Awkward Sex...and the City Drunk Promo Numero 2

Awwww yeahhhhhh bitches... TOMORROW! NOVEMBER 5TH. 9:30 P.M. THE PIT. MAINSTAGE.

http://www.youtube.com/v/AKZaX2q91qc?autohide=1&version=3&attribution_tag=uIzvQDn7-H6yHHJRIpZgtA&showinfo=1&autohide=1&feature=share&autoplay=1

Real Talk- with Carly and Julia

I kind of needed this perspective/real talk this morning, so maybe you do to? Watch it. Carly (Blonde chick) was in my first show (and will be in the Dec. 3 show!) and she's hilarious and real.

...Julia, please be my BFFFFFFFF.

Video Promo for the the Oct. 8th show!

Watch me drunkenly talk about the show....and then come to The People's Improv Theater on Oct. 8th @ 9:30 p.m.

It is what it is.

There are some things that you can only experience in NYC. As cliché as that sounds it’s true. I’m not trying to imply that all those experiences are good, they’re terrible actually-- crying publicly on the subway, throwing up in a taxi (multiple times in one night), pretending you are okay at a dance party in Williamsburg but all you want to do is roll up into a little ball and cry underneath the DJ booth, and pray to god the L is running on schedule, but it’s the weekend so you know it’s not.

It’s so hard not to relate to “Girls” and “Sex and the City” because those episodes are your life as a lady in the city. People say it’s unrealistic and glamorized for affect, and to an extent, those critics are right. But most of those critics don’t live in the city.

This Friday I was peeing in a hotel room at the Standard Hotel. The whole room (bathroom included) was head –to- toe windows with a surreal view of the Hudson River, which traveled all the way to the Empire State Building.

Now I had the option to close a curtain, but there is something so tranquil about peeing in a fancy dress, with your hair all done up, and staring directly at the Empire State Building, and knowing it’s staring right back at you. That’s respect.

I wouldn’t say I was happy, but I wouldn’t say I was sad either. Content, I guess. Okay, maybe. Present in a moment, for once in my life. Not thinking about the future; not wondering about what could have been done differently in the past. 

It was in that moment when I realized I was stuck in a very dramatic scene in my own version of “Girls.” It was either the premiere or finale episode of that season. So much internal conflict within the main protagonist conveyed a feeling of movement in some sort of direction. Something big was going to happen. A huge gesture of chivalry, maybe? An internal triumph?

But in reality, I pulled up my purple tights, flushed the toilet with my cheetah heels, and walked back into the party with no expectations of movement or clarity in my life.

I’m 25, walking back into a fabulous party in the meatpacking district, with a broken heart… Uh. 

Hello. Welcome to every fucking episode of “Sex and the City,” ever. God, I’m even writing this now at my desk that overlooks 1^st avenue on the upper “upper” east side, it’s so fucking cliché I’m going to hurl.

This summer is hard to explain. Mostly, because it’s stuff I don’t want to talk about yet, and that’s partly the reason I’ve stayed away from writing. A personal forced hiatus, to figure my shit out.

The thing is, I’m not going to figure my shit out. Not this season, at least. None of us are. Anyone who says they have their shit together in 20’s is full of shit, and yes, you are allowed to punch anyone who implies such bullshit.

I wish we’d all just relax. We won’t, I get that. The mentality of this city has forced us to rush to our future, without allowing us to stop and revel in what we have accomplished. Which guys, is a lot.

Just stop for a moment and think about what you’ve done. Yet, we always get caught up in the bad shit: the breakups, the heartaches, the “struggle.”

But if we don’t struggle now, it will never feel as good as it should on the other side. So drink that beer, watch that football game, and realize what you’ve done, and relax. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

And nothing is more cliché or scarier than that fact alone.

I had a (former) best friend tell me I would never make it to NYC and I should just give up now...

Guess what, cunt.

Wait, You've Never....watched this video I'm in!?

brought to you by the lovely ladies of, Salute Your Skirts.

Babies, Fuck. You.

I’m not going to lie, I’m a huge hypochondriac. And by hypochondriac I just mean that I constantly think I’m pregnant, like all the time.

I fully believe that pregnancy is a disease. A disease I never want my body subjected too…like, ever.

Side note: Ladies (and maybe a few gentlemen?) Have you ever looked at a tampon and said, “Thank 

you for doing your job and not being a baby.” Oh, just me?

I might honestly be the only lady that gets ridiculously excited to receive her monthly gift from mother nature.

Whatever…I don’t want a fucking baby! Except, when I see little red baby converse shoes and then my ovaries explode in my jeans. Baby clocks have very messy alarms.

I know these feelings are all because of my age. I’m only 24…(soon to be 25). And I’m definitely not in a place in my life where babies will make life better. If anything it will make life worse. Way worse. 

And yes, babies are “its,” and will be “its” in my vernacular for a very long time.

I’m sorry, but babies are conceited assholes. Can we all agree on that? They shit wherever they please, they scream wherever they please, and they know they can get away with it because they are fucking adorable.

Except those few that aren’t adorable, and then you’re all like, “Unadorable baby, who the fuck do you think you are? You’re ugly. Go suck on your toes and shut the fuck up.”

But in all seriousness, pregnancy really does scare the shit out me. Not just because of what it does to your body physically (which is a lot of crazy shit), but the fact alone that you automatically become the sole provider of a living being….that you created. And I am in a point in my life, where that is just not good.

I need a fucking iPhone app to remind me to take my birth control pill on a daily basis, because obviously my staggering fear of becoming pregnant is not enough of an incentive to take my god damn birth control! So what makes society think I will be fit to even remember to feed my child? Or let alone, remember where I left it last?

So, until Apple makes a “Where’s your baby” app. Me and babies just cannot co-exist.

And don’t even get me started about birth control, I’m such a hypocrite, I was just a hater for so long.

“It’s going to kill us all in the end! Just use condoms… Oh wait, but it really does stop babies from being made in my belly? Really? Really, really? Grab me a 13 year supply, and a V8 Fusion please…I don’t like babies being made, or tasting vegetables.”

Annnnnnnddddd I think I just sealed my spot in hell.

Bitch Please...You Know You Do It ALLLLLLLLLL The Time.

Have you ever been caught popping a zit, mid-pop? Like, anywhere? Work? Class? In front of your boyfriend as he averts his eyes while holding up your make-up mirror right before the trailers start for Hangover III?

I realized the other day -as I popped a zit in front of the children I nanny- I have absolutely no shame when it comes to the act of popping zits. (Whateva, they fart in my face, they can handle a zit popping every once in a while…It’s called unconditional love, judgmental assholes.)

I will pop a zit in front of anyone at any place, but there is something so terrifyingly awful about getting caught in the act mid-zit.

It’s like porn: we all know we partake behind closed doors, but to witness the actual act of someone seeking such pleasure is unsettling, to say the least. Well actually…it’s fucking disgusting. A Boner shrinker. A Mood killer-er. The most disgusting moment you will catch your significant other partaking in-er.

And to be the one caught…Well. Fuck. Your. Life.

“Ehh. Oh…God damnit…This isn’t what it looks like. Please don’t think of me as a lesser person….Please keep having sex with me…I like you…”

But why? Why is this such a traumatic event for every party involved? Is it because popping a zit truly is one of the most intimate things one can do to their own body? To actively choose to squish out white (ish) excrement’s from one’s self? And why do I care so much?

I know the majority of you reading this are gagging in your chairs, but COME ON! We alllllllll do it. 

So stop acting all above it and shit. When you gotta pop. You gotta pop. There’s nothing wrong with that. You aren’t a sick fuck for wanting to rid that horridly huge whitehead from yo face. You’re human.

But we do this to one another everyday. We unfairly judge each other for things we all inherently have no control over.

I wholeheartedly believe that we are born with the undying need to pop zits. It’s called survival of the fittest. You either pop a zit or you die.

So next time you see me popping a zit, don’t shrivel up in disgust while dry-heaving, it only shows the world how weak of a person you are. And remember the more you pop, the more you succeed.

Same thing goes for pooping….ladies.

I'm Back.

I’m back. And I really mean it this time.

I’ve been on a forced creative hiatus for the past couple of months, and when I say forced hiatus, I mean I’ve been lazy. Super fucking lazy. Honestly, I think I forgot that I was a comedic writer, a humorist, some might say….a lady who fucks up a lot and then writes about it for shits and gigs…that type of writer.

Any who, I’ve been telling myself, writer’s block has been the blame of my current writing demise but the truth is I’ve been hiding.

When I get confused, I hide. And as of lately, there have been a lot of changes in my life that have confused the fuck out of me. The main one being, a few weeks ago I was offered an actual legitimate writing gig.

Now, I currently freelance over at Maxim and Complex (What? What?!?) but this gig was different. 

And when I accepted the job, I immediately felt as if I had sold my soul to the devil. Not a good sign.

One of the hardest things about living in NYC is having to constantly remind myself why I am here. It wasn’t to write. It was to recreate my world for an audience and allow them to forget their troubles while simultaneously laughing at mine.

I just want to make you laugh.

The moment an editor said in a meeting at the new writing gig, “You may violate your own ethics,” I immediately checked out. Like, I quit. Everything I hated about journalism in college came rushing back.

At first, I thought I was being a baby because the daily deadlines were so demanding, and that yeah, maybe I didn’t want to write about some actor’s swollen feet, but if there is one thing my parents have taught me that has always stuck with me, is to never compromise your own ethics.

And my only advice to you, especially if you are pursuing a creative outlet, is to never put yourself in a position where you do compromise your morals and ethics.

I quit a week after the editor brought up ethics. I couldn’t perform anymore. I hadn’t violated any of my morals yet, but the impending possibility ate me alive.

I’m a lot of terrible things: I’m vain. I’m an asshole. I’m selfish. But I will never compromise the integrity of writing. Too many have already left their horribly mark and I will not repeat the cycle…no matter how much money is thrown my way.

I’m back. And my focus is back on you. That’s what I forgot. I don’t write for myself. I write for you.

Type of convo I have when I'm dealing with an epic bout of writer's block...

Oh hey...remember me? Yeah, me neither. I've been MIA for multiple reasons but mostly because of a pretty shitty bout of writer's block. Thank god for nonjudgmental best friends who let me go off on random tangents.

I'm the one in blue...and I'm not embarrassed by any of this convo. Boom, mother fuckers.

Bacon condoms now exist.

That is all.

http://store.baconsalt.com/Bacon-Condoms_p_177.html

I hate this post, but I haven't written in 3 weeks, so...yeah...

As much as this is going to sound like a Carrie Bradshaw intro, I’m willing to take that risk and talk to you about a subject that is really starting to stress me out.

A friend and I were talking the other day about the future and what we ultimately wanted/needed.

Now, this may be an issue that is specifically geared towards the ladies, but the older I get, the more I see this common fear amongst myself and the other ladies in my life: Can we have it all?

Can we have the career we are madly in love with, plus the man (or lady) we are madly in love with, simultaneously?

Neither one of these things are easy to accomplish to begin with, let alone add a whole new bag of constant failure and blind faith on top of our already stressful situations, which makes you wonder if it’s even worth it.

Do we have to choose? And if so, what does that choice say about yourself?

I, personally, don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, and Twisted Puff Cheetos have gotten me through some tough times, but how much longer can we hide from this question? And how much are we willing to sacrifice to find out the answer? If there is one.

This all sounds so mellow dramatic, and I apologize that this is the post I give you after a three week hiatus, but I’ve been going through some pretty shitty writer’s block and I’ve realized it’s because I’ve been running away from my feelings, while opening up to someone new, all at the same time.

Vomit, I know. But at the end of the day, I am still a lady, with lady parts, and thus get to be an emotional betch. Deal with it.

Some of you have really gotten to see me grow. I started this blog three years ago (hiding in my parents house with adult braces after graduating college) and I now live in NYC, dealing with my grappling fear of failure and the fear of the unknown.

Two things that have proven much harder to let go than I had ever assumed.

There are new people in my life that I don’t know what I’d do without, and I’ve watched my worst/immature/emotional decisions become some of the greatest/happiest turning points of my life.

I will always strive to document my life in a humorous tone, no matter how shitty the shit is, but I ask you to bare with me through these moments of emotional neediness and confusion that are bound to rear it’s ugly head repeatedly. (Like, right now.)

And as I venture off into the world of paid writing, I beg you to still love me, even after I sell out.

Side note: This post got weird, real quick. But again, thank you, for sticking around. I’ll be here, as long as you are.

But as the red wine begins to hit, it’s only bound to get weirder, so I’ll leave you with this: my life is insignificant, and not even worth reading; I am not an expert on anything, far from it, my only strength is my ability to bluntly open up about who I am and my choices so that you can learn through my mistakes.

Thank you, past Natalie. You’re welcome, future Natalie.

One of those posts where I use my blog as a public diary...ick.

The fantasy of the white-picket fence doesn’t allure me, nor will it ever. Which is why I’m always so confused when I attract such straight-laced, stable, men. Who want to go to college, get a job, and have sex 2.5 times a week (tops) for the rest of their lives.

Don’t act like men like that don’t exist, they do. And don’t scoff at their dreams of happiness no matter how normal those dreams seem to you. Happiness is happiness and no one can take that away from anyone.

What confuses (and hurts) me the most, is knowing I will never be able to provide that life for them. I can’t give them that sense of normalcy while still staying the same girl they fell in love with.

We both know it. We’ll feed into the lie as long as possible, as long as we are both mutually content with the unspoken agreement of what’s to come. Either I adapt to my new surroundings or I give up and run away from what most girls call the final prize.

Now I’m not completely at fault for “us” not working, when I had been so honest with what I wanted in my life from the get go. Yet, we are both guilty of blindly looking the other way every time reality reared it’s ugly head.

I was selfish. But so were you. We both wanted what the other wouldn’t provide. We both knew it was a possibility, too. That’s what makes it so much harder now. We’ll always hate each other for that reason alone. Especially for knowing we exposed ourselves to what could have been, if we had both tried a little harder. If we had both sacrificed a little bit of us.

But we didn’t. I don’t think we ever will. It’s what makes us so unattainable, yet so attractive to the opposite sex. In that sense, we are the same.

I know exactly what you want. And I know exactly what you need. They are not the same thing. And don’t even pretend like they are, cause if that were case, we wouldn’t be here.

You hate me. Just admit it. You hate everything that I represent in your life. You hate everything that is missing in your life because of me. I’m okay with that. I will always be okay with that.

What we were, was different. What we were, made me rethink about what could come. But at the end of the day, I still chose me. And I’m sorry.

And I’m sorry that I’m not sorry. 

How have I not blogged about this already?

(Mom stop reading now.)

“I’m having sex tonight.”

“What? With who?”

“I don’t know. I can just feel it.”

“That’s not really how this ‘having sex’ thing works.”

“Fuck you, I know that.”

I was having what has now been dubbed a “Miss Cleo prediction.” My insanely eerie ability to read people had pinpointed a moment of “sexing” in the near future. My first “sexing” moment to be exact, and while yes, technically it was a hunch, and most likely a just self-fulfilling prophecy, that shit turned out to be pretty on point.

He had asked for my number in class two days prior by simply handing me his phone.

“Hey, is this your number?”

“Of course it isn’t. We just met this semester.”

“Oh. Well, put it in my phone then.”

That was it. Simple, concise and discreetly to the point. It was one of my favorite things about him: his hidden directness.

We liked one another that was obvious. But also,  we so obviously wanted nothing that resembled a relationship. We were friends, with some pretty heavy heated sexual tension and that was it. He had gotten out of a 4+-year relationship and I was just ready to get the deed done.

It was the perfect match.

I wanted unemotional sex. I never wanted to associate sex with my “first love.” In my mind, my “first love” would forever be associated with heartbreak, failure and eating your feelings, and that shit needed to stay out of my sex life.

So I knew the moment I walked into that sketchy hipster house party on South Main Street alone, I was going to get exactly what I wanted.

He had texted me immediately after running into each other at a concert and after pleading desperately with my best friend to accompany me but to no avail.

“Please, just come! Please! I will buy you anything!”

“No, I will not go with you on your 'get laid' mission. SVU is on.”

I had never gone to a party alone, (and I would later find out that if I was going to a party solo…it was only in attempts to have sexual relations with a specific man at said party), and quickly realized I didn’t quite know the protocol of showing up to a party where I knew absolutely no one. So I drank.

I drank, and I drank and I drankity, drank, drank. Until I saw him come towards me with a red solo cup filled to the brim with PBR.  And then I drank, and I drank and I drankity, drank, drank some more.

It hit a point in the night where he and I were the life on the party. We were surrounded. Jokes just flying out of our asses. Literally. If I remember correctly there was a moment where I turned, pointed to my ass and screamed, “Joke!”

Like I said, life of the party, but then it turned serious. He had taken off his shirt for a joke or whatnot and without any hesitation or thought, I blurted out,

“If you asked me, I would say yes.”

Everyone stopped. 

“Let’s go inside.”

We ended up on a hidden staircase in the basement. My ironic white dress pulled up around my waist. Him kissing the corner of my neck in such an orgasmic way that has yet to be replicated by another other man.

There on those uneven steps, that would also lead to the worst sexual sprains of my life, it happened.

And was fun, and enjoyable and slightly painful at the beginning, but most importantly, it was good. DAMN GOOOOOOD. Well with the exception of those two stoned chicks accidently walking in, it was quite possibly the best first time ever.

I was so happy with all my choices. I was so happy I had waited until I was twenty, and that I chose my first time to be with a friend that I felt no emotional commitment and/or attachment to, and thus would never associate this great moment with sadness when our relationship inevitably went sour.

I had won. I beat the odds, without even having to tell him I was a virgin! Double score.

And then I looked down.

“What is that on your shirt?”

Uh oh.

“Maybe you cut yourself?”

He was going to ask. I tried to spew out a lie in attempts to hide my embarrassing truth, but he beat me to the punch.

“Were you a virgin?”

“Nope.”

Lies! All lies! But he was drunk enough to believe it, and I was drunk enough to think my only real choice for an escape from this potentially embarrassing hellhole was a two mile walk of shame back to my apartment, littered with lewd cat calls and a few “Hey baby! What’s that on your dress? Lemme clean that off for you,” inquiries.

To this day, that guy doesn’t know he took my virginity, (well he doesn’t know I gave him my virginity). He graduated a year before me, and we lost contact pretty quickly afterward. He was a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. There were no roses placed strategically around the staircase. We didn’t hold hands and talk about our hopes and dreams for the future. We had sex. Good-ol fashioned, accidently semi-public, sex.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I find this hilarious and so should you.

So, usually I don't put videos on the bloggaroo but this is hilarious...and I know two of the ladies, so yeah. It's awesome. Now watch it! And also... tell me what to give up for lent. I was thinking of giving up popping zits...your thoughts?

Today's My Mom's Birthday...what? what?!

It's her bday so I thought I would give you a taste of what I get to enjoy. Love you, Mom.

These are all direct quotes/convos with my mother...this is where my shit comes from...did I say I look exactly like her too? Enjoy.

Me: Oh dear god…I never want kids.

Mom: No you’ve got to pop out at least one so you don’t get breast cancer.

“I wonder what would happen if I farted into my i-phone’s voice recognition...go grab my phone.”

Mom: Your father and I are apart of the NPL.

Me: What the fuck is that?

Mom: National Porn League.

“I’m a fan of doggy.”

“You want to know the secret to a successful marriage? Beer.”

“You better become a famous writer,.. I want to walk around naked in your house in the Hamptons and walk in on you and your husband doing it… and be like ‘yeah this is awkward isn’t it’…next time knock!”

“I don’t get your generation’s fixation on giving head…just have sex.”

Me: So I think this lesbian likes me.

Mom: All right, this is what you do…you just start talking about how you want to fuck the shit out of this dude….and get graphic.

“Are you a lesbian?”

“Birth control and a condom….and you’re still here.”

“No seriously…do you like girls?”

Mom: I thought they were talking about anal.

Me: No, butt plugs.

Mom: Oh, well that's a whole different ball game then.

Mom: Look! You use it to cut your lettuce and when you are done it doesn't make the lettuce yellow.

Me: Have you used it yet?

Mom: No...I only bought it cause it was yellow.

So I haven't written in forever...my apologies...

But there is just so much I want to talk about, I don’t even know where to begin, so brace yourself, cause I’ma just jump right in.

First off, the sex embargo has officially been lifted. What?! What?! For many reasons really, but mostly because I really needed to have sex again. The embargo lasted exactly 5 months, to the day, and started with the last person I was with….sexually.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwww shit. No she didn’t!

Yes. Yes. She did.

Side note: my mom is going to read this and be like, “Really, Natalie? Really?!” And then I’m going to say, “…yes.”

Side note, side note: She doesn’t like when I write about sex. And then I’m like, “Have you read my blog?” And then she is going to say, “…yes.”

Everything happened like I thought would happen. It was amazing (this person never did disappoint), as I had assumed, but I did awkward things, and said douchey things, which only makes me wonder out loud,

“How do I get laid?”

“It’s cause you’re hot.”

“…Oh.”

And while no, I didn’t have an emotionally fucked up freak out that would send me into another couple months of hysteria and insecurity, that I was so afraid of having. I still had a freak out of sorts.

Which I still have yet to figure out what the freak out was about. I wasn’t emotionally freaked. Or mentally freaked. Or physically freaked. (Is that a thing? Fuck it. It is now.) I think I was freaked out cause I wasn’t freaked out…

I’ve been beyond stressed (and still am), but the sex(ing) had allowed me to calm down, drastically and clear my mind.

It was really the new beginning. There’s a lot of new people in my life. A lot of new opportunities. A lot of things I love.

And sometimes it just takes accepting the moment when you realize your old life is really over.

I always knew this would be an issue. I hold on to situations way too long. Grudges, bad friends, my pride. All that shit has gotten in the way of me. It seems easier to live in a life of familiarity, no matter how shitty it’s gotten, than move on to the next thing.

Keep calm and carry on? Yeah, that’s bullshit. And those who actually believe that are filled with even more bullshit. If you don’t allow yourself to freak out, how are you ever supposed to move on?

I needed a 5-month freak out that started with sex and ended with sex to figure out what I needed.

And you know what really I needed? Sex. 

Since moving to NYC a year and a half ago, I feel like I’m finally here.

I want to thank all the people that helped me get here emotionally, that kept me sane when I was working my way to NYC. I want to thank all of the distractions (good and bad) that kept my mind off how scared I really was of my future. But now I have to finally let you go.

That’s not to say you won’t be in my life anymore (unless you were a bad distraction, then BUH-BYE), but it’s time to love my new life.

Because, honestly, I finally do. 

Men of NYC, I'm sorry but you are gay until proven straight.

Listen, gentlemen of NYC, but it is true, you are gay until proven straight.

Honestly, you should take that as a compliment, not being able to tell your sexuality based soley on your appearance and general mannurisms means that you convey a sense of classiness and confidence with a slight smidge of gay.

I'm sorry, but those shoes you are wearing are a little too stylish for a single female like myself not not to hesitate for at least a couple of seconds.  And the whole hipster look doesn't help your cause either. The hipster look is a little girly... Can we all agree on that?

And i know you are just trying to be "ironic" but you are using thst word incorrectly, and now you've just pissed me the fuck off, yes you, "straight" man dressed in a "suns out guns out" tank. Your guns aren't even that great, asshole.

Or how about when you constantly tell me, "I'm going vegan to get rid of my bitch tits."Yeah...that kind of screams gay.

We ladies are also allowed to question your sexuality when you tell us that you are a world class tapper. Tap? You specialize in tap dancing?!

God. Fucking. Damnit.

You look like Patrick Wilson, and laughed at all my stupid/douchy jokes. (Of course you laughed though, gay or straight, I'm fucking hilarious.)

However another gay dude said you were straight... And I trust a gay man's gaydar. Well every gay dude with the exception of the one gay dude who always tells me, "He said he liked you? That means he likes dick." 

Probably, specific gay dude who says that to me constantly, probably... but that is my point! Until he has proven that he actually doesn't like the dick...I will always assume he's gay...always.

And how are you going to remedy this situation, not obviously straight men of NYC? Fuck if I know, but I have a feeling that feathered fedora you are sporting isn't helping your cause.

Ug, sorry guys I suck.

I do. I really do. But that's besides the point.

Anywho, this week has been beyond crazy for me, I've had deadlines up the wahzoo. Which is a good problem to have when you are trying to make it as a humor writer, but dealing with that on top of working three other jobs and still attempting a social life has been hell, but my leapoard heels make it look like I can handle it with some style. HEYO!

Oh, white girl problems. Can't live with them, can't live without them.

So to hold you guys over until I am free to write a heartfelt about Hellmann mayo, or my lady parts, here's a piece I wrote for XOJane.

Check it out!

http://www.xojane.com/family/it-happened-to-me-im-a-nanny-with-a-college-degree

Quickest ways to get me to hate you.

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She's so lucky.

People are always surprised when they find out that I am ridiculously close to my family. My family being my mother, father and brother that is…the other parts of my family, not so much.

But seriously, like scary close; my parents are logged in to my facebook account on their iPhone’s... I let them see everything.

Side note: My father has just figured out how to comment (partially my fault) on facebook, while logged into my account… damn you Zuckerberg, damn you.

I don’t hide what I do from them (for the most part). They know about the blog, what I write (and aspire to write) about, and actually my mother is a constant source of constructive critism.

“Your last post wasn’t good.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. You sounded too emotional and moody…. talk about me more.”

They are ridiculously supportive of me shitting away my college degree, too. Which, mind you, is a very hard thing for parents to do.

Every parent is just dying to hear their recent college grad say, “Oh hey! Remember all that money we all spent for that little piece of paper saying I have a degree? Well I’ma hide that in your closest, move to NYC and be riducously poor for the next 7-13 years! Yay! Now where’s that cake?”

My theory is its cause I was fat for so long as a child. They knew, that if I knew that my “innerness” sucked AND my “outerness” sucked, that I would never leave their house, or their side for that matter. 

They liked sex way too much for that ever to be a possible outcome in their future.

Well that and the fact that my mom basically wants to be on a reality show with me like Kathy Griffin’s mom. And so the immense support came.

“Mom, I want to be a swimmer!”

“Okay!”

“I want to be a gymnast!”

“Absolutely!”

“I want to be a paleontologist!”

“Sure! Now go look for fossils outside while your father and I have sex.”

“Wait, what?”

“Look! Chocolate!”

It’s even more surprising that with all this love and support that I have even found myself attempting to pursue a creative outlet.

Kids with loving families don’t usually end up in the arts; they end up in a middle management position, with 2.5 kids and 401ks. Happy, content and settled.

They do not end up constantly debating whether or not they have enough money for tampons this month, while praying that this whole “health insurance” hoopla is just a way for corporate America to make you spend more money unnecessarily, and not an actual necessity to being a functioning part of society.

You usually have to be shit on constantly by your parents to want to go into the arts. I was not. Not even by my older brother.

“You know what you’re good at. Don’t let that go.”

He probably won’t remember saying that, and he will probably deny it later, like any good older brother would. But we were drunk around a fire pit with some friends when he turned to me and said that.  I’ll never forget it. Two minutes later he asked me if I was a lesbian.

I’ve hit the point where I don’t know how to end the post, or why I found this subject matter even necessary as a blog post. I’m lucky. I guess that is what I’m trying to get at. I’m lucky that no matter what I do, they’ve got my back, which believe the next thing on the list is a doozie…

 “Now as my mother…are you okay with me doing this?”

“…Maybe we just won’t tell your father about this one… just yet.”

Oh hey 2013...

Told you I would vomit.

Now let's get a few things straight, 2013. I'm not going to make a new years resolution. Because why should I? You're just a baby, baby. So yeah,  I'm not going to wear a bra as often as I should. I'm not going to get my shit together. I'm going to get hammered every time I have writers block and pray the combination of champagne and bud light creates some sort of creative elixir. (It doesn't.)

I'm going to remember how he didn't ask if I was okay during hurricane Sandy and how much I fucking hate him for that any time I have any ping of longing for that piece of shit. And you know what? I'm going to have sex again, and it's going to be sloppy, and weird, annnnnnnnd, sometimes (a lot of times) I'm going to be drunk. And sometimes (a lot of times) it's going to be with a guy I don't love (or even like) for that matter.

I'm going to vomit, a lot. I'm going to fart. I'm going to fart in public. I'm going to make fart jokes in public. I'm going to cut all my shitty friends out of my life, especially the ones that don't realize how fucking shitty they are. I'm going to admit that I'm not over it. I'm going to eat weird things, with other weird things. 

I'm going to write. I'm going to write drunk, sober, naked, half naked, while having sex (I'll explain later), but I still won't call myself a writer, because in my mind, I am still not a writer. I'm going to use bathing suits as underwear, I'm going to accidentally dye my hair purple and cry about it for weeks. Actually I'm just going to cry, like, a lot. (Thank you, birth control). I'm going to be in a relationship with Hellmann's on facebook.

So basically, 2013. I'm going to stay the exact-fucking-same. You are not going to change me, because you are just a year, and let's get real, if I really wanted to change, you, good sir,  would not be the reason.