It has come to my attention recently (read: 9 years ago) that eating a lot of food is deemed “unladylike” and “something- that- will -make -you -really- fat -until -you- have- to- roll- yourself- down- the- stairs -because -you’re -too- stubborn- to- buy- a -membership- to- Weight- Watchers- and- you’ll -have- to -get- gastric -bypass -surgery- which- is- really- gross-and-I-assume-painful.”

Well, I am here to tell you that society is playing a fucked up little game, my friends.

As a human being with a working digestive system, I happen to really enjoy eating food. As a single woman-girl-thing, it’s one of the greatest joys of my life.

And I am not ashamed.

A regular day’s thoughts generally consist of:

Oh god yes, don’t stop

However, there are millions (MILLIONS, I SAY) of people out there who will convince you that being anything bigger than a size 2 is a Crime Worthy of Death by Breast Implant Explosion.

This is what I like to call: NOT GOOD.

How come curvaceousness has gone out of style?

Remember the Renaissance?

Fat ladies were the HOTTEST.

Cellulite is SEXAY. 

And you know why? (You probably do, but imma tell you anyways). Because fat was a sign of WEALTH.

Renaissance men would be walking around in their pantaloons and breeches and whatnot and spot a nice chubby lady and say:

“Holy Harpies, Georg! Look at the dingleboppers on that one! I’d like to take her into the baker’s and butter her up, if you know what I mean.”

And then I assume they would high-five.

Now, all the richest biddies with their daddy’s plastic are tiny anorexic Oompa Loompas that haven’t eaten in days because “I’m on a juice cleanse.”


This. This is what it has come to.

And I don’t blame those girls. Really, I don’t. Unfortunately, girls are under a lot of pressure to look a certain way these days. But instead of this “certain way” being “round and proud”, the fashion is now to look like a stick insect.

“Damn girl, you look GOOOOOOOD.”

The media, with all its photoshopping technology and mind-control powers has convinced girls that the skinner, the better.

Check dis out, mon:

Kim Kardashian, who’s famous for being curvy, (and really nothing else) gets photoshopped like HELL.

If the girl who’s JUST FAMOUS FOR BEING BIGGER THAN OTHER STARS can’t get away with looking human, then who can?

It’s terrible what media has done to the minds of girls. All I can say is, thank God for Jennifer Lawrence.


Hopefully more stars like her will appear to show girls that eating a slice of pizza every once in a while isn’t something to feel guilty about.

I actually cringe when people I know tell me: “I’m really regretting that Oreo Mini I ate… It’s going straight to my butt!”

Well. I have something to tell you.

I like big butts. And I cannot lie. 

But seriously, everyone, food is the BEST THING EVER.

Whichever primate ancestor first picked up a berry and went: “THIS IS THE SHIT!”

Hats off to you, sir. Hats off.

Just think about it. Every occasion is a perfect occasion for eating.

1) Breakup:

2) Out with Friends:

3) Studying:

4) While pre-gaming:

5) After pre-gaming

6) Avoiding social interaction:


I didn’t even get to funerals, weddings, bridal showers, baby showers, prison openings, every time you watch Love Actually, and The Mandarin.

So, you see, I love food. A lot. If I could marry a block of aged cheddar, I would. That shit is fantastic.

To all you people out there, we need to bring back the love of food that once existed in ages past. When it was okay to eat an entire wheel of cheese and no one batted an eye.

Thank you, Ron Burgundy. I know.

Bring back the days of cheese wheeling.


All I’m trying to say is, don’t take the media too seriously. And don’t feel guilty if your Saturday doesn’t include a salad but includes lots of Vodka Redbulls and pizza. You have to do what you want!

And if what you want isn’t food, then I cordially invite you to the first ever meeting of the Go Fuck Yourself Club of which you have just been appointed president.

I’ll be over here, revelling in my gluttony.

That’s right.

So: screw you, society. Imma eat carbohydrates if I want to.

Because, DAYUMMMM, if they aren’t they delicious.

And you know what? I don’t care. And hopefully there are other people out there who are as careless as I am. But in a good way. I hope you still exercise to, you know, keep your cardio up and your muscles all bulgy-like, but I also hope that when you see that piece of cake, you don’t hesitate.

You fuckin’ grab for it. No questions asked.

Because in the words of one of Hollywood’s most beaudacious babes:

So every time you want that doughnut or that slice of pizza, just say: “Fuck you, society, you ugly m****f****! I’m SEXY!” 

And enjoy.

And the Oscar goes to…Anne Hathaway’s Nipples?

So… last night was weird.

And no, I’m not apologizing for a mistaken, drunken, sexual encounter that’s forcing us to re-evaluate our relationship as platonic friends, leaving us like:

No, internet. As much as I like you as a friend, it would never work. For you are not a sentient being.

No, the Academy Awards were last night.

…And they were weird.

More specifically, I found four weird things both during and after the the Oscars. Weirder things than sexing up a non-sentient being. Or an octogenarian.


So here we go.

My list of the four weirdest things that happened last night during the Oscars.

1. Need I say it? They were right there in front of our eyes, piercing into our very souls with their razor-sharp points for 2 and half hours.

Anne Hathaway’s nipples.

Look at them:

Anne Hathaway blog photo 1



Anne Hathaway Oscar Boobs

That is some serious Kim Possible triangle-boob going on .



Don’t get me wrong. I think Anne Hathaway is a beautiful woman with a somewhat melodramatic personality and a big heart. However, I don’t understand why she decided to shove a couple of toothpicks into her dress before Hollywood’s biggest night.

Seriously. You could carve an ice sculpture with those things.

YAY! Thanks, boobs!


My first reaction was to wonder whether they shot lasers or something. Because to me, that’s really the only reason to walk the red carpet with what look like inverted pizza slices shoved down the front of your dress. Complete with pepperoni.

It would’ve been a lot cooler if Anne (or “Annie,” as her friends call her) had done something like this:

Oh, no! Indiana Anne!

Oh, no! Indiana Anne!

Look at that photo and go: “Pew! Pew!” and tell me you don’t enjoy it.

Congratulations on winning Best Supporting Actress, Ms. Hathaway!

But next time, consider wearing a bra?

2) The second weird thing I’ve found regarding ze Oscahs has to do with the backlash Seth MacFarlane has been receiving from the internets. Especially regarding the “We Saw Your Boobs” song.

I get it. The song was immature and in bad taste. BUT, it was in the context of a joke Seth was making about his being the worst Oscar host ever. He literally asked William Shatner From the Future: “What do I do wrong tonight? Why am I the worst Oscar host in history?” W.S.F.T.F. then shows him a video performance of the criminally immature, “We Saw Your Boobs.”

He was literally performing the song with the knowledge that it was the worst thing ever to happen on the Oscar stage. 

If you watch Family Guy, you know that MacFar-Far has a very self-deprecating sense of humour, so this song should not have come as a surprise. And you know, some good has come of the song. Namely, pointing out that we haven’t seen Jennifer Lawrence’s boobs at all! That’s my girl! (I really like her, if you didn’t get that because you’re illiterate or immune to italics or something.)

Three cheers for feminism!

I totally understand that Seth MacFairyFeet’s humour isn’t for everyone. I grew up in a house where 2/5 people absolutely hated Family Guy, because they believed it to consist of “disgusting” and “stupid” humour.

But whether you love the show or not, no one should have been taken aback by the offensive jokes. I mean, c’mon. This is the guy who made a song about Prom Dumpster Babies.

Prom fucking dumpster babies.

They even swing their umbilical cords like canes. Like fetal Gene Kellys. 

So was it any surprise that he made sexist, bulimia, and domestic abuse jokes throughout the course of the show?

No. Not it was not. 

People have every right to feel uncomfortable about the jokes- that’s the point.

But what I find weird is that everyone’s acting all surprised and shit like: “OHHHHHHH NOOOOOO. HE WENT THERE!”

Raven was especially shocked.

But Hollywood, you knew what you were getting yourself into.

That’s just Seth!

And dayuuuuum, is he ever fine.

3. It seems everyone has also noticed this weirdness. What was up with all the long-haired, white-blonde men winning awards? Does it have to do with some kind of cult?

(Sorry for that, it sounded like a fucking awful beginning to a stand-up routine).



Exhibits A through Weirdly Attractive.

Now compare:


I have a feeling that these men were also taking what was theirs with fire and blood.

(If you didn’t understand that joke because you don’t watch GOT, then YOU ARE NOT WORTH MY TIME).

I also have a feeling that one question still remains unanswered for these men:

“I have my oscar, but…”


4. This part of the night really shocked me. And that would be Tarantino’s douchiest Oscar speech ever.

“I actually think that like…. if people are knowing my movies 30 or 50 years from now it’s gonna be because of the characters that I created, and I really only got one chance to get it right. I have to cast the right people to make those characters come alive and hope they live a long time… and boy, this time did I do it.”

King of the Sewer Douches

Also that he was coked out of his mind.

He did give a little extra credit to the cast of Django, but really, he only showed a billion people watching worldwide that he’s really into himself.

Once again, I would like to state that I’m a HUGE Tarantino fan. I love his films, and I do think he’s a genius and one of the most (if not THE most) innovative filmmaker of our time.


HOWEVER, that doesn’t mean you get to squash everyone’s delicate feelings with your Range Rover-sized douchebaggery.

Daniel Day-Lewis, one of the biggest names in Hollywood, was much more gracious in accepting his award. So was Anne of the Arching Areolas.

C’mon, Tarantino, I love your movies. Don’t ruin this for me.



So there you have it. Four opinions regarding the Oscars that you probably disagree with. I expect many an equally-opinionated comment/ fiery e-mail.

Actually, I’m down for both! 😀 But let’s keep swearing to a maximum, shall we?

The Oscars, for all their faults last night, were still PRETTY good. Better than the Anne Hathaway/James Franco fiasco of a couple years ago.

I could EAT the awkwardness.


All I’m gonna say is…


You want a show that will appeal to everyone? Pick those hilarious ladies and EVERYONE WILL LOVE IT. There would be no sexism, the jabs at the actors would be tasteful, and goddammit, wouldn’t I love to go to an after-party hosted by the two of them.

And you know what else?


HEAR ME OUT: Valentine’s Day is the Best Day of the Year


Unless you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, (which I completely respect, but I’m really sad that you don’t get birthdays because they’re the best and everyone treats you like a supreme War Lord), you know that Valentine’s Day is around the corner.

And by around the corner, I mean in about T-3 hours from the time I’m writing this.

But you know what?

I’m excited.

Because Valentine’s Day is the best day of the year.


“She doesn’t know anything, I’m single, Valentine’s Day is 24 hours of reminders of my sexual inactivityyyyyyy!”

Cry me a river.


So listen up, my pets, as I explain to you why February 14th is the fuckin’ bomb.

Now, all you dopes in relationships don’t get to say that this is the best day of the year. Because you have other days where you can be all lovey-dovey, like anniversaries of the first time you farted in front of each other or something. I dunno what you people do.

And on Valentine’s Day, you know exactly what to expect:

Or, if you don’t live in a Nicholas Sparks movie, this:

Cue the Marvin Gaye music.


Couples: You might think that you have an awesome day. You might think that for the two of you, in your hazy love nest of sexual healing, it don’t get much better than February Fuckin’ Fourteenth.

You, my fair Kims and Kanyes, are flat fucking wrong.


Us single people have got it SO much better.

For instance, Valentine’s Day is the one day a year where I can buy five pounds of chocolate from the Shopper’s Drugmart without the cashier asking me: “Do you want Tampax with that?” 

Fuck you, Judgmental Cashier Lady, I’m not “riding the crimson wave”, I’m just SAD AND LONELY.

But it’s okay to be sad and lonely on Valentine’s Day. THAT’S THE POINT.

So no one asks you why you’re buying enough chocolate and candy to stock a bomb shelter for six months. They just give you a knowing look that says:
“Honey, I getchu. Do what you need to do.”

And they leave you in peace.


But wait- it gets better!

Valentine’s Day is the only day of the year on which a single person, such as myself and probably 90% of people reading this blog, can march into a restaurant at 11am and demand alcohol.

The last time I tried to do this was on a nameless day in January, and the waitress responded with a: “Starting early, are we?” And a smirk. A goddamn smirk. Grins I can abide, even laughter I can tolerate, but a fucking smirk? A smirk means she’s laughing at you ON THE INSIDE.




But on Valentine’s Day, no one smirks at you, nononono.

They bring you alcohol. They smile at you as if to say: “You poor lonely soul, drinking alone on Valentine’s Day.” They comfort you. They might even tell you the drink’s on the house.

Awww, thanks house!

But in all seriousness, Valentine’s Day rules.

I can get day-drunk simply because I don’t have a boyfriend. On any other day, people would call you a whiny bitch. Or an alcoholic. But on V-Day, it’s just doing what you’re s’posed ta. 

A lot of my single friends will also treat themselves to stuff a boyfriend/girlfriend would never ever EVER buy them.

Every Valentine’s Day, at least one of my single friends will come up to me and say: “I just felt so bad about being alone today, so I went shopping and bought this $400 outfit from Mendocino, and then I had to go to Victoria’s Secret, because what if I do get a boyfriend, I mean, I don’t want him to see me in granny panties, you know? ”

First of all, I understand about the granny panties- that shit could be embarrassing. And saggy.

But the main point is, you think your boyfriend (slash girlfriend) would spent four hundred dollars on an outfit for you, just because it’s a Hallmark Holiday?? 


No. No he would not. You are a much better boyfriend (or girlfriend) to yourself than anyone ever could be.

And Valentine’s Day gives you the perfect excuse to pamper yourself like the perfect boyfriend/girlfriend would!

If this is news to you, then get your head of your ass, and realize that real people are not as thoughtful as fictional characters.

But you know who is? You areTo yourself.


And bitch. Bitch up a storm.

Because V-Day, once again, is the ONLY DAY OF THE YEAR that allows for this.

You and your friends can bitch about being single for hours. Literally. And no one will judge you. Because it’s sad to be alone on Valentine’s Day.

This is totally acceptable.

And all your friends can sit in a lil’ old circle like in kindergarten and talk about how one day you’ll get married in a mothafuckin’ castle, and you’ll leave on a mothafuckin’ horse, and it’ll be with the Old Spice Guy, because he’s the best mothafucka around, and you’ll drink mimosas and fondle each other in the Caribbean.

even his abs are smiling at me

And no one will tell you otherwise. No one will say: “That’s completely stupid and dumb and you should go drown yourself in a pool of cat urine and you’re going to end up alone if you maintain such high expectations.”

They’ll say: “If that’s what you want, girl, you should go for it. Dream big, and it’ll happen. I know it will. And you know why? Because you’re a nice person.

They’ll probably be drunk.

So if you’re feeling the Valentine’s Day Blues this year, stop it you stupid, horny jerk. 

Because V-Day is the most wonderful time of the year!

I know that my Valentine’s Day will probably end up like this:

And I’m totally alright with that. Because it’s going to be a fucking awesome day where I can drink and wallow in self-pity and bitch about men with my friends.

I can also treat myself to a little cheese, even though I’m lactose intolerant 😉


Because that’s what Valentine’s Day is all about when you’re single.

Treating yourself. (Even if it causes stomach pains.)

Trust me, one day you’ll experience a Valentine’s Day filled to the brim with awkward sexual encounters and professions of everlasting love. But until then, some words of advice:


Don’t feel guilty about feeling lonely and shit on Valentine’s Day- embrace it.

Love it tenderly. 

Love it to the sensual melody of Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On

Because at the end of the day, you won’t be lonely forever. So this is the one time in your life when you can be completely self-absorbed and not give a shit about other people (unless you want to give a shit, in which case, shit away, sir).

Now, for the male counterparts in the couplings out there, some words of advice from one Tenacious D:


For all us single people out there- HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY. Happy drunken bitching, cheese-eating, shopping-spreeing, exploitation-of-loneliness day to you all! 

And a Happy New Year!

I’m afraid I might be one of THOSE drunk people…

Until recently, I’d always prided myself on being one of those people who never did anything remarkably stupid while drunk. I’d wake up the morning after a party, grab a cup of black coffee, and laugh at the new and hilarious ways my friends had managed to humiliate themselves the night before.

I was really fucking smug about it. 

I would sit there and listen to their stories, thinking:

Little did I know that the tables were about to turn. In a big way. No they weren’t just going to turn, they were going to fucking shatter into a million little splinters and stab me right in the dignity.

The realization came to me after a party one night which ended with me racing through the underground tunnels at my school pretending to be an airplane. I called one of my friends, referred to as Elektra in one of my previous posts, but for today we’ll just call her The Face That Launched A Thousand Ships, and she came down to find me running through the tunnels with my arms spread wide going: “VROOOOOOOOM!”

That’s not even the noise that an airplane makes. Jesus. 

She tried to get me home, but I was not having it.

And that was only the beginning.

Since that night, I’ve developed such embarrassing drunken habits that I’d make the whitest of the White Girl Wasteds jealous. Not to mention the entire cast of Jersey Shore:



For one thing, I’ve started doing this thing where I try to suck on whoever’s face is nearest like some weird sea slug that just doesn’t understand social boundaries. Once I had a few drinks in me, I’d run around the party like a rabid dog in heat, basically screaming:

No one is safe.

Some of my friends would come up to me the next day and quietly pull me aside, saying: “Hey, man, this is kind of awkward, but at that party last night, you tried to make out with me… and with my boyfriend…”


I was on a Vodka Cloud of Love and I wanted to share my emotions with everyone because internalizing your feelings is bad for your heart. 


And a big heart.

So I’ve been trying to kick that lil’ habit to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that it brings about, but I guess that while I was doing that, I failed to notice another little tendency creeping into my behaviour.

I’m a photo ruiner. I ruin people’s photos.

Let me explain.

This morning I woke up in a Bed of Pain feeling like my stomach was going to capsize and my head was going to explode. I didn’t really remember anything about last night, only that I almost made it to midnight before several of my friends had to put me to bed. I’m like a little kid that desperately wants to stay up until 12 on New Year’s Eve but can never make it, no matter how hard she tries.

Anyways, later in the day, photos began to be posted on Facebook. And that is when I realized.

I am an embarrassment to the human race and an example for you all of everything you should avoid becoming.

For example:

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

So you see, I run around and make everyone’s night significantly less attractive using skills I picked up from watching Rosie O’Donnell as a kid.

Let’s look at another one, shall we?


Now, let’s take a second here. Note the weird, drooling mouth, the half-shut eyes, and, oh yeah, the vodka cooler shoved down my dress.

Why would I take a picture of this? Why would I put the vodka cooler in that strange location? That’s not where it’s supposed to go. I know this. Every part of me knows this. And yet, we have this photo.

And it wasn’t even my camera.

Sometimes I wonder how I even have friends.

One of my them tried to tell me that I enhanced photos, rather than ruin them. For anonymity’s sake, we’ll call her a total fucking liar.

This is not enhancement:

I also really like food.

I also really like food.

This is total and utter destruction.

I am the Godzilla of group photos.

I stomp around in a drunken daze and destroy everyone’s chance at finding a fun new profile pic. 

I am a destroyer of social media success.

Damn me.

However, while writing this blog, I came to the conclusion that the reason for my change from a peaceful little tipsy gnome to a tornado of drunken destructiveness is:


Damn you, university. With your (sometimes) free alcohol, and lack of rules.

No, you know what? F*** you.

F*** you, university.

Now, beware children (if there are any children reading this blog, which I hope there aren’t, since I could easily be a pedophile lying in wait (except I’m not) but back to the point in these parentheses, you should maybe ask your parents before signing up for a blog website, because that just seems like common sense), a higher education is not all fun and games. It can lead to social humiliation, regret, and remorse.

So much remorse.

My spidey senses are tingling with it.

But on the flip side, university’s also the time in your life when making a fool of yourself is somewhat socially acceptable.

So if you’re like the Old Me, and are scared of embarrassing yourself, stop it. Stop it right now.
You don’t learn anything by playing it safe. You learn by going a little bit crazy and getting a little bit silly. Otherwise, how else will you learn to laugh at yourself?

I’m not saying that you need to get drunk all the time and pass out on the bathroom floor in some frat house. You just need to stop caring what other people think so much. It’s a hard thing to do, but it’s so worth it. Because when you stop caring what other people think, you can actually start becoming yourself.

In the wise words of a class-A drunk, Chelsea Handler:

“Laugh loudly, laugh often, and most important, laugh at yourself.”
So if every Sunday morning I emerge from my cave (read: room) looking like this:
that’s my prerogative. Because I don’t give a flying f*** what people think of me anymore- and I’ve never been happier.
And that’s something to drink to.

So I have commitment issues… to my future.

This blog post is about the future.

No, not about the future- it’s about the present.

No, it’s about how the present will dictate our future. Is currently dictating our future. Which was once dictated by the past which was once our present and our current present will become the future which will in turn be dictated by this present which at that point will be the past and-

Wait, what the fuck am I saying?

I’ll give it another go, because I’m clearly on some kind of downwards word-spiral:


And apparently neither is she.

And apparently neither is she.

I am speaking on behalf of the generation of directionless youth that has been produced as a result of being too young to decide shit-all.

It’s true. To all you 30+ people out there, you guys are the lucky ones. Just know that. Embrace it. Drink to it. Let it bring you comforting dreams of stable salaries and healthcare plans.

I guess I can’t speak for all of us, but when it comes to my future, I’m a little bit like this:


Except you can’t run away from your future. Oh no, Cory from Boy Meets World, you can’t run.

But you can seduce it and make it feel stable and comfortable.

And then cheat the fuck out of it.

That’s been my way of living for going on six years now. I find a potential future, flirt with it a little, get to know it, buy it some drinks, enrol it in some classes, and then BAM.

Find a new one.

It’s so easy. I’m the Tiger Woods of Ambitions.

I leave that future lying in the dust of my newfound romance like Brad did to J-Aniston.

And I’m not even sorry.

My first chosen Future was a little childhood romance; I wanted to make it to Broadway. (I italicized the way because that’s how the pretentious New Yorkers say it).

I did everything right. I went to vocal competitions and kicked the shit out of the girls who always sang “Part of Your World” and sat on a beanbag chair wearing a mermaid tail for “authenticity.” Those poor unfortunate souls…

I got into an arts high school for musical theatre, and decided it was to be my first step on the road to the Big Apple. I walked into that school like a m********* g***** boss. 

Unfortunately, the other students didn’t see it that way.

I quickly realized that not only was I a mediocre performer, but I couldn’t dance to save a baby from a burning building held captive by Satan himself.

Every time I tried to bust a move, I ended up making people cry with laughter. And then came grade 11, when we had to learn how to dance all seductive-like.

I tried, I really did.

It didn’t go so well.

By Grade 12, I had had enough. I sent my regards to Broadway, and left that dream in the gutter with the rest of the baby prostitutes to fester and die.

And I said, “You know what? Imma become a doctor. A mothafuckin doctah. There ain’t nothin more noble than savin’ people’s lives.”

So I tried that, more adult-like, future out for a while. And it was pretty sweet at first.

I was all like:

But honestly, it wasn’t that good in the sac. (By sac I mean sex-bed-of-love).

And by “wasn’t that good” I mean, “synthesizing organic compounds is really hard, and I also hate it.”

Science is hard- and not in the fun way 😦

So I kicked that dream out the door with a one-way ticket to Whore City. I assume it was responsible for the recent U of T sex party.

Then, I had an epiphany: I would become a psychologist! Psychology’s like science, but easy! And studying Freud is both gross and cool! I dove into that one head-first like a love-sick fool. But unfortunately that Future stabbed me in the back like a stupid crabs-ridden bitch. It was more of a one-night stand than a romance.

Because, as it turns out, crazy people like me should try to see a psychologist, not try to become one. 

I was experiencing my first “It’s not you, it’s me” breakup.

I was distraught. Would I ever find The One? Or would I jump from Future to Future like a common sorority girl with a large chest size and low self-esteem?

Very soon afterwards, I fell into the arms of the most blissful of potential Futures. That of an English and Film major. I can hear you scoffing from here, you biochemists and international relations people with your “useful” degrees and your higher employability rates.

But you know what? I’m in love. With the brand new, happier me.

When I was doing all those other things, whether it be chemistry or vocal classes or psychoanalysis, I was never as happy in school as I am now.

Professors and registrars and parents and even friends will all tell you to pursue something “useful.” Something safe. And if you genuinely want to make a career of it and you know you’ll be happy, then go for it! But if you’re doing it simply because you’re scared of making mistakes, turn back now.

The world has forced us to make a lot of decisions very early in life. I was only 17 when I started university- I wasn’t even an adult, and yet people were letting me decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life! It’s a flawed system, but sometimes you just have to break through the barrier of social expectations and see yourself and your dreams for what they really are:

The truth.

I may not be going to med school, or getting a job in a psychology lab, but I’m way less stressed than when I was pursuing those things. I’m a strong believer that if something in your life isn’t making you happy, find out what it is and change it. Unfortunately, we live in a society that values quick decision-making and capitalist ends.

I don’t know where I’m going to end up, or where I’ll be working in ten years. All I know is that I’m in a field that I love, and that’s what matters. I refuse to ever feel like my life wasn’t under my control, and I hope that whoever reads this can take some sort of idea away from my blog: It’s scary to take risks, but it’s also thrilling. It’s thrilling to know that, if you work hard enough, if you’re passionate enough, and if you dream big enough, it just might work out for you.

In the words of the wisest children’s TV characters:

So don’t be afraid to sleep around until you find your brightest Future. Your life doesn’t have to be an arranged marriage- this isn’t a Jane Austen novel for Christ’s sake. And anyways, once you’ve found The One, you’ll never want anything else.

I think I might have an unhealthy relationship with TV…

Sometimes, it’s healthy to take a step away from yourself and evaluate your life from afar like one of those Tween Queen bitches from middle school used to do to me in the mall food court.

By performing this judgmental evaluation of yourself, two conclusions can be drawn:

1) “You  fuckin’ rock at life, you hot piece of ass.”


2) “Sweet Jesus, what kind of human garbage have you become, you useless future agoraphobe?”

Sadly, I did not come to Conclusion #1. I do not rock at life, and I am not a hot piece of ass.

I am hopelessly devoted and Intervention-level addicted to TV.

It’s unhealthy.

In retrospect, I really should have noticed the warning signs.

For example, when I heard that “30 Rock” was going to be cancelled, my first reaction was something like this:

This reaction quickly turned into:
After shoving several dozen peanut-butter cupcakes into my tear-ridden face (baked by yours truly- that’s right, this bitch can bake), I took a trip back in time to see if there had been any other signs warning me of my addiction.
Oh god, were there ever.
I remembered a time not so long ago when I explained, in great detail, the process of meth production and distribution to my twelve year-old brother.
As well as the process of money-laundering.
He believed I knew from personal experience and looked at me with a combination of awe and fear.
No, sweet child, your sister is not a money-laundering meth dealer, she is simply delusional.
When my sister suggested quietly that maybe I should set the record straight, I replied with:
And walked away.
To a well-adjusted human being, this would have been enough for their conscience to say: “Hey man, maybe you should stop watching the idiot box so much… You’re not doing so good, bro.”
But not for this raging beast of TV burden (I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’M DISTRAUGHT).
My friends began to compare me to Abed from Community….and I didn’t even care. Sweet Beyonce on High, I was flattered.
Granted, he is the best character on the show and he’s pretty awesome and whatnot, but we’re talking about a character whose friends only keep him around because his delusions make their lives more entertaining.
Whatever, I thought.
The final red flag waved at me like a French prostitute’s TB-infested handkerchief on Bastille Day.
i.e. It was really, really obvious but I was blinded by the promise of television art every night before bed (and no, I do not mean porn, but I still respect you if that’s your vice of choice).
It happened on a day. This day was no different from any other day. I was sitting alone in my room, watching my computer screen with strained, reddened eyes, my irises reflecting the movements of the on-screen images that so mesmerized me.
I was watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, namely, the episode containing the musical, “The Nightman Cometh”. Now, I will defend myself once by saying that this entire episode is a piece of comedy genius, but that is really neither here nor there.
Now, if you haven’t seen the Nightman Cometh, in order to relate to my sad existence, I would suggest you watch it here:
This isn’t a suggestion. This is an order. A desperate order. Please watch.
Anyways, I was watching it and dancing along, as one often does whilst watching an inter-textual musical on a TV show. Like this:
I was laughing really hard. Like really, really hard. Like harder than an Indian guy at a Russell Peters show.
Suddenly, my euphoria was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, reluctantly pausing my video and fearing the inevitability of real social interaction.
“Elektra,” said one of my roommates, (name has been changed), coming into the room with the trepidation of a visitor to the ICU.
She glanced around my room, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought there were other people in here… I heard laughing… Never mind.”
And she left.
She left me standing there, next to my computer, hands frozen above my head in a mid-clap position, shell-shocked.
It wasn’t until I took a step back from my life that I realized what I had become.
A junkie.
And I didn’t take it well.
Until I decided, you know what? TV is fuckin awesome. And there’s a little bit of Abed inside all of us. Each of us is an Abed, a meth dealer, a perpetually single food-addicted showrunner, and a Nightman who Comeths.
And I don’t think I’ll be changing any time soon.
And you can bet your ass that I’ll be tuning into Community on Thursday on NBC, and in the wise words of the now deceased Liz Lemon:

Full House Lied to Me

Alright, so I know most of you will probably be up-in-arms over this post going, “This is your first blog post, how could you say stuff like that?” or “She doesn’t even know how to use the internets yet!”

Well, to you haterz, I bid you adieu.

What I’m going to be talking about is how the men in our generation are failing, and how the girls refuse to compensate for all of this.

I mean that boys just don’t try anymore.

I watched “Full House,” I know that romantic shit happened in the past, like when DJ (or was it Deejay? Who the fuck cares.) gets a phone call from a boy who actually TOOK THE TIME to punch in her SEVEN DIGIT (pre-area code age) number and TALK TO HER VOICE THROUGH THE PHONE instead of SnapChatting her a picture of a dick.

And you know what’s sad? The idea of face-to-face or voice-to-voice contact in the early stages of a relationship has completely dissipated- and we didn’t even see it disappear! It’s completely normal to have entire flirty conversations over BBM and iPhone (or regular text messaging if you’re poor), and no one seems to notice that this is kind of an effed up situation.

Back in the day, boys actually had to “call” on you. They weren’t scared little boys with pubic-looking facial hair and video game-induced carpal tunnel syndrome- they were gentlemen suitors.

I mean, look at this:


That shit is ROMANTIC. Look at Jimmy Stewart. Where have the Jimmy Stewarts and Cary Grants gone from our generation? Are they the twinkie boys from “One Direction”?

It hurts me to say this, but I think it must be so.

Boys, some advice: If you like a girl, tell her you like her. Don’t write about it in a diary, or try to tell her with your eyes or some other weird stuff- use your words.

Girls: If the boy you’ve been seeing is too afraid to take things further, don’t waste your time. Tell him to either man up or get out.

Because at the end of the day, you’re some hot shit:

Okay, I realize I’ve been hard on the guys here. I understand that with the recent blurring between gender roles and such, boys and girls have more equal parts in a relationship.

But girls have also been conditioned to expect certain things of men. Namely, heartbreak and lessons in faking orgasms, but good things as well, like effort. And taking control of the relationship for a few minutes.

When I started writing this blog, I didn’t want it to end up as one of those columns that Sarah Jessica Parker wrote on that shit show where everyone talked about vibrators and drank cosmos. But I also think that this is a necessary point to bring up.

At the end of the day, love is supposed to be reciprocal. If you leave it all up to the girl in the relationship to take the next steps, do cute things that give you warm fuzzies and stroke your ego, you might end up alone.

Let’s bring this back, because I think we need it:


In the wise words of my favourite Hepburn, “Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get- only with what you are expecting to give. Which is everything.”