My family knows me well...very well.

Again, sorry for not updating the blog in like a week but I think you'll understand...I've been a little preoccupied...with a shit ton of awesomeness from my family!

First and foremost, my ridiculously supportive parents, who have been so cool with me basically throwing away my college degree, just bought me a spot in the "Writing for SNL" class that I've basically been staring at for the past year ANNNNNNNNNDDD if you don't know me that well that is my numero uno dream in life...SO HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I'M SO FUCKING EXCITED.

But I digress. On to the other awesomeness...

If you haven't noticed this....I'm a little obsessed with comedy....

Oh, excuse me...I think my raging liberal feminism is showing....

Oh yeahhhhhhhhhhhh...that is exactly what you think it is...an encyclopedia of serial killers... and yes I've already had a plethora of some scary assed nightmares in the past two days....

WHAT? WHAT?!?!?! A coloring book of Bill motherfucking MURRAY?!?!? Yah. Suck on that betches.

A classy lady can never have too many flasks. Or upside down pictures of said flask.

"Is this for me to potentially knife someone while walking through the projects at night?"

"Yes. Now put it on your key chain. Right. Now."

"What is this? A pumice stone for my feet?"

"It's a paperweight, Natalie."

Sorry guys...

I've been very bad about updating my blog this week, but let me explain...

....I don't want to talk about it. 

But yeah, for those of you that don't know, one of my 5 million jobs at the moment is being a nanny, so I've been to busy learning how to use rectal thermometers. Those are still a "thing" FYI.

And sorry cause this is totally not a real post, but come on, my Cosmo piece was pretty bitchin' AND I'VE HAD TO ADMINISTER A RECTAL THERMOMETER! Soooooo... I think you can let this one slide.

ALSO! ALSO! ALSO!

I got nominated for some shizzzzzzz over at Funny Not Slutty! So you should go vote for me....and shizzzz.

 God, I love you guys.

Cosmo...You've Gone Too Far.

All right, Cosmo. You have officially pissed me the fuck off.

I was willing to look past your ridiculous sexual excursions, which usually involve gorilla glue, shoestrings and non-fat cool whip. I was even willing to give bangs a shot again, because of you, even if you did forget to factor in my ridiculous cowlick.

But “25 sexy ways to put on a condom?" Now you’ve gone too far.

“If your foreplay ritual involves standing by as your guy suits up solo, you're both missing out.”

Nope.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

How about, “25 reasons that dick should shut the fuck up and put the fucking condom on himself!”

Or um, how about, “25 reasons this free condom from Planned Parenthood costs a shit ton less than than a baby, so put the fucking condom on!”

Or my personal favorite, “Shut the fucking fuck up! I’m letting you have sex with me so I will put on the condom any way I damn well fucking please!”

I’m pissed. I’m so sick of Cosmo’s bullllllllllllllllllllllllllshit. Why does EVERYTHING we do have to be sexy now? You know what’s not sexy, Cosmo? Farting. There is your new article, “25 ways to fart…sexily.”

Let’s just start taking every mundane task we can think of, Cosmo, and put “sexily” at the end of the title.

 “25 ways to buy tomatoes…sexily.”

“25 ways to pluck your eyebrows teeth…sexily.”

“25 ways to disinfect your retainer…sexily.”

I could go all night, Cosmo! You should hire me as a writer… no, but seriously, you should hire me as a writer…

Any who.

My personal favorite way to “sexily” to put on a condom, you ask? Tip #2: Hands free, i.e. with your mouth. Cause that’s what every lady wants in life, Cosmo. To accidentally choke on a condom during foreplay.

Is this what we’ve become ladies? Is this what we care about? Oh, I’m sorry. Is my non-PMSing feminist rage making you feel uncomfortable? Christ on a cracker!!

Where’s the justice? 

You know what Cosmo never tells you about sex from the female perspective? Sometimes I don’t want to do shit, but I still want to get laid. I want you to get on top, do your thing and get me off. Botta bing. Botta boom. I will even a let you say, “Botta bing. Botta boom,” afterward if you allow this to happen.

Cosmo never tells you that. They never tell you how lazy we ladies truly are. And how sometimes we just want you for your penis, not for your “emotional value.” Nope, Cosmo tells you to “sexily” put lube on your lips and then put a fucking condom in your mouth!

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd……rant complete.

Nothing makes me happier...

Nothing makes me happier than when a guy says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

This phrase has a few hidden meanings:

    1.     I think you’re hot and I am trying really hard to impress you.

    2.     I don’t really know how to impress you because you seem like a “different” type of lady.

    3.     Your face says, “Hey, let’s talk, I won’t judge you…openly.”

    4.     I don’t know how to get this shit eating grin off of my face, so I’m just going to start blabbing about the most awkward moments of my life to avert your attention slightly away from my “creep” smile.

     5.     Holy shit, did you just reference “Lost” and “Aliens” in the same fucking sentence?!?

     6.     And lastly, I really, really, really want to make out with you.

To me, this is quite honestly the most flattering thing a man can say (and do) for me. When a guy says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” it actually makes me feel special.

Yeah, I’ve bet you’ve opened plenty of doors for ladies in your lifetime, but did you ever tell them about your most awkward sexually experience…in graphic detail…during one of your first real interactions with this lady?

 No. No you did not. But you told me.

And side note: Please stop opening doors for me, gentlemen. But like fo’ real. STOP OPENING DOORS FOR ME, GENTLEMEN! I always get stuck in this awkward, “Wait do I go? Or do you go? Or is the door big enough for us to go at the same time? Dammit, the door isn’t big enough for both of us to go at the same time,” moment.  Shit’s not pretty.

I think chivalry is great and all, and hopefully not a dying gesture, but chivalry is not what I’m looking for in a man. I’m looking for brutal honesty. About himself, that is.

If you can sit here and tell me everything about yourself, I will openly do the same. And if we are not horrified by one another at the end of all of it, that sex position you always wanted to try, but were too afraid to ask your ex about, might be involved.

Just be real with me, or any lady you are trying to woo. That’s what we really want, and I hope you want the same, too. (Ew. That rhymed.)

So when I’m telling you about my favorite condiment, honestly tell me how disgusted, yet oddly turned on you are right now. Because I’m about to openly tell you that I will not fulfill that “Battlestar Galatica,” sexual fantasy you have, but maybe the “Star Wars” one…maybe.

But seriously, I have no clue where you are going to get a movie quality Jabba the Hut costume at…

Sex, or the Lack There of.

August 13^th is the last day that I had sex, which really mucks up the works when you write a blog called, “Awkward Sex…”

And let me also point out how gross it is that I actually remember the date, too. Vomit.

To be perfectly honest with you, that was a terrible day for me (with the exception of the sexing). It was the day that I knew it was officially over and could no longer make a fool of myself and reach out to a boy that I could never change how he really felt. He slapped me in the face with one final text message, and August 13^th was also the day I’ve vowed to myself to never contact that boy again. I’ve kept my word.

I decided it was time to move on, even though I was obviously not emotionally equipped to start anything new, I decided to have sex. With a boy I put through hell and strung along, because I kept holding out for the boy that broke my heart.

This is going to make me sound like a terrible person, but I had been hooking up with the boy I strung along for months. There was no official title with the other guy, and for other circumstances as well, technically I was doing nothing wrong. But the self-inflicted guilt was hell to bare, and still makes me cringe to this day.

We hooked up that night, and the sex was amazing. I thought I had finally kicked the former dude. Sex does cure all! I was free of any pings of sorrow and remorse. Feel like you’re in the shitter? Just have sex! Yay! Being a 20-something year old is awesome! 

And then I woke up.

Searching for my bra in my new apartment while the boy slept, I realized how sad I actually was. And it wasn’t even sadness, I was just messed up. Everything reminded me of him, and finding myself with another guy actually made me physically sick. I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I had to finally accept that it was going to take longer than two weeks to get over him. And that that reality fucking sucks.

This hook up guy’s a great guy, and the sex was amazing, but I knew I wouldn’t want anything more. I couldn’t be that selfish person. I couldn’t be the one that fucked someone else over. It had just happened to me, and I was a wreck and in no place to return the shitty outcome I had just received to someone new. 

Actively choosing to not have sex is not a “new” thing. I’m not a pioneer or anything of the sort, and many times I truly hate that I’m doing this to myself.

Like, right now. I hate that I’m not having sex right now.  I really want to have sex right now. And I know I have options. That’s the worst part. But I’m so afraid that partaking in unemotional sex will send me into a downward spiral back to the same feelings of longing and sadness that I’ve tried so hard to forget.

I don’t know what I want anymore. It’s been a long time since that summer morning of regret and confusion. Personally, I think I’m finally ready to partake in some new sexual memories. I'm just afraid.

It has to be with someone new. Right? It has to be something real. I can’t just have sex anymore. As much as I love to find a friend that is willing to have sex with me on a regular basis. It’s time to grow up. It’s time to be an adult. And do adult like things, like crossword puzzles, and listen to NPR, and maybe even actively listening while others talk.

… but I dunno, the last one might be pushing it.

I'm done.

So I’ve been thinking about this lately, and I’m done. I am so done trying to be a functioning part of society, (or at least done trying to give off the illusion that I am a functioning part of society).  And let’s get real, I haven’t been, for a very lonnnnnnnnng time now.

Case in point, I just got distracted for 20 minutes trying to find a new cover photo for my facebook profile. This pear next to me, that I thought would be a step in the right direction for a productive day, is missing its little sticker thingy, because I accidently ate it. I’m in a level 2-improv class for Christ’s sake!

None, none of this says, “That lady has got her shit together. She is doing so much for society when she crosses her eyes in all those facebook pictures.”

Can we all just be collectively done together? Can that be our generation’s “thing?”

Hard work and diligence sprinkled with success would be cool and all, but right now I just really want to buy a tub of vanilla ice cream and dip weird shit in it.

And it’s Thursday, so there’s an SVU marathon going on today. I literally have had to position myself with my back to my television as to not be tempted by Stabler’s siren calls. Which only leads to me looking lovingly over to the remote ever 3-to-5 minutes. This is not going well.

I know a lot of these feelings of self-defeat and pity are coming from the impending new year, and the close of an “interesting” old year. And by “interesting,” I mean a huge fucking slap in the face. Repeatedly.

I’m not going to sit here and say, “2013, I’ma make you my bitch!” Cause that’s not going to happen. 

Instead I’m going to buy a keg, throw a party with my roommate, get all dolled up, and be surrounded by friends that I love and cherish, and have them tell me that I’m doing a great job with all my endeavors, as I ralph into the guest toilet.

I want to welcome the New Year with open arms (and a little bit of vomit), and make it fully aware of the state that I am in.

I have no expectations anymore, and I don’t mean that in a sad self-pitying way. I mean it in a guarded, I don’t want to get fucked over again way. I’m learning that I am constantly getting stuck in a certain path for my personal life, and when I am forced to deviate from that path, I freak the fuck out.

This is me letting go.

I’m done. I’m done trying to force things to happen. I’m done trying to be a functioning part of society. I’m done with caring what other people think. But mostly, I’m done with getting in my own way.

I’ma let go, 2013. I’ma let go and get hammered in that sexy backless dress, which means I will be entering the New Year braless. No expectations, no resolutions, no bra, just you and me, 2013.

Actually I take that back, I have one simple resolution: to find Donald Glover, woo him, and become the most influential interracial couple since Heidi Klum and Seal.

Shit hits a little too close to home...like fo real.

I seriously hate how much this show reflects my life and I get to say that cause I live in NYC, bitches, and seem to be stuck in a constant quarter-life crisis.

Side note: I always hate those girls that are like, "Ohemgeeeee, I'm so like the real life version of Liz Lemon!" Really, blond girl with perfect boobs, REALLY?! Did you just dip a tostito chip in to a can of vanilla icing at 11 in the morning? Because I just did. Know your role, ladies.

I think "Girls" has really shown people that being a 20-something lady, ain't that fun. Yeah, my boobs are perky, but that's about it. I'm so lost and confused that the mere act of picking up a stuffed animal has brought me to wailing sobs, because some days I just want to be that fat, fugly nine-year-old again. When shit didn't fucking matter, and two chicken burritos and a marathon of SNL solved all my problems.

I'm constantly thinking, "Well fuck," about EVERYTHING in my life. "Well fuck, maybe I'm not as good of a writer as I thought I was." /"Well fuck, he really didn't in love me and now I'm stuck in the vicious cycle of emotional neediness and constant embarrassment over the sacrifices I was willing to make for him."/ "Well fuck, the tortilla chips are too small to dip into the queso jar without getting cheese on my hands."

I get Marnie's character so much, I just want someone to tell me this is what my life will be. That this is what I should do, seeing as majority of my choices blow up in my face. Maybe it won't be what I want to hear, but at least I'll fucking know and I'm assuming food will be involved.

Everything is a constant slap in the face now. My birth control is a daily reminder of how much sex I'm not having. Which yes, I'm actively choosing not to have sex, and for the most part, it's helped me clear up at least one section of my mind. But some days, bitch just wants to get laid.

And let's not forget those god damn student loan bills, as a monthly reminder of how much my college degree has done for me...oh wait, it's done shit.

Yaaaaaayyyyyy, growing up. Yaaaaaaayyyyy, being in a constant state of insecurity. When does it all make sense? Or do does it never makes sense and you finally just give up and say, "fuck it" I'ma eat more Twisted Cheeto puffs and hope this episode of Gilmore Girls sparks some divine inspiration.

Because I've been doing that...and nothing is happening...

My biggest fear...

My biggest fear if I ever become a successful stand-up comedian with my own television special, (now this wouldn’t be for a long time seeing as I still need to do the whole “stand-up” part), is the inevitable fact that some guy I’ve screwed is going to be flipping through the channels, recognize my face/ high-pitched voice/cankles, turn to the first person next to him, whether it a roommate/random passerby/ cellmate and say:

“Dude…fucked her.”

And now, it’s not really the guy I screwed I’m worried about because yeah, whatever, I made my bed now I have to lie in it. It’s the roommate’s/stranger’s/cellmate’s reaction I’m worried about.

“Gross….” Or “Nice…”

Look, cellmate 17389 you don’t know me. Maybe I chugged a few too many wine coolers that night, and Joey called me fat, okay? And I loved Joey and he didn’t love me back, and I was feeling chunky that night. And maybe, just maybe, your buddy, cellmate 71377 or as I like to call him, Jorge, told me I was a fine slice of white-heaven as he held my hair back while I vomited on his shoes.

Would you say no to that, cellmate 17389? Would you?!

Or maybe the guy I screwed was way out of my league. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking him way tooooooooo long to figure out that simple math in his head, stranger who is at a loss for words. And maybe, just maybe, he likes high-fiving more than the average male. Whatever, he’s hot, dumb and was  filled with the adequate amount of ruffies at the time. Sorry if I saw this golden opportunity and jumped on it… literally.

I’m an opportunist, not a thismightbewrongist.

I'm pretty sure that's what the feminist movement was all about, and I would know, cause I'm a lady.

Boom.

Oh, I'm scared shitless...

I need to start doing stand-up. It's seriously the best way to get hired as a comedy writer for basically anything, but I’m not even going to pretend that I’m not not scared shitless…

…also…I’ve been drinking. God damn you,  Michelob Ultra, you sexy, sexy, man you so this post may turn into a train wreck. (But aren’t those the best wrecks to watch?)

Any who…let’s get back to me being scared shitless…now I know…I know you think I’m infallible…and perfect… and let’s be completely honest…I am.

But I’m pretty sure, even Jesus would suck at stand-up…that cloth robe thingy he constantly wears? Talk about a heckler’s dream.

And that beard? Already perfected by Galifinakas.

I know I’m going to suck. That’s inevitable. Everyone has to suck at first. Right?

Right?!?!

And what’s my stage persona going to be? A bitch? No. no. no. That shits been done. I don’t want to be just another bitch. I want to be a jackass. A lady jackass. 

But I’m too cute to be a perceived as a jackass at first glance.

“Oh no…she’s pretty…she’s just going make jokes about having HPV…who this bitch think she be? Amy Schumer?”

It’s so much easier being funnier on paper (for me at least)…and unless I’m constantly vomiting on stage…I’m not quite sure what people are going to laugh at exactly.

At first I was just going to use my blog posts as materials, but my friends shut down that idea real quick.

“I would advise you not to do that.”

“Wait…why not?”

“You talk about mayo, like a lot.”

“Yeah, and?”

"Ew.”

Dammit. I was totally going to talk about mayo the whole time.

Meat. Mayo. Porn. Honestly, those were going to be my staples of my act. Or maybe I should talk about being fat for what…17 years?

Or maybe I should get fat again and make that my act?!?

No.

Adult braces?

No.

Spray-can icing on tortilla chips?

Yes…..?

Taco Bell? Oh…yeah….taccccccoooooo belllllllll. That’s a gold mine, fuckers! Specifically when Mr. Bell gave me good poisoning during driving school. Good times.

Oh. Dear. God. Help. Me.

Politics?

I’m not that smart.

Catholicism?

If I do…the devil will eat my soul…

As you can see, I’m a very deep person, especially when my days only consist of mini-donuts and bean and cheese burritos….

…however, I do, do a good impression of my mother. It helps that I look and sound exactly like her, but whatever…fuck you. I still do a better impression that you, asshole. I don't need your judgemental stare right now!

Hmmmmmmmmm.

…well I’m pretty fucked…and I haven’t even begun yet….this is not good.

Thanksgiving reminds me of one thing.

MRSA.

Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.

It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.

This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to WebMD, “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.

"Natalie stop being a pussy. It’s just a spider bite. Now shut up and watch "The Hills.'"

It wasn’t a spider bite.

For about about two days I dragged my "spider bite" along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”

This was not good.

When I showed my parents “it”... “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.

"This is not good."

“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”

So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a military doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite,” but of course not before he could say…

“You have 24 hours to live.”

…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.

Luckily my parents understand that I have the mentality of a 5-year-old and that ice cream, specifically any type of McFlurry, would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.

“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, or you could die, mkay?”

“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”

Now back to that "extrememely hot washcloth." Here's the thing, my mother didn’t exactly understand the difference between hot, and "I'm trying to melt off your skin with steam." Or she did, but she was hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.

They didn’t.

Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…

“Holy fucking Jesus Christ.”

“Natalie. Stop being a pussy.”

After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…possibly not having my leg amputated…

“Hey Nat, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”

“Oh okay. I just hope you don't die…good night.”

I cried all night.

Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case you were wondering.

It's not that weird...I swear!

I don’t know if you have noticed, but I do some pretty weird shit, like, all the time. And for the most part, I’m not ashamed of those weird things. I basically have no shame when it comes to anything that would publicly embarrass myself.

Well that, and the fact that I usually don’t realize that those things that I am doing are in fact weird until I tell Matt and he goes, “Natalie, that is really fucking weird.”

Whoops.

So case in point, when I want to scare myself, I Wikipedia serial killers. That’s not that weird right? 

Like, other people want to read about serial killers, right? RIGHT?!

Okay, maybe not. Fuck you.

Ladies, I recommend starting with Ted Bundy. (Because obviously, I’m about to force you to read about serial killers as well, as to make myself feel less weird about this situation.)

If you don’t know who he was, he was a handsome and charming man, who used his good looks and an arm in a sling (or crutches) to lure many of his beautiful victims. 

This probably why I never trust hot dudes when they hit on me.

And these are just the first documented killings...it get's worse. But I'll let you decide if you want to read further. (For reals, though...you should totally keep reading about Bundy.)

And you know what the best part of Wikipediaing serial killers is, America? There is usually a little blue link thingy that will lead you to yet another serial killer...It's like the gift that keeps on giving!

On Bundy's page, if you dare to go on, will lead you to a Mr. Gary Ridgway, whom Bundy was in contact with in prison. 

With 48 confessed killings, it is presumed that he actually killed over 90 victims. He became very religious in adulthood and many speculated that Ridgway was torn between his uncontrollable lusts and his staunch religious beliefs.

Fucking crazy right?!? No, not me. The serial killers.

And if you don't want to go trolling on wikipedia for serial killers, just get an enabling best friend that may or may not do the same exact thing on Wikipedia.

Side note: I'm the one in blue, just FYI.

You want to Wikipedia H.H. Holmes now, don't you? Muahahahahhaha! My job is done, bitches. 

Dear Facebook, you are ruining my life...

Dear Facebook,

You have ruined my life. Because instead of taking control of my own actions, I’m going to blame you, inanimate object, for all my shor tcomings in life. I’ve given you a list. Now fix it! All of it!

     1.    If I defriend a person, it’s because I don’t want them to see my shit anymore! Or I don’t want to see their fucking shit anymore!

Yeah, whatever, maybe it was childish to defriend that boy that I used to love, but I was getting sick of seeing his douchey statuses, showing that he was so obviously over me. Sorry but my, “I think it’s time to buy a cat and cry,” statuses can’t exactly compete with happiness. I mean, you of all people should understand this….Zuckerberg.

     2.    On a completely different note, can you stop letting those hot guys I used to hook up with, post         pictures of themselves with their shirts off!

      I don’t know if you read my blog, Facebook, but I’m not having sex at the moment. It’s a personal choice, thank you very much. But shit gets real hard, when I see those hot guys half naked on Facebook, all of a sudden emotionless sex seems like a very good idea to partake in again.  And, then I’m all like, “Wait, why were they hooking up with me? My body does not look anything like that…”

    

    3.    People doing better than me on Facebook.

Yeah…I don’t want to hear about it, Facebook. So why don’t you make a filter button called, “bitter jealousy,” so I can block any status updates about job promotions, relationship statuses, or any status with any hint of happiness in them. Mmmmmmkay, thankssssssssssssssss.

    4.    Can you make me look better in all those drunk photos?

Yes, I understand that it was I that was crossing my eyes and contorting my face into odd facial expressions that night. But I was drunk, so fuck off. Now it’s time for you to get your shit together, do your fucking job and fix that. Get one of your genius employees to create an application where I can uncross those damned eyes in that damned photo. Don’tact like it’s not possible to make me look pretty, asshole. Now chop! Chop!

    5.    I want more people telling me I’m funny on Facebook.

Preferably you, Facebook. Can you tell me I’m funny? Like all the time? And that I’m pretty? Or at least poke me every once and a while? Ever poke someone on Facebook because you missed the human touch, Facebook? Me too, Facebook. Me too.

I want to defriend this person, but their ignorant statuses are just too fucking funny.

Now, I just want to say, I was not a fan of either candidate. I think Robin Williams puts it correctly, "politicians are just like diapers...they are full of shit." This is not a, "Yay! Romney fans are stupid!" post. This is a, "Wooooooaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.....certain people should not be given a voice on a social media platform....like...ever," post.

This is called ignorance people, and it is icky (and also looks terrible in khakis). 

Now go read a fucking book, person who wrote all these status updates (which I've blurred out their name, profile picture and...wait for it...fucking social securtiy number, for obvious reasons.)

**Honestly, I was shocked he even knew who Heller Keller was....and spelled her name correctly...but let's talk more about these "shits." 

**Right, back at yah, kiddo.

 **Now, I'm intrigued by this T-shirt venture you speak of, HOWEVER, I will only buy this shirt if "lying" is spelled incorrectly...I don't think society would want it any other way.

**Now....maybe this is just me, but don't think I can vote for someone who can't spell campaign correctly...or tomorrow...

Also, I totally defriended this person. As much as I loved mocking them, it was time to let go...and plus my friends will totally keep me updated on this gem of a facebook profile.

Cause this is a totally normal conversation to have with a five year old...

5 year old: Natalie, are you wearing your Superman bra?

Me: ...No.

5 year old: Yes you are.

Me: How can you tell?

5 year old: They just look different.

Me: They look different?

5 year old: Yeah. They look happier.

Me: Happier?

Side note: Best way to communicate with children...just repeat the last thing they said. Totally sounds like you are paying attention.

5 year old: Yeah, you know. (Point to face then smiles.) Happier.

I look down.

Me: Yeah, I guess they look happier.

5 year old: Natalie. Can you just take off your bra so I can wear it?

Me: Uh...no.

5 year old: Why not?

Me: Because...because...no.

5 year old: Natalie, may I please wear your Superman bra.

Me: No.

5 year old: But I said please!

Me: No dice, kid.

5 year old: I don't want to play with dice. I want to wear your bra.

Me: It's an expression. It means you are not going to get what you want.

5 year old: Fine. I'm going to draw now. And I'm not drawing a picture of you.

Me: Are you going to draw Superman?

5 year old: ...Yes.

Wanna be a real New Yorker? This is what you do.

  

   1.     Throw up in a taxi.

…Preferably alcohol related. And try to throw up in multiple taxis on the same night…usually makes for a good story.

  

   2.     Drink cheap champagne on the great lawn.

…Don’t worry, it’s really easy to hide. Just red solo-cup the shit out of that situation. And when you run out of booze there will be dudes pedaling Heinekens out of a rolling cooler.

   3.     That being said, buy the beer from the random dudes selling Heineken after you’ve run out of cheap champagne, while drinking on the great lawn.

…Did you go there to get hammered anyways?

   

   4.     Learn how to properly walk in heels down subway stairs, or anywhere in NYC for that matter.

…I still haven’t mastered this technique yet…but I heard you look really hot once you do.

   

   5.     Hook up with an employee, especially if you’re an intern.

…Come on! They are having you working for free…you deserve some fun.

   6.     Crocodile Lounge.

…. Look it up. You get a pizza with every drink. Enough said.

   7.     Walk around like a total jackass.

…No, but seriously. You are in the greatest city in the world, whether you are visiting or you live here permanently, put on some sexy boots and classic Ray Bans and walk like you own this shit… everyone else is doing it.

   8.     Get so drunk you walk into the Subway and end up in Queens.           

…Especially if you live nowhere near Queens. Believe me, it’s good fun! Just make sure you find a taxi quick enough that you make it in time to hurl in the privacy of your own apartment… you might be naked while you’re hurling into the toilet…whateva, shit happens.

    9.     Fall in love.

…. Gross I know. But just do it. Long distance, or right here in the city. You grow up a fucking lot when you finally realize the world doesn’t revolve around you.

   10. Become a nanny (and/or manny).

… Best. Birth. Control. Ever.

   11. Just go with the flow.

…Some days (or nights) you are going to randomly find yourself around people you’ve never met in your life…they will soon become your best friends.

   12. Do what you fucking came here to do.

…We all came here for a fucking reason. Don’t get lost in the bullshit and booze. Well actually no, do get lost in the bullshit and booze but let it be apart of the creative experience, at least that’s what I tell my mother every time I drunk dial her.

   13. Drunk dial your parents.

…Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking miss them. Now call your mother and tell her swapping drug stories made you the fine lady (or man) you are today.

  14. Remind yourself that some of your old friends suck, and learn how to cut people out of your life.

…Fo real though. They do. You got out. You took a chance. And they will forever resent you for that. It’s going to be friends you don’t expect. People you thought always had your back. They don’t. They are dicks. Now take a shot and tell those assholes off.

  15. Piano at F.A.O Schwartz.

…That is all.

   16. Hot dog vendors…anywhere in the city.

…That is all.

   17. Brunch.

…Awww shittttt, should you be drinking before noon? Fuck. Yeah. You should be drinking before noon. Now here’s the thing. You need to find an “unlimited brunch.” These occur on the weekends and usually cost about 20 bucks for unlimited mimosas. You ain’t got money bitch, you live in NYC, you take that fucking deal.

   18. You know those friends that make more money than you?

…Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. When they offer to pay, let them. You can paint them a picture later.

   

   19. Remember “Sex and the City” is not real.

…You will never be Carrie. You will never live in a rent-controlled apartment in an amazing location. You will never have crazy amazing dancer-legs. You are five feet tall, if that. But you are spunky and funny and have been told you can do a mean Cartman impression when you are hammered. That is all you need to be happy in this city. And booze. Booze will make you happy.

   

   20. Sleep naked.

…Seems to be a real “New York” thing. I’m not against it.