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.