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.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.