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.