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...