About Katrina Nicholson

I'm 25 years old and living in Los Angeles California. I aspire to a lot of things, most of them aren't realistic so I won't bother writing them here and embarrassing myself. I love to lift the weights, eat peanut butter as often as possible, obsess over Fantasy Football year round, shit on myself (metaphorically and occasionally literally), cry during House of Cards about how beautiful Claire and Frank's marriage is, sing karaoke after a few drinks, write in my diary then later in life make fun of how stupid I was, Rick and Morty, Bojack, dark horror movies that make you feel disgusting, dive bars with old drunk Irishmen, traveling out of the country to forget my problems, and Toto.

My 90 Year Old Grandpa Runs a Greenhouse and I Can’t Even Write a Damn Blog Post?

After almost a month of radio silence on here, I didn’t think my first returning post would be about my grandpa’s horticulture habits but… Here we are. It’s the only thing I could get excited about on this Friday afternoon. I know it’s St. Patrick’s Day but can I just admit that I don’t give a shit? I’m not even a little bit Irish and frankly my European genes resent this holiday on principle.

Let me give you the scoop- I thought it was a thing for EVERYONE’S Grandpa to have a massive garden full of vegetables in their backyard. I thought that was just what grandpas did… Pop Pop had his… and my Opa had a massive swampland surrounding a ramshackle barn filled with uncategorizable paraphernalia, there had to be a garden in there somewhere right? The obligatory grandpa garden?

Pop Pop lives in Wisconsin in a podunk village called Greenville. The most exciting things happening in this village are A.) Anything pertaining to the Green Bay Packers B.) The massive Costco a couple miles down the road and C.) Tractor style lawnmowers (both in practice and as a concept.) Wisconsin is booger-icicle cold for 75% of the year and for the other 25% (I really had to think about those percentages… Math is hard for me) so humid that your tears of anguish mix with with your sweat and blood to form an unrecognizable fluid that even renowned doctors don’t have a word for.

In case you haven’t gathered- this is not the ideal climate for gardening. Unless you’re really into pine trees and other coniferous fare (Pop Pop is not into that type of fare.) Pop Pop was in the Navy and he doesn’t take no for an answer. He also worked at a meatpacking plant back in the Upton Sinclair days (I’ve asked him how accurate that hot dog description was and he wouldn’t tell me.) Pop Pop will defeat mother nature while still maintaining a Midwestern Charm that makes him such a threat to society. Pop Pop scoffs at impossible, because really, nothing is impossible for Pop Pop.

I was the pickiest eater in the world when I was younger, I blame it on not having a sense of smell but honestly I was just a finicky turd. I’d pretty much only eat pizza, chicken tenders and peanut butter. Somehow, though, Pop Pop got me to eat green beans from his garden. And when I say this I mean the man literally got me to eat the entire pod raw and covered in soil. To the point where my mom was like “Is that even healthy?” And Pop Pop told her it would help my immune system and make me big and strong (jokes on you, mom, he was right!) I didn’t really like the taste, I just really wanted Pop Pop’s approval and I hoped that someday I could inherit his garden AND rare coin collection.

“How does Pop Pop’s garden survive the winter?” You’re wondering with concern…

You probably figured Pop Pop didn’t think about that… But what did I tell you? Nothing is impossible for Pop Pop. He spits on “impossible.”

He turned his entire basement into a greenhouse. If you didn’t know it was Pop Pop’s basement you’d think it belonged to a serial killer, an aspiring and confused surgeon, a museum curator who takes his work home with him, or really anyone who feels the need to hang fluorescent lights from every inch of their ceiling in hopes that they will stimulate the growth of another lifeform by providing synthetic sunlight. I don’t really know why Pop Pop trusted us kids to go down there back in the day, because all we would do is take running leaps onto his plant wagon destroying everything in our path. Except the plants. Somehow.

Today I got a text from my mom letting me know she’s planting in the basement garden to prepare the seedlings for spring harvest. She told me they’ll be cleaning out 75 pots whilst listening to soft classical music (AKA Pop Pop music.) Pop Pop has every detail about the garden plotted in a tattered looseleaf notebook that only he can read. Not because it’s in code, but because his handwriting is so horrendous that he’s the only living human who can interpret it. He keeps this precious notebook locked safely in his “Coin Room” a room that my brothers are often dragged into for unsolicited rare coin lectures. My dad goes in willingly and is secretly lobbying to inherit the coin collection (even though he’s not blood related.) A battle for another day I suppose. Just beware… I see you, Alex.

In all seriousness, I’ve been complaining about not having any inspiration to write for weeks now. I claim that writing is my passion and I want to make a career out of it. I claim it comes naturally to me and that I’d do whatever it takes to succeed with it. But I just went a month without posting to this blog, with no valid excuse for it. I’ve been the prototypical “uninspired writer” with the insufferably cliched “writer’s block.” And if I’m being totally honest, I’ve felt pretty damn insecure about everything I almost posted.

Pop Pop is 90 years old. For the last 10 years my mom and her siblings have begged him to stop gardening. They don’t want him to get injured walking down the steep stairs to the basement (they’re VERY steep, no joke I’ve fallen down them several times.) He assures them that he’ll tone it down, but he continues to sneak in there day after day to tend to the glorious Wisco Greenhouse he’s worked tirelessly to perfect. The only time Pop Pop won’t garden is when he PHYSICALLY CAN’T.

Yet, here I am. Living in Los Angeles, spending hours on Reddit saving memes to a folder on my desktop at work called “Dank Memes” and sending them to my friends on iMessage. Here I am buying Kombucha on tap for $4.00 at work and still living with myself. Here I am getting stoned, eating an entire pint of ice cream and watching the Bachelor on Tuesday nights to feel better about my life. Here I am, afraid to write about things that matter because of how I believe people will react.

All of us unmotivated pieces of shit need to live like Pop Pop. Pursue your passion until your body refuses to let you do so anymore. And even then, keep doing it and do it well. There’s no excuse for giving up on something that you claim to love doing. If you really want to be successful you have to devote yourself to doing so. No more of this month long gap bullshit. No more fear. Chips Are Back in Town.

And as Pop Pop loves to ask “Whaddya say to that!?”

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The man, the myth, the legend… And the woman who constantly keeps him on his toes.

 

Great Ways to Confuse the SHIT Out Of Women

This is probably the tenth time I have attempted to write a new blog post in the last few weeks but I’m confident that this one will make it past the initial stages of me reading it, rereading it, hating it, and exiling it to the darker part of my Google Drive folders. This time I have purpose. And honestly, this one tags directly off my last post “The Games Men Play.” It’s a hybrid of a lot of different things I have written about, inspired by my personal experiences as well as the experiences of my close girlfriends.

Let’s talk about the different ways you, as a man, can confuse the shit out of a girl you are dating, banging, texting, friend-zoning, or otherwise interacting with. Because nothing can just be easy and fun these days, let’s analyze things.

1.) Ask her if you can “take her to dinner” (because you did something that annoyed the shit out of her) then make no motion to offer to pay when the bill comes.

I’m sorry, I’m all for ~equality~, but if you are the asker in this situation, and you make the specific language “take you to dinner” the assumption is that you’re paying. I don’t care if I’m a feminist who feels highly uncomfortable at all mentions of money and formalities… If you are going to “take me” out to dinner I am assuming that you are going to pay. Because otherwise I might have suggested we go do something else. The devil is in the details, dumbass… Now I’m sitting here thinking you’re a poorly adjusted dick-stick who potentially isn’t even trying to date me? Chivalry is not dead, and holding the door for me when I’m easily 30 pounds stronger than you doesn’t count.

2.) Make absolutely no physical contact with her unless she initiates it.

You know what a great way to tell a girl you like her is? Refuse to touch her. Even if you’ve been on a few dates before and sacked up enough courage to kiss her (ON THE LIPS!!!), make sure to not ever hug her or greet her in any way on the subsequent dates. She will definitely NOT be wondering if that weird joke about animals mating at the zoo she made yesterday has changed your opinion of her… She will NOT be thinking that you felt how hairy her legs are and are appalled by her physically… She will not be mentally running through all of the reasons why she is undateable. Once you have initiated physical contact with a girl on a date, you should probably continue to do so on later dates or she is going to think something went wrong. And if something DID go wrong, how about you let her know and then you can stop seeing her and confusing the shit out of her?

3.) Text her a question, then when she sufficiently answers it… Wait about an hour to respond then give a short, curt response as if you’re annoyed she’s talking to you.

I will never understand this. If you want to chit chat via text, then just fucking do it. Don’t half ass it, don’t be weird about it. I don’t have the flexibility in my work environment to sit here for 3 hours staring at my phone wondering why the fuck you responded the way you did. And guess what? I’ll probably be screenshotting whatever weird shit you said and sending it to the panel of my weirdo friends who will also offer their analysis OR just tell me I’m being crazy and overthinking it. Either way, if you would just be fucking conversationally coherent and not make me feel like the biggest DOTA playing neckbeard ever… That’d BE SWEET.

4.) Tell her you’re too tired to “get intimate” within the first month of dating (when she’s laying barely clothed next to you in bed.)

No. I will accept a lot of excuses for turning down fun times, but being “too tired” is probably the pussiest of them all. I think I was at least close to a year into my last relationship before I started using the “too tired” excuse. If you’re “too tired” and it has been less than a month, something is wrong. Something is missing. That is a red flag if I’ve ever seen one. Head for the fucking hills. Every man I’ve ever known with a healthy appetite for fun will go to extreme lengths to have that fun. Even if it means being a half awake uncoordinated, poor excuse for a sexual zombie. Even if it means putting off a couple minutes of precious beauty sleep. You little bitch.

5.) Reach out to her and let her know you’d like to meet up, then make it really impossible to ever meet up with you OR just flake on the agreed upon time.

There’s nothing I love more than difficult communication surrounding plans. Especially in this city where it’s so easy to get from place to place on time/efficiently. I never have to plan ahead of time anyway, so when you flake at the last second it’s super convenient for me! Please, if you want me to remain interested in you as a human being… Cancel plans with me as often as possible and make even the easiest coordination a nightmare for me. You’re a dude, you’re supposed to be simple to plan with. You give me a time, I show up. I give you a time, you show up. I find the typical Los Angeles man needs to make it this complicated song and dance (of course, all you aspiring singers and artists) which makes me, once again, want to put on a steel plated chastity belt and close down shop for eternity.

 

I didn’t realize until recently how much I value directness in a man. I value the man who refuses to let me be a stupid head case of a human being. I value when someone won’t deal with petty mind games, says what they mean and sticks to their word. I value the guy who quite literally tells me to stop overthinking everything because he’s being completely honest with me. 

I’m sick of playing the game constantly, expecting a different outcome, and being repeatedly disappointed. We’re all tired of it. We’re all exhausted by it, frankly. I hear other women having this conversation regularly, I have this conversation regularly, the world is having this conversation at every imaginable moment.

Bottom line, fellas, we’re people just like you. We have insecurities, we have depth, we have fears, we have needs. We’re not just going to be there to entertain you when it’s convenient for you, we’re not just going to agree with everything you say. We’re distinct and complicated and that’s what makes us dope as shit. If you think finding the “perfect woman” means finding someone who will stand by and be endlessly supportive while you enjoy your life the way you see fit… Good luck, it ain’t gonna be me and it ain’t gonna be any of the amazing women I associate with.

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The Games Men Play

I’m playing in an all women contact football tournament this weekend, so if you don’t hear from me at all next week it’s because I’m dead. I’ve never played contact football but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get my shit tossed around. Fun life updates ❤

Anyway. We all talk vaguely about how people play “games” when dating, but have we ever really got into the nitty gritty of what those games are? I thought to point of a game was to be mildly enjoyable. Let me tell you, I enjoy none of these games. I’d rather live in the 1500s where the “games” were as complicated as giving yourself a sponge bath, rubbing a bit of baking soda under your hairy armpits, and standing close to a potential mate to express interest.

So what “games” are us ladies ambiguously referring to when we say single dudes in their 20s play stupid games? See below:

The Inconsistent and Unclear Communication Game.

My favorite thing ever is when a guy texts me then I respond and he hits me with a “haha” or something else conversation ending that leaves me wondering if he even wanted to talk in the first place. I’m super down to shoot the shit over text, I sit at a desk for most of my workday and am really good at multitasking. But when you pull shit like this you’ve now sidetracked all of my productivity and I’m trying to figure out why the fuck you reached out to me.

What we also don’t understand is when you are gung-ho about texting us one week, keeping conversation every day… Then you fall off the face of the earth the next, only to reemerge at an arbitrary time (weeks or even months later) that correlates with exactly ZERO events in our lives. The best is when we send you a text or two that go completely unacknowledged. Why the fuck do YOU think we’re confused?

If you are pursuing someone, I don’t care if you’re a “shitty texter” you can figure your shittiness out enough to not be weirdly evasive and inconsistent.

Making Plans Chess Match.

If you want to meet up, rather than carry on pointless banter via text//Tinder//fuckall app… Ask us to hang out. If we aren’t available right at the precise moment that you ask, then let’s fucking find a time that works for both of us. The chance of you catching a self respecting woman available at a random moment on a Saturday afternoon is miniscule. Even if she is just laying in bed listening to the Spotify playlist “Move On and Don’t Look Back” on loop, she’ll pretend she’s doing something worthwhile. Here are a few lines to try out with a woman in order to ask her to hang out:

“Hey, what are you up to this weekend?”

“Hey, are you free any night this week to meet up?”

“What are your plans this week? Would love to hang out.”

“Let’s find a time to hang out!”

As you can see, you have some options. And if plans don’t work out and one of you has to cancel? Social etiquette requires the canceller to reach out to set up the new encounter. This is because cancelling plans could be a sign of disinterest, in order to refute that assumption you must be the one to reinitiate.

But before we even get to that point, we’d need to get to the baseline of you getting your dick out of your hand and making plans for once in your life. I don’t care if you’re “not a planner” be a considerate human being, because some of us enjoy having our shit together.

The End of Date Ultimatum Game

Sort of like Deal or No Deal but more awkward and less shiny bald Howie Mandel head. On the first date, you have to make a decision at the end of the date. Either you had fun and you’d like to see this person again, or you are pretty certain you’re better off not meeting up again. You should make this decision clear. Here are some ways to show you DO want to see this person again:

  • Say: “This was fun, we should do it again sometime!”
  • Mention a specific event you’d like to invite your date to, then see if they might be available to go to that event with you. (Bonus points if the event includes a shared hobby!) 
  • If you’re pretty damn sure the date went well, go for a kiss.
  • Send a little follow-up text saying you had fun once both of you have headed home for the night. (Bonus points if you bring up something the two of you talked about.)

If you don’t want to see the person again, just be as polite as possible and initiate NO PHYSICAL CONTACT. I repeat… ZERO PHYSICAL CONTACT. Unless you wanna be a dickhead and go for the handshake. (Nothing says “fuck me” quite like a good firm handshake at the end of a date.) Here are a few things you can do to confuse the shit out of your date and leave her wondering if she’ll ever hear from you again.

  • Give her a weird diagonal armed hug, bonus points if you pat her on the back. Slap her on the back if you want to also make her choke on her own spit while you’re at it.
  • Mention something the two of you could do together, then don’t follow up on it at any point in the next week.
  • Remain radio silent for several days after the date, even if she reaches out.
  • Add her on Facebook, but still don’t text her or communicate in any other way. (Same idea with following on Insta, SnapChat… etc.)

Both parties are responsible for dropping stink-bombs (not the cutest title for it but let me have this one plz) at the end of the date that clue the other person into whether or not they’d like to hang out again. I personally like it if the dude makes the first move, because I am so far stuck in my own head that the tiny people from Inside Out went on strike and a team of mice have taken over for them. Literally my brain is crawling with mice, someone send help.

Actions Not Matching Up With Words- A Riddle.

If you tell me that you had fun with me and want to hang out again, then are consistently flakey and weird about making plans… I’m gonna get confused. If you’re just swamped with work and need a few weeks to really focus… JUST TELL ME THAT. I won’t be personally offended if your work life is interfering with your social life, I just wanna be kept in the loop so I don’t reread our text conversation 500 times looking for something weird I said.

This riddle is especially relevant when clarifying a purely physical relationship versus an actual dating relationship. Don’t tell your parents about me, make “we” statements that are weirdly far into the calendar year, and exclaim to me that you “deleted all of your dating apps,” then be weirdly withdrawn and bitchy to me two days later. What the fuck am I supposed to make of that? Whether or not I shared the excitement in the first place is irrelevant, you’re sending MIXED SIGNALS.

Ghosts n Pussies (Same Thing, Different Game.)

If you can tell a girl is super into you but you’re not really moving in the same direction, just tell her. I know every woman says this but then reacts poorly when it happens, but honestly…I’d way rather just know that you’re not feelin it than guess for weeks why you suddenly dropped off conversation. There are several guys I have “dated” where I still have no idea what happened because communication just died after 4+ dates. If we’ve gotten past the 3 date mark, you should probably not ghost me if you are a decent human being in any capacity.

On the other end of the spectrum, if you’re super into a woman and she continues to say yes to (and show up for) dates, she hasn’t mercilessly friendzoned you, and she returns your attempts at affection… PROBABLY A SAFE BET THAT YOU CAN TELL HER HOW YOU FEEL WITHOUT DYING. I’m a forward person and I’m not afraid to admit when I like someone. I know it doesn’t come as naturally for guys to express feelings like that, but if you really want a woman to know you’re interested… Tell her.

Ladies get a bad rap for being overly analytical and hypersensitive, but men have to admit their part in our fucked up communication. At the end of the day all we want is to be told the truth and treated with respect. Dating is terrifying, it would be a hell of a lot easier if we could all get on the same page.  

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Requiem For a Dream: How Much Do You Hate Yourself?

In honor of the New Year I am going to make an effort this week to write every day. This week I actually have a good movie to write about and it’s available to stream FOR FREE on Netflix. So you can read my little summary and decide if you’d like to embark on this wild ride of emotions for yourself. (SPOILER ALERT: You won’t.)

Requiem For a Dream is that movie everyone says you should watch once then never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, watch again. I watched it when I was in high school with a few friends and had to miss a month of school due to paralyzing fear of the world. I figured almost 10 years later I was ready for my second go-around. Especially considering I’m a brooding intellectual with the potential to go places, hindered only by my vices which render me useless to the productive world… Just like the people in the movie. WOOOO! PARTY!

Talya came over for a chill movie night at my place and I ambushed her with this option. Since she works in film, Requiem was on her list of movies she needs to watch. But she didn’t know anything about it. I kept it that way, I didn’t give her any warning. I just worked as fast as I could to pull it up before she could change her mind.

Let’s talk about it:

THE SUMMER:

At the beginning of the movie you forget just how much it will mentally destroy you. I remember sitting there and thinking “Oh, this isn’t so bad… Why was I so dramatic about it?” I now laugh at past Katrina’s ignorance.

TACTICS. If they pulled their dick out at the beginning of the movie do you really think you’d keep watching to see that dick shrivel up into a heroin needle infected prune? No, you wouldn’t. (Unless you’re into that sort of thing.)

Jared Leto is a disgusting human being (in real life) so this role is pretty perfect for him. Heroin, cocaine, pawning his mother’s shitty television for drugs… He’s an all around winner. His beautiful girlfriend Jennifer Connelly is somehow broken enough inside to not only date him but also to indulge in the same vices. They are SUPER addicted.

Let’s make this story even yummier by watching Jared Leto and Marlon Wayans decide it’s a great idea to become drug dealers. Has that idea ever gone poorly for anyone in the history of ever? Nah, it’s usually a good career move. I figured this would make the rest of the movie free of conflict.

On the other main plotline we have Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto’s mom. Holy fucking shit this woman can act. She’s a lonely and desperate mother who lacks purpose in her monotonous life. So she sits and watches infomercials on repeat and tries to Keep Up With the Wrinkly Jones’(my nickname for her equally decrepit female co-tenants whose idea of a good time is sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk wearing brightly colored sun hats and sipping moldy lemonade.)

THE FALL:

Now you start to remember why this movie made you seriously consider quitting alcohol and sleeping with the lights on for three weeks. Fun little film technique used here- The Fall refers to both the season AND the downfall of the main characters. HEHHEEHEH I BET YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED THAT SINCE YOU DIDN’T SPEND A BILLION DOLLARS ON FILM SCHOOL.

Ellen Burstyn is taking diet pills because she wants to fit into the red dress she wore to Harry’s (Jared Leto’s) graduation. For what reason? She got a phone call saying she was set to appear on television (the same type of phone call you get informing you that you’ve won an all expense paid cruise.) She latches onto this promise and it becomes her only reason for living. She builds up a tolerance to these “diet pills” which are actually a series of amphetamines and sedatives. WHAT A FANTASTIC WAY TO LOSE WEIGHT MAYBE I’LL TRY IT? Well once you build up a tolerance to a drug, the best thing to do is double and triple the original dosage. So she does exactly that and goes batshit insane. We’re talking Knife Wielding Hollywood Homeless level nutso.

Drug Dealing goes GREAT for the aspiring Drug Dealers- there’s a massive shootout involving a deaf guy doing shady sign language in a limo. Then another massive shootout when they try to find new drug suppliers. The market runs dry, Jared Leto and Jennifer Connelly get desperate and she has to start selling her body. Jared Leto decides he’s going to Florida because that’s the best place to reinvigorate your drug drought apparently. Shit starts to get really cute right about now.

THE WINTER:

It is this season that gave me a feeling in my bones that I rarely experience. A feeling I sometimes experience when I’m getting my eyebrows/upper lip threaded by a particularly aggressive threader and the pain becomes too much to handle. A feeling that you can only address by squirming around in your seat, asking yourself if you might just need to pee, then releasing tears. You’re not really crying, but your entire body hates you and wants whatever is happening to end as soon as possible or it may unleash the contents of your bladder and bowels with a vengeance. Since this is the climax of the movie I don’t want to ruin it for you, but I will give you a little list to clue you into what you can expect:

  • “Ass to ass” (this is one of the most famous quotes of the movie.)
  • Decaying arm
  • Evil refrigerator
  • A mental breakdown in the subway
  • Prison mayhem
  • Liquid nutrition shoved down a throat + electric shock therapy.
  • An absolutely massive dildo

Maybe nothing on that list rattles you, and if that’s the case…  Still go watch this movie when you have a few spare hours. It’s free on Netflix and I promise you will leave the viewing feeling SOMETHING. (And if you’re dead inside like me, feeling ANY emotion is better than your constant state of numbness and stagnation.)

Personal Lessons I learned From Requiem For a Dream:  

  • Damn, that theme music is cool. It sounds kind of like the Saw theme.
  • While I may be a complete piece of shit on many occasions, thank fucking god I’m not a heroin addict.
  • Selling your body is as alien and terrifying as it sounds, and is also quite a reflection on the buyer.
  • Never take your relationship with your parents for granted. Holy hell, Mom, I promise I’ll never steal your TV for drug money, especially if we’re at the point where you chain it to the wall. And I’m going to try to call more often, please just don’t get eaten by the refrigerator.
  • Don’t let your mother take diet pills, especially if they’re meth.
  • The second your arm starts turning a strange color… see a doctor for the love of god. I don’t care if you’re gonna get nailed for whatever made your arm turn that color, would you rather have your flesh fall off in MASSIVE BLACK PIECES?
  • You and your friends should all have something in common, but please don’t let it be your shared love for illicit and highly addictive drugs.
  • Same goes for your romantic relationship ^^^
  • New Jersey is scary.
  • If you want to drive to Florida from New Jersey make sure both of your arms are in liveable condition. (Same goes for all other extremities tbh.)
  • If your ticket to fame and fortune involves selling drugs, you’ll probably fit in nicely in Los Angeles with all the other failed actors,writers, directors, models… etc.
  • Don’t do drugs.
  • Drugs are bad, if you do them you will die an early death.
  • Everything they taught you in D.A.R.E was true.
  • If I could go back to 4th grade and rewrite my D.A.R.E speech I would just cite Requiem For a Dream in every other paragraph and if I didn’t get selected to read my speech at the special presentation night, that shit’s rigged. Although, even if I had been chosen my face would have turned really red, I would have cried, and everyone would have felt sorry for me. So let’s just leave history as it lay and let my shitty speech rest in peace.

Safe travels ya band of misfits! I just added a bunch of fun stuff to my Netflix list and I am still going to sit for an hour or so deciding what to watch. But once I do pick something to watch, you can bet I’ll write it up on here.

I’m open to suggestions, if there is something that looks intriguing but probably too shitty to actually sit down and watch… Pass it along to me. I’ve got nothing better to do with my life than stay awake into the early hours of the morning watching television with a blanket pulled over my head, taking a pint of ice cream straight to the face. 

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(You may think it’s just a normal refrigerator, but you’d be wrong if you thought that. It’s not a normal refrigerator… Trust me, it’s very far from it. Don’t let it deceive you.)

I Was Wrong About My Career Path

It has been a few weeks and naturally, it’s Wednesday, so I am mustering up just enough little travel-sized fucks to give in order to write something arbitrary. As much as I’d love to write something heartfelt about my triumphs and tribulations in 2016, I know for a fact that none of you want to read that. How do I know? Because literally every time I see one of those manifestos on my Facebook feed and I have the option to click “See More” I click it just to see how unbearably long it REALLY could be, then when I’m met with the wall of text that follows I start inevitably hating the person who wrote it. I don’t need to read any of it, I just hate you for sitting down writing it out and thinking that it’s important or relevant to another human being that you got super “woke” in 2016 and then you also went apple picking with your grandma for the last time before she died. 

My only valuable information to bestow upon the minute demographic who consistently reads this blog is that 2016 was the year I finally admitted I was wrong about a lot of things. (Everyone loves to read about another person’s failure, right?) In fact, I was so wrong that I lost sight of who I was and fell into what some wonderful people in my life will refer to as “a downward spiral.” Call it what you want, it wasn’t fun and if I can help you avoid it by writing this post you’ll thank me later. Or maybe you won’t because you’ll never have to find out what happens when you eat too much of your friend’s edibles in Vegas.

I tell people all the time that I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since I was around 7 years old. That sounds absurd because let’s be honest, can seven year olds even write coherently? (No they cannot) I actually kept some of my embarrassing kitten covered “cat-lady-in-the-making” journals from first grade so that I can go back and read them. Granted, most of it looks and sounds like something I’d write while blackout drunk in current times. (AKA talking about my cat’s fluffy tail and being really really mean to boys I have a crush on.) I still remember my second grade teacher Mrs. Schwebach pulling me aside in class, intensely staring at me (a la Billy Madison) and telling me that I should never stop writing. She didn’t have to tell me that, I knew I never would.

When you love something so much and derive so much pleasure from it, you want to make it your career. I landed on writing for television because the stars aligned and my dream school (Boston University) offered a highly competitive program. Given my unhealthy obsession with Family Guy from age 12 onward I felt like it was a no-brainer. Writing for animated comedy, bam. Done deal.

I moved out to LA right after I graduated and busted my ass to try to get into a writers room. I got so close I could taste it on so many occasions but if it came down to me and one other person it would somehow always end up being the other person. It was hard not to take all of the rejection personally and keep putting myself out there through the highly uncomfortable interview process. But I did, and I desperately settled for job after job in the unscripted world. For those not in Entertainment, that means Reality TV. Yeah, I know, I shudder at the thought as well. 

I’d go to lectures and hear people I admire discuss what it took for them to succeed. Everyone’s path was different and so much of the journey depended on luck, chance and sacrifice. For many writers their work was their life, and that life was filled with uncertainty and emotional volatility. I identified with these people and I saw so many similarities in our personalities, I wanted so badly to be them. I remember sitting at a panel where Dan Harmon spoke and I drooled over every single word he said. He is still my idol and someone whose career I dreamed of replicating. 

I’m not sure when the doubt first started creeping in, but when it did I desperately tried to suppress it. I never doubted whether or not I was capable of handling the pressure, workload, and dedication it would take if I did get my chance. I just started to doubt if it was really what I wanted.

Over the course of my multiple job changes, I formed a mental list of what I wanted in my ideal job. The list formed as follows:

  • A degree of work/life balance
  • Stability
  • Livable income
  • At a large company with protection for employees
  • Potential for upward mobility
  • Identifiable and healthy culture (not necessarily healthy-living based, but one I can get behind)
  • Respectful bosses and coworkers

This list seems a bit basic, and when I shared it with some friends from home they actually laughed at me.

Well if you’re in the Entertainment Industry you might find yourself reading the list and unable to check off a single one of those items. I know I have worked at multiple companies where none of those things were present. It’s easy to fall into jobs like that because they have a high turnover rate because, shocker: no one wants them.

Bottom line, I wanted to stop hating my job. I wanted to feel like there were opportunities for me that weren’t based on luck. I wanted to stop leaving the office counting down the days until I could finally get the job I wanted. I wanted to find a job where I could actually push myself and challenge myself until I earned the next job in line. While this is entirely possible in Entertainment, it wasn’t lining up for me and the companies I landed at.

It’s still too soon for me to say whether my new career path will work out, but I feel immensely better every day when I come into this office. I feel like I have a shot, and like I can work my ass off and feel good about what I produce. I look around and see people who are happy to be here and who are talented at what they do. I am part of a culture that makes me feel proud, rather than ashamed.

It was hard as hell admitting that I was wrong. But when I finally accepted it and moved forward, some other major things fell into place. (I finally figured out how to carve my own Costco rotisserie chicken without help!) 2016 was a piece of shit year for a lot of reasons, and who’s to say 2017 won’t also blow up massively in my face? As dumb as it sounds, I find that I have a renewed purpose in my life. I am motivated more than I ever have been before. I am beginning to feel like MAYBE, just maybe, I can sort my shit out.

So if you’ve read this far, all I’m saying to you is not to be too proud to admit when you’re wrong. Especially when the desire to be “right” is making you miserable. It’s not worth it. You deserve to be happy, you deserve to feel fulfilled. It’s easy to get comfortable in something you know isn’t right for you because it’s… easy. You’re really fucking good at something and the right company will offer you a chance to prove that to them. Go find that company.

As for writing… I’ll never stop writing. Duh, I have this stupid website. Also, there are a million different jobs that need good writers. I’ll land on my feet, probably. And if I don’t, I’ll sell my soul to Donald Trump.

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Being a Single Lady in Los Angeles

Sorry I had to take a break from this for a bit because I started a new job. Fun fact, I got this job even though my (at the time, future) boss pulled up this blog in the middle of my interview and started reading a few of my posts, including my fake cover letter. The world works in mysterious ways. 

I don’t feel like I need to reiterate the fact that I am single, but for anyone who just started reading, that’s the waaaaaaay the news goes. I’m off the apps, so I’m as close to “off the grid” as you can get in 2016. Dating culture is an unsightly beast in Los Angeles, one that would have to wear a bag over its head because it would make children cry due to the sheer magnitude of its physical deformities. Why? Let’s explore:

Single women are not a hot commodity

There are plenty of us. In fact, we come in droves. I’ve met so many women I would want to date if I were a straight guy that I’ve relegated myself to a third party category of women called “Trolls named Wanda.” If you are an eligible bachelor in Los Angeles your options are limitless. You can be picky because there are a lot of amazing, badass, beautiful women out here. I would like to say I am one of them, but if you see my feet you will agree with my aforementioned categorization.

Almost any guy you meet who you might be remotely attracted to will possess one of the below major flaws:

  • Has a girlfriend: This is the most common one, tbh. You meet a guy who seems cool and fun and down to clown then you stalk him on Facebook for two seconds only to discover he’s been FBO with some beautiful model, who doesn’t even know how beautiful she truly is, for like 5 years and is on the brink of getting married to her. Yeah, nothing turns me off more than someone who is unavailable. Unless you’re unavailable AND love Dave Matthews Band. Then you’re scum.
  • Socially inept: This applies frequently to men you meet on the dating apps. They hide behind their dating profile because in reality they have no idea how to treat a woman or function in daily adult life. I dated a guy who didn’t even know how to ride a bike. And when I told him I would teach him, he was a little bitch about it. He was kind of a little bitch about everything though, so no surprise there. LA is a city full of man children with strange relationships with their mother.
  • Actor/Model/Comedian: THIS is actually the most common one. I’ll meet a guy who I’m attracted to (a tall beautiful douchebag) and then find him on Facebook where his entire page is littered with links to his personal website, inaccurate headshots, and mediocre YouTube clips from all the student films he has credits in. (AKA his ‘reel.’) I think I would be ok dating an actor if he wasn’t terrible, but I have yet to meet an “actor” who isn’t terrible. Also my ears already hurt at the idea of me dating a comedian. No one would be able to stand being around us and I probably wouldn’t think he was funny.
  • Works in some financial field: Guys who work with money are kind of the worst (sorry Will.) Especially in LA because they have a huge complex about not being in the Entertainment Industry. They make 4 times your yearly salary in a matter of months and they still make you pay for drinks on the first date. Because they are doing YOU a favor by taking you out. One of my favorites said to me “Yeah I make good money but I also work really hard for it!” Bro what do you think I do to make the SHIT money I (used to) make? Sit on my own thumb for 10 hours per day? Just because you work hard and get paid to do it doesn’t mean other people don’t also work hard and get paid in ‘experience’ and executive’s spare turds… You hairy sack of shit.

You start to wonder if you should change something drastically about yourself.

Yesterday I spent a good 4 minutes contemplating whether or not I should dye my hair blond. Of course, the answer is unequivocally HELL NO…(My skin tone is totally wrong for it.) But I feel like if I were a true “tall blond” then I could trick some guy into listening to what I have to say.

Nah, that’s not how it works. The only way a guy will listen to what you have to say is if you pretend you don’t care if he hears.

You decide you’re not going to care about it anymore, then accidentally care about it for a few minutes each day.

As much as I enjoy falling asleep to my stupid cat sleeping under my covers digging his claws into my legs, I really resent the fact that I’ve become the cat lady stereotype that everyone expected I’d be. I decide to stop giving a fuck, but then I realize something trivial, like the fact that the only person who I can look forward to cooking protein pancakes for on Saturday morning is Mary. And my cousin Nick. Both of them are better cooks than me anyway so it’ll just be like back in the day when I’d whip out the Easy Bake Oven for my family over Christmas break and they’d pity-eat my shitty Devil’s Food Cake.

Pretty sure my mom JUST threw out my Easy Bake Oven last year. We kept it around for an uncomfortably long time as a joke, then a few Christmas’s back from college I would still cook with it. I think we finally realized the entire situation was a little sad so we trashed it. I might be wrong, we might still have it.

The fortunate result of it all: you decide to work on yourself.

After fighting the good fight for the last 6 months, I have finally thrown in the towel. I am legitimately going to work on bettering myself. So many times I have told myself I would do it, but this time I really mean it: I am going to read a lot of books. I am going to become that montage in the movie where some Girl Power anthem like “Fight Song” plays and the lead reads tons of books about being a woman, works out so hard that she barfs, throws her full Kirkland wine bottles in the trash can (what a waste, at least gift them), braids her best girlfriend’s hair, and somehow becomes infinitely sexier.

A good example of this:

Please excuse the subtitles, not sure what language they are in.

Before the 3 people who read this jump down my throat for all the sweeping generalizations and stereotypes I just threw at you- I’m mostly kidding. Obviously in this city of a million something people I can’t possibly speak for the entire population. I am speaking from a set of exaggerated anecdotes and personal testimony. Because if I wrote any differently it wouldn’t be entertaining, would it?

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(my mom’s favorite movie ever.)

I Don’t Want to Sit Still and Look Pretty

Sometimes when I am having a particularly unflattering naked-face day I listen to this embarrassing playlist on Spotify called “Confidence Boost” and one of the songs today was Sit Still, Look Pretty by Daya. I’ll admit, the song is massively overplayed… But it’s really catchy. For some reason listening to this song made me realize just how much I’m going to miss Michelle Obama. (My thought processes are even more disjointed than normal when I start my morning preworkout, just ask Mary.)

We all lost out in some way when Donald Trump won the presidency. Since I am a white woman I can only speak with authority for how it affects me, that’s not to downplay the impact it has on other groups of people. It’s also not to suggest that the impact on me is any more important than any other demographic. I’m aware that I am lucky in many respects, but the only point of view I can express with real insight is my own. So I’m going to.

Michelle Obama is easily one of the most influential First Ladies we’ve ever had. She worked hard to be a positive role model for young women as well as make lasting changes in our country to build a brighter future for them. Her entire platform emphasizes the fact that girls are just as badass as boys and that we have power. She’s even got her iconic “Michelle Obama Arms” which are toned and obviously strong as fuck. She was a partner both in marriage and in policy to Barack Obama, nothing less.

Now I see Melania Trump… Donald Trump’s third wife. She’s beautiful, objectively. She was hardly involved in his campaign from the start. She has made no statement to indicate she has ANY strong point of view toward anything. A Slovenian immigrant herself, I’ve watched her grimace through his campaign and justify the things he has said. She dismisses his comments as if they do not impact her, even though they (should) personally offend her in more ways than one. She’s a puppet on his strings. She’s inextricably tied to him in what appears to be an abusive and unhealthy marriage.

While young women used to be able to look up to Michelle Obama and relate to her, now they will see Melania Trump. A former model, rumored to have had multiple cosmetic surgeries, who is willing to keep her mouth shut… She will quite literally sit still and look pretty. And we will all watch like it’s normal. When asked what her role would be if Donald became president she said:

“I chose not to go into politics and policy,” she said. “Those policies are my husband’s job.”

Melania Trump, whether intentionally or not, will reinforce the roles women have worked so hard to break out of for the last hundred something years. She has one of the lowest approval ratings of any first lady EVER. She reeks of indifference. She turns a blind eye to facts, much like her husband does. Donald Trump’s relationship with Melania speaks to the way he views a woman’s role in the American society and that terrifies me.

I’m never going to sit still and look pretty. I hope that men’s attitudes toward us don’t change in this new Trump era, but I have to assume they will. I’m already sick of feeling insecure every time a guy makes a comment about what I wear to work, I’m sick of gritting my teeth and staying silent when I hear someone blatantly speak disrespectfully about other women, I’m sick of the negative connotation associated with the term “feminist.” Does Melania Trump even call herself a feminist? Or is she okay with the way things are?

I know none of us are. So whether or not we agree with the results of the election, we can never shut up. We have to keep fighting for what we believe in, even if we aren’t really sure what that entails right now. As Hillary Clinton said:

“We have work to do, and for the sake of our children and our families and our country, I ask you to stay engaged, stay engaged on every level,” Clinton said. “We need you. America needs you, your energy, your ambition, your talent. That is how we get through this.”

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