me is: Why do people enjoy being scared? I don’t like it and I don’t know why people seek it out. I do most everything to avoid fear but:

In highschool, I agreed to go to a haunted house.



The name of it is the Netherworld, and the damned place is here in Atlanta. I don’t know if they just say that it has been ranked the scariest haunted house in the world OR if it legitimately is, but due to my experience the latter is correct. That place was fucking terrifying.

Netherworld is in an old strip mall, and it’s actually an enormous warehouse, not a house at all. When the group I was with got there the place was packed, and there was a huge line we had to wait in just to get into the hell hole. I guess Netherworld wanted to give everyone the most bang for their buck because various creatures covered in blood and guts sometimes with eyeballs drooping from their sockets  walked up to thrill seekers waiting in line and hissed in their faces (fun!). The line creatures confirmed what I already knew. This was a terrible idea for me, and surely would not end well. I irrationally hated all my friends who were there with me with all of my 17 year old angsty-ness.


This dillhole probably hissed in my face.

While we were waiting a friend gave me the old “Don’t worry, it’s going to be more funny than scary.”  I know my friend was trying to be nice and calm me down, and maybe Netherworld is hilarious to him. All I know is to a Scaredy Cat like me this was surely a bald faced LIE. I was already freaked out and could feel myself preparing to choose fight or flight, so I couldn’t hear him over the crazy in my own head. I don’t remember how long it took for my group to actually be allowed into the warehouse, but I know I was perfectly content to stand in line forever and be hissed at by make-uped monsters than go into the dark abyss ahead of us. When we were finally ushered in it was worse than I thought it would be.


Inside Netherworld

The place was set up in a twisting path that was separated by ‘chambers’ with different motifs. It was darkly lit, if it was lit at all, and everything was punctuated with a burst of yellow strobe lighting now and again. The walkway to the first chamber was so thin we had to walk single-ish file just to squeeze through and have our hands on the spiderwebby walls because there wasn’t enough light to see. Once we all gathered in the first chamber that resembled a crypt we were stopped by two creatures that were stalking directly towards us (read here: me) And this is when I realized: In a fight or flight situation I will opt to choose fight.


I guess the creatures/actors are trained to pick the person that would feed everyone else’s freak out because one of them- a zombie friar I think to go with the crypt- came in for me with a quickness. I don’t remember making the decision to do this, but I put up my hands screaming and shoved him in the middle of his chest. I’m my effort I had kicked off my clogs. (Yes clogs it was 2000, JUDGE ME) And that’s when the actor playing the friar asked me to leave.

I don’t know why I remember this, but he had a Boston accent and my thought at the time “Oh I wonder what part of Boston he’s from.”  It was not “Oh I just made an asshole of myself” or “Oh I’m being kicked out of a haunted house for physically shoving someone” All of the sudden I wanted to know the Boston friar’s back story. I think it was my damaged psyche’s way of coping with ‘having a brush with the supernatural.’ After that, I was escorted out by a girl working behind the scenes at Netherworld. I was out in the light of the parking lot that was filled with bored moms waiting in mini vans. Probably sipping on a thermos of cheap chardonnay; I think that comes with the territory of moms in suburbia right? I sat out there miserable and angsty-mad at myself until my friends came running out of the place, chased by Mike Myers with a chainsaw. Which I don’t think is his weapon of choice, but I digress.

Yes I know how I acted was nuts, and now that I look back it is hilarious. But this brings me back to my original point: Why do people enjoy feeling scared?

In typical ‘fun’ situations I’m not usually driven to shove someone in the sternum (and also pee a little) because of an adrenaline fueled instinct to protect my own ass. It’s hard to explain to fans of horror sometimes because when I tell them my issue they look at me like I just said “Oh no, I don’t think Seinfeld is very funny” I mean, c’mon now let’s not get crazy.

What I hear time and time again is that it’s the ‘rush’ that brings them back to horror movies. Then they go on a tangent about the value of horror and how I don’t appreciate some genuine, quality horror culture.

Don’t try to convert me Horror genre fans, I get it! I get that some flicks/haunted houses/ghost stories are better than others but I don’t care. I don’t like ‘em and I’d rather pee my pants laughing any day than whiz myself because an undead Boston Friar is trying to kill me by sucking my soul out through my face.

4 Personality Quirks That Might Make You A Douche

September 7, 2012 5 comments

In my experience, your twenties can be a bit of an abyss in terms of personality types that you’ll meet.  They can range from awesome to mind-blowingly awful. These days this  personality spectrum is becoming exponentially larger because there is no set archetype young people are now obligated to fulfill. The traditional family can wait, and different pathways are being taken. This isn’t a bad thing, it just means that the varied personality types you can come into contact with are going to be markedly different than they used to be.  They will have different levels of intensity in terms of having amazing quirks or having terrible ones.

There are four particular personality quirks that I think need to be eradicated.

These quirks aren’t always just found in acquaintances or in ‘friends of friends’ sometimes you can find them nestled inside the personality of your close pals. Like any parasitic entity, these quirks are harder to get rid of and are more sensitive to examination if they have been hosted there for a long time. People use quirks that seem to work for them, but be forewarned, the adoption of any unseemly quirks to get by have immense potential to take over your whole persona and turn you into a douche.

The One Upper

Hey!  You know that marathon you ran/promotion you got/new car you bought? It doesn’t matter. The One Upper has done it better, they did it faster, and they probably did it while they were still in utero.  We all probably know a One Upper: they always have to have the last word, they shamelessly tell stories where they are the hero, and yes, they did save to whole damn world. You’re welcome.  This quirk is dangerous because it makes anyone else who is involved in the conversation feel like a non-entity. It’s like you’re stuck in a real life version of Jay and Silent Bob except probably without a trench coat.

I don’t recommend trying to convey a serious story to a One Upper because they are so busy trying to best you that it will always leave you lacking in support. While they may say they are there for you when you’re in the thick of it, this quirk tends to cloak their ability to show real empathy that can sustain a friendship.

You:  “So my Grandma died last week and I’m having a rough time of it”

OU:  “Well last year, my Grandma was on the brink of death and medically died two times so I went through the grieving process twice. Also, the first time she died she saw Jesus and He told her to tell me ‘Sup Bra’”

Sup Bra


Mr/Ms Anger Management Problem

This quirk lies in wait until you are out in public with the person who is infected with it. It’s possible that you agreed to be seen in public with them because you thought that the last time they got into a screaming match it was because of a legitimate reason. You’re wrong. You’re wrong every time you assume this. Next thing you know you’re in Target and they are screaming:


These people will Hulk out at any given chance, and no, they have no idea how ridiculous they sound. Nor do they realize how many social norms they’re breaking. I find this quirk the most exhausting because there is no way to predict when it will strike, and frankly I find eschewing that much anger on asinine things a giant waste of time.

So you successfully got a free plate of jalapeno poppers by screaming at your waiter, but you know what you’ve just insured for yourself: a burger that has had unspeakable things done to it by the kitchen staff. And you deserve it.

Some people find Mr./Ms. Anger Management to be funny, but I’ve never been able to see the fun in someone randomly going off on a poor bystander. I think at the end of the day Mr/Ms Anger Management is doing more damage to themselves than anyone who has been in their pathway of pain.

Like Mark Twain says:

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which is it poured.

The Judge

You know that friend that you have to edit yourself around? That’s the Judge. It’s a strange conundrum being in the presence of the Judge because they will be the first to encourage you to open up. Then they strike you down in cobra-like speed with an opinion about your choices that is far harsher than is warranted. Don’t be fooled by their insistence that their opinions are “right.” They are stuck in some sort of weird time-warpy mindset where juvenile opinions that were dictated solely by parents’ thoughts about what is ‘right’ still exists.  If after every story you share you hear

“Oh. My. God. When are you going to grow up? You can’t just get drunk and put tiny waterskies on a squirrel”

Yes, yes you can Judge. And I don’t understand how you don’t see the awesomeness in this. Hope you enjoy your garden party you’re going to later.

The weird thing is the Judge always wants you to spill your guts, but it’s rare that they will reciprocate. Either this is because they are so boring they have no stories of their own OR they are simply gathering information about you they think they need to keep; throwing it in your face at any moment when you have fucked up a situation in life. This quirk has usually manifested to give its host a sense of control.  Don’t feel bad about yourself if you come into contact with someone like this, their opinion is less important than any squirrel who doesn’t want to be marketed for their water skiing abilities. So go on with your bad self. It’s 2012 for fuck’s sake.

Tell me your weekend stories and I’ll tell you how your whole life is wrong.

The Oversharer

I can’t just call other people out and not throw myself under the bus. *Deep breath* I am an Oversharer. (Yes, I understand the irony of declaring this on a blog that lives on the interwebs for the world to see.)

An Oversharer will delve into any subject way too prematurely with people who can be just barely acquaintances. I know I have quirk because of the shock that I see register on people’s faces when I go into detail my most recent physical after they ask me simple questions like “How is your day?”  Alcohol exacerbates this quirk; when an Oversharer is drinking his or her life is an open book. I know it can be off-putting, but after a few glasses of wine it’s like I don’t even want to get better.

The insanely annoying part about this quirk is often people don’t want to know the details I’ve presented up. In fact it would be better most times if Oversharers stuck to safer subjects instead of divulging the graphic details of their latest sex dream featuring the Muppets. Along with the annoying bit, there is also a risk that comes along with this quirk. You essentially are offering yourself up to be gossip fodder when you blab things to people who don’t have your best interest at heart. You can victimize yourself by letting the wrong people throw around intimate details of your life. It’s your fault too, so shut the hell up.

You should probably go to therapy you repressed Muppet fucker.

As everyone gets older these quirks should naturally mellow out of your system; however, everyone should take a step back and really think about our conversations objectively. Did you really listen to what your friend had said to you? Or, were you so amped about your discovery of Gangnam Style on YouTube that you glossed over their coming out story?

A quirk can develop in your high school years or younger, and it may have worked ‘back in the day’ but that does not mean it should still be in use. You should not have the same communication skills you had when you were 16. Also, if you have a good friend who has any of the above quirks it’s best to just tell them. Any of the aforementioned quirks are damaging, and your pal will eventually be kicked in the balls (metaphorical or otherwise) by life itself.

 Friends don’t let friends act like douchebags.



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