My Dream Wedding

There’s really nothing scarier in life than revealing your innermost desires for your “Big Day.” Sure, I could share you a Pinterest Board of everything I want, but what fun would that be? I am going to spell it out to you- from the horse’s mouth… I might even make some horse noises if you’re lucky. So for any eligible suitors out there reading this post, if you want to marry me, here is what I expect in my ideal wedding.

The Ring: Needs to be from a vending machine at Taco Bell. I will not accept anything less, the Taco Bell part is important. I grew up waiting for meat tacos at Taco Bell and if I was LUCKY my mom would give me a quarter to buy a ring from the vending machine. The design of the ring doesn’t matter so much- but I will know if it’s authentic. Do not test me.


The Venue: A VFW in rural Iowa, Idaho, Kansas, Nebraska… Somewhere where we can be as far as possible from civilization. Alternatively, I want it to be a dirty ramshackle barn, crucial that it’s not a ‘rustic’ barn… A real one with fresh manure and livestock milling around. Goats screaming like Usher, pigs rolling in their own feces, chickens freaking the fuck out over nothing… Guests will sit on rusty and breaking folding chairs, hay bales if we can find enough in the storage shed. No need for an alter or anything, we can just borrow a podium from the local high school’s speech team.


(***person in this picture is also invited)

Service: There will be no service. We will skip right to the part where we ask if anyone objects, I have a feeling someone will object. Whether it be my 7th grade science teacher, Mr. Bale, or a scorned lover from a fling in Vegas, someone will disapprove. (Yes both of those people will be on the guest list.) We will start the discussion segment there and have a civil discourse about my life choices. Ultimately my father, Alex Nicholson, will decide whether or not we can proceed with the union. He will signal this by lighting a torch.


Ring Bearer: Will be an untrained pig.


Dress: I will find my mother’s wedding dress from storage (without her permission.) It is shrinkwrapped at the moment. I will unwrap it the day of the wedding and wear it as is. NO alterations. If my mother wore it I will wear it. If something rips then we can use clothespins and bedsheets.

Flowers: I’m cool with sending someone’s child into a field for some dandelions, dead dandelions, or just wildgrasses of whatever state we decide to have this in. Maybe we can scatter the feed of the livestock around so we might have a guest appearance from a cow, pig, goat, rats… Maybe we even open up the chicken coop and let them flood in. Idk, just spitballing here.


Catering: Sloppy joes, walking tacos and deer meat. Those are the staples. If you are a vegetarian you can just eat the Doritos and lettuce from the walking tacos. We will also have a cookie table. The table will be full of just cookies, I repeat, cookies only. We will buy them from the local grocery chain and put them on a plastic plate. Yes, this does include every possible flavor of those frosted sugar cookies with the sprinkles on them. Yes the powdery ones that break apart all over you as you eat them. Yes, we will EVEN have the different holiday variations… Don’t ask me how we will get all of them but we will. Everyone will really love the cookie table. If I’m feeling spendy, I’ll potentially have Raising Cane’s cater. But if that’s the case I’d feel bad letting the chickens out of their coop.


Cake: Would be great if someone whips up a Funfetti day of. I just want to be clear that the topper has both me and my husband on a tractor. I don’t know how to drive a tractor but so help me God I better be on a fucking tractor for my wedding cake topper.


Photography: I am going to blow my entire budget on finding the actor who plays the photographer in 13 Reasons Why. I want him to be in character for the entire wedding. I don’t care how much it costs, he needs to be at my wedding. And everyone gets an autographed, shirtless, headshot of him.


The Reception: We will have the reception under a white tent near a swamp. The swamp is crucial to the success of the reception. I need there to be insects, I love bugs. I want people to be swatting at them while they eat, perhaps there will even be dead insects in the sloppy joes. Idk, we can only ask for so much. Karaoke machine with only cassette tapes, 90% of the cassette tapes are nursery rhymes. Microphone will have a MASSIVE foam mouthpiece for comedic purposes only but also so that everyone has to feel the person before them’s spit.



The DJ: I am going to wait outside a high school and see which dude rolls in with his music blaring the loudest. He will be my DJ, he is the most confident in his taste in music. Must play the Chicken Dance and Born In The USA.


Alcohol: Open bar. Only beverage is bottom-shelf vodka and the only thing to mix it with is Koolaid. Don’t worry, we will mix the Koolaid ahead of time and might even offer a few different flavors, but probably you can expect mostly red and blue because that’s what I like best and this is my wedding.


Bartender: He is a failed comedian who I found in Boise. I gave him free reign to use the bar as his stage, so you have to all listen to his jokes for the entire night. That’s the price you pay for free alcohol. Your laughter are his form of tips- he understands this agreement.


Honeymoon: Wisconsin Dells. We are going to stay in a suite at the Wilderness Lodge and we are going to play in the waterpark all day every day. Sex takes a backseat to playing in the wave pool drunk. You will take me go karting at Mt. Olympus and we will dangle the fact that we have our driver’s license over the heads of our child/teen/preteen competitors. We will not let them win. I will get cotton candy. We will probably go to Noah’s Ark and I will call you a pussy for not wanting to ride the slide that some kid died on years ago. Then I will wait in line for it, get to the top, and chicken out but make a bunch of excuses about how I heard it making weird noises and how I totally cheated death.


Women Don’t Hate Porn

Glad I can take a month long hiatus again and come back with a post about pornography. Whatever, I’m taking a break from the shitshow that is the American Political Scene… Can I just pause for a second and ask you to think about the fact that some day our children will be studying this in school? I know that’s a funny prospect in abstract but I’m serious…

I’m picturing my 15 year old self in A.P United States History class. Picturing how maniacally stressed I was memorizing all of the fucking treaties and compromises and edicts and other words/concepts I no longer remember the meaning of. Just imagine that nervous little girl, back in the classroom, with Ms. Clark asking us to write a Document Based Question (DBQ) on Donald Trump’s tweets.

“Using President Trump’s tweets, please analyze and dissect exactly which monumental events led to the outbreak of World War III.”

Seriously it sounds like I’m kidding, but this is actual history in the making and we are part of it. This could ACTUALLY be a legitimate historical question. We are the generation who elected Donald Trump into office and watched him unintentionally lambast himself using a social media platform frequented by 11-year-old fangirls. Adorable. So proud that we have a democratic system of checks and balances, really couldn’t be happier with America.

Speaking of America. I watched the first episode of a Netflix docu-series last night called Hot Girls Wanted: Turned On. It sounds sexy, and it sort of is…I highly recommend it so far. The first episode made some interesting points about the current state of pornography. The idea that women “hate porn” is a misrepresentation of how we actually view it. We don’t hate pornography; we hate the way pornography depicts sex.

I remember the moment in my life where I realized it wasn’t an “if” but rather a “how” when referring to a man’s porn consumption. Sure- there are outliers but for the most part every single man you look at either IS or WAS a regular consumer of pornography. That used to bother me back when I was young and naive and thought love was enough to make a man never want to look at another female specimen for the rest of his life… but at this point you HAVE TO realize that the moment a boy hits puberty, porn becomes a necessary ‘evil.’ Pornography is sadly our biggest form of modern sexual education.

This wouldn’t be much of an issue if average pornography gave a realistic depiction of a sexual relationship. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.

I’ve never actually sat through more than 3 to 5 minutes of pornography because it makes me physically ill. This is coming from a girl who regularly watches the Saw series and purposefully pours over Reddit lists about the “most disturbing movies EVER.” Nothing has ever irked me quite the way pornography does.


Because sex should be mutually enjoyable. Does ANY widely consumed pornography show sex that is enjoyable for women?

“But she’s moaning and screaming like she loves it?! Maybe YOU just don’t enjoy sex.” Some white, upper middle class, romper-wearing, frat bro with a wallet full of magnums he will never use or fill, might tell me.

Female porn stars are satisfying common male desire. They’re nothing more than objects in a twisted “domination” fantasy. They’re props to make a man feel like a king. It’s not anyone’s fault (I won’t go there), that’s just the type of material we’ve conditioned men to enjoy from age 13 onward. And as they get older, maybe that’s not always enough. Maybe they start watching aggressive shit like forced blowjobs and “swirlies.” The double edged sword of the Internet: For every weird fetish there’s a porno out there. For better or worse. 

Can you imagine walking into a sexual situation with a woman having viewed porn like that your entire life? (Maybe you don’t even have to imagine it, maybe it has happened to you.) How exactly are you viewing this naked woman you’re suddenly across from? Is she a person? Or is she your ticket to acting out your own version of what you’ve watched for years?

Maybe you’ll tell me “That’s different! Porn is one thing, sex is another!”

Well that woman in the porno you’re watching is no different from me. Except she’s getting miserably railed by some 40-year-old failed actor who took too much viagra. She’s worried about pretending to enjoy it and pretending to actually get off from it. She’s sick of getting her hair pulled and her face slapped. But she stopped caring about all that shit a long time ago and is just doing her job.

Women wouldn’t take issue with porn if it made us look like something other than robots designed to fulfill male desire. We wouldn’t take issue with it if it didn’t make us want to throw up after 3 minutes of watching it. We’d maybe enjoy it if it showed any semblance of our ideal sexual encounter. But since WE are not the customer, WE are not relevant. We are constantly getting the message that we do not matter.

Do you think you might be annoyed by that too?



Here’s this to lighten the mood.

I Was Buried Under a Pile of Monkeys

I don’t think it’s normal to learn a lesson from your dreams, and I’m not even sure that I did learn a lesson. My dreams are startlingly realistic, most of the time they cling to me far past sleepytime and I momentarily forget whether I’m in dream world or reality. My life is like a melodramatic remake of Inception where the main character, Katrina, an oblivious white girl, works at an ad agency in Los Angeles and compulsively chugs tea out of an enormous Iowa mug her mother accidentally sent her.

Sometimes I can control my actions in my dreams AKA “lucid dreaming.” These dreams are the most memorable because they genuinely feel like a second life. There are certain things that exist in my “dream life” that don’t exist in my actual life. For example, my childhood home always has a pool in the backyard in my dream life but not in reality. This has been the case since high school, so it kind of felt like waking up and realizing you didn’t actually get that golden retriever puppy in real life. Every, day.

By the way, for anyone who thinks this sound “cool” I would gladly trade you this ability for ANY one of your marketable skills… Like the ability to do math for example. Or maybe ability to write code. Programming. Anything of that nature.

ANYWAY. For this dream, I was in Africa with a few friends (no I’ve never actually been to Africa) and we decided to go rogue on a safari. Dream Katrina is constantly putting herself in vulnerable situations with wild animals, not sure if that means anything, but she sure likes to do it. For the safari we were walking through a desert savannah and kept spotting monkeys in the distance. They disguised themselves as trees before attacking their prey… It was as acid trippy as it sounds, yes. Picture Kirby’s World for NES in that level where the birds all shoot out of the tree when you pass it (if you get that reference please notify me, ASAP, I’d like to make you my husband.) There were also alligators, rhinos, plenty of shit that can kill you. But we were prancing carelessly around like we were in a fucking Minnesota cornfield.

My friends rushed ahead of me and out of sight. In real life this wouldn’t be a huge issue because I’m fast as all fuck, but in this dream I might as well have been 95 years old with metal knees. While I fruitlessly rushed onward, I accidentally stumbled under what looked like a harmless tree, but was actually an aggressive nest of monkeys. This troop of monkeys leapt onto my back and paused for a moment while I pretended to be dead. They chattered amongst themselves, probably deciding how to best feast on my innards. What the fuck else could the monkeys of my subconscious possibly have to say? 

Unfortunately this was a very heavy pile of monkeys, and I needed to breathe, so they quickly figured out the truth as they felt the rise and fall of my ribcage underneath them. I braced myself for contact, which is a horrifying prospect if you’ve ever seen anyone who survived a monkey attack. Monkeys rip faces off.

For reference, this is sort of what the monkeys looked like:


Before you make fun of the size of this monkey, let’s discuss a few things.

  • Look at its fucking teeth
  • Look how angry he looks
  • Imagine at least 12 of him on your back (you’re completely alone)
  • He is a wild animal, so the fact that his mouth is about the size of a cat isn’t relevant because this motherfucker will tear into you barehanded with reckless abandon on INSTINCT
  • He is defending his nest

Anyway. I’m deflecting because I’m trying not to be too morbid. This entire post is a little off, sorry mom, these are the things that keep me up at night (or not? these are the things that haunt me while I sleep?) 

The moment underneath those monkeys felt so real that I genuinely thought I was going to die. I felt those near-death thoughts flying through my head. How disappointed my parents, friends, family would be that I died in such a reckless way. I thought about how my last moments on earth would be wasted by my own ignorance and overzealousness. I would be just another white girl who thought she was invulnerable and could run around unknown territory without any repercussions. Just like when I used to walk home alone from Allston back in college at 2:00 am and get into strange cabs who offered free rides.

Most of all, I thought about how this was the real, black, immanent, void. The end.

I came to that lonely realization that I imagine most Atheists have in the back of their mind (but are too busy playing World of Warcraft and blaming ~society~ for their problems to admit.) When you reject religion or a higher power as a concept, you reject the belief in an afterlife. You truly believe that when you die, you just rot in the ground and that’s it. Maybe people scatter your ashes or whatever, but you cease to exist in any way shape or form. Bleak. As. FUCK. (I’m really fun at parties.)

When I was younger and a “practicing Lutheran” I had these types of dreams, I’d get to my Monkey Pile Moment and I’d pray. I’d pray that God would save me or that somehow this wouldn’t be the end, and many times when I did this I’d be rescued or brought to some other reality within the dream. But now, at 25, I feel that crushing defeat of ultimately losing faith. I don’t believe anymore, I genuinely don’t, and having that vividly illuminated in a dream is startling. 

On the optimistic side, I realize the importance of self reliance. Being able to find solutions for yourself and work your way through The Monkey Piles Of Life (I hate myself for just saying that… I feel like I just wrote a fucking sermon which is some pretty tasty irony for you literary fiends out there who might be picking apart my work trying to decide if there is any deeper meaning! There’s not, and I’m sure that’s not what you’re doing here.)

Let me try again without getting all preachy. I woke up from this dream covered in sweat, with a very sore throat from some sleep-apnea-esque snoring (I’M SORRY, I’M ACTIVELY WORKING ON IT OK?) and I felt myself actually relax a bit. Whatever the hell gets thrown my way, whether it be an entire tree full of monkeys, a knee injury (please no), or a career change… I’m gonna make it work. I’ll be ok. 

Your story is not already written for you. If you’re an Atheist or even just someone who is questioning faith, spirituality, etc… If you’re feeling like you have nothing to fall back on… You do. But either fortunately or unfortunately, that thing is you. As I’ve said many times before, if you don’t like your life, it’s time to grab it by the haunches and hump it into submission. Because you can, no one else can.

Genuinely beautiful song about loving yourself even though everyone else might think you’re a lunatic ❤ (and they might be RIGHT)

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!?”


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.


What My Tinder Profile Should Say

Not saying my Tinder profile isn’t accurate, but if I really wanted to give an honest description of what it’s like to date me I think I would write it out a bit differently. Since I’m not trying to scare all of my matches away… I have a relatively tame description. I say my height (because it’s relevant) make a joke about being Minnesotan, make a joke about killing yourself if you don’t like Fantasy Football, and then I throw in a Rick and Morty reference about masturbating for good measure.

My match ratio is high, usually when I swipe right I get a match, a relatively typical girl experience. I don’t swipe right very often because Tinder is a scary place. I also realize that guys will sit at their phones and swipe right until they “run out” of swipes, so that’s another reason not to feel TOO good about myself. I usually won’t message first unless I’m drunk, because I’m scarred from Bumble. And the guys I’m tempted to message first are the dbags I shouldn’t have swiped right on in the first place.

If I wanted to be brutally honest and change my profile as often as I change my mind about downloading this trash-hole of an app… This is what I would include.

I’m 6 feet tall (SINCE EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW SO BADLY LOL)- so you probably don’t want to wear those heels you love so much! LOL.

Every dude makes this joke and I swear every dude thinks they’re the first one to make it. If a guy is over 6’1 he will likely make a joke about girls being able to wear their heels. They will also comment on how every girl seems to want to know their height before meeting them in person.

I do understand being annoyed by this, if you’re a short guy you will constantly get turned down just for being short. Sorry, not my fault you lost the genetic lottery. But I am on the other end of that problem. As I’ve said before, I’m not trying to date a little elf man who makes me feel like a dirty bridge troll named Bruce. I need someone who is less of a little bitch than me, and the bar for that rests around 6’1. If a 5’6 girl asks for a guy to be at least 5’7 it’s not BULLSHIT but the second I ask for a dude who is taller than me I have too high of standards.


I know you said you want a ‘natural’ girl but I’m actually going to wear no makeup to our date and I will not look like I do in my pictures.

All the men think they want a natural lady, but when they get one they turn away in horror and pretend to have an emergency phone call from their dying mother. Because a naked woman face is something society isn’t mentally prepared for. ******COUGH KYLIE JENNER LIP KIT COUGH***** I’ll spoil you for the first few dates and I’ll wear maybe some eyeliner and mascara and then I’ll slowly wean you off thinking I look like that.

If you want me to show up ‘natural’, by all means, I will do it. I will take a three hour nap and roll out of my bed, pillow creases, cold sweat and drool crust included, and I will show up wearing sweatpants I bought at Walmart. Or maybe just my boxers with seagulls wearing hats. That is me in my natural state.

I don’t want to message first because I’m too uncomfortable with this entire situation, not because I think I’m too good for you.

I really don’t want to message first. I get a lot of anxiety PICTURING the conversation we’re going to have on this stupid app. I want to get off this app as fast as I can, and every message notification I received I’m assuming will be the one to help me realize:

“Yep, this guy is a psychopath and now he knows my name, age, and location!”

In case you weren’t aware, my friends and I call one of the guys I went on a date with Serial Killer Steven (I changed his actual name because he probably found my blog and is reading this right now.) So my concern is valid.

If you match with me, I probably find you attractive and not douchey (maybe) so you should send me a message and I’ll probably reply then delete the app out of fear.

If you tell me the type of girl you’re looking for imma swipe left on your ass.

I love all the guys who say things like “I’m looking for a laid back fun chick who doesn’t care what people think of her and won’t be SUPER high maintenance and doesn’t take 3 hours to get ready but still knows how to act like a LADY.” No, just no. You don’t need to TELL ME what you’re looking for. That’s the point of swiping, you just… choose the people who are your TYPE then say NAH to the people who aren’t.

Also when you say things like that you’re assuming that these type of girls are already down for your bullshit. They probably aren’t. You’re the same dbags who have pictures next to an exotic car (that you’re pretending is yours), the dog face Snapchat filter, and a selfie of you making some weird duck face that you think is sexy. YEAH, GUYS DO IT TOO!

Don’t ask me what I’m “looking for” because there is no answer to that.

I’m not sure WHY I am on this app. It seems to be the only way to meet dudes that are single without having to approach them at the bar. Last week at the bar I purposefully deceived a guy into believing I went to Harvard, convinced another that I was a professional volleyball player and called another one a “gatekeeper” because he was standing next to an entryway. I’m not the greatest at “The Game” and we’re only talking about one night.

What I am NOT looking for is some dude who takes me on a few dates, pretends to care about getting to know me, makes an effort to be a respectful human being… Then suddenly drops off all communication. I’m not looking to be tricked into a sexual relationship that exists on your terms only. I’m not looking for you to lie to me to get things you want out of me, I’m looking for a dude who respects women and talks to me like I’m an equal. Because I am one, and I probably have a bigger metaphorical dick than you.



I’m back on Tinder. This is the first time I’m admitting it publicly. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Since I keep deleting and downloading Tinder over and over again… I think I might be insane.

The only variable that changes on Tinder is the people you meet, otherwise the game remains the same. I’m trying to go into this “session” with a more realistic attitude of who I’m going to find. I’m trying to be more selective about who I choose to meet up with. Trying to use discretion but also not changing who I am to make someone else like me. Idk. It’s all a shitfuck.



Twenty Something Eat Pray Loving

Now that I’ve experienced prolonged unemployment, a painful break-up, and nearly fatal car explosion (jk?) all within the span of a few months… I think it’s time for my twenty-something Eat Pray Love style melodramatic existential crisis. This is a book/movie I’d hoped I would never have to reference, but here I sit, at work… I ate rice and beans mixed with a soggy veggie burger for dinner last night with a can of Coors Light before walking to an Open Mic night in one of the most pathetically stereotypical starving Los Angeles artist nights of my life.


At Open Mic Night I took a massive bite of a (legal) edible marijuana rice krispy bar midway through the show, assuming I wasn’t going to perform because my name hadn’t been drawn. Not sure why I assumed that. Of course, I got called LAST and by that point was a few beers deep and HIGH AS ALL FUCK. The kind of high where your eyes are red slits and you keep giggling at the salt shakers on your table remembering Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper  from Blue’s Clues (Luis and Erik if you’re reading this we should totally do them as a joint Halloween costume.) Set still went well, all things considered. No, I didn’t record it… I haven’t recorded ANY since my first one because every single time I go I get all jittery and forget to tell whoever I’m with to record it. IDIOT.


My goal for 2016 was to perform in at least TWO open mic nights. I set the bar low because I didn’t know how long I’d get explosive diarrhea before every performance. Luckily that wore off after I had 7 minutes in front of a basically empty bar where I only got pity laughs (and obligatory laughs from my endlessly supportive and reliable hype man.) Well guess what? I’ve performed 7 times now! Bitches can’t tell me nothin.


If you feel like embarking on your own Eat Pray Love journey, I’ll give you my advice on how to get started. Granted, this is mostly terrible advice coming from a completely uncertified and unqualified source. Make of it what you will.


Spend Some Quality Time With People You Hate: Nothing reminds you of who you are quite like hanging out with people who annoy you. Go to some event where you’ll see a lot of people you’ll hate. For me, this would be one of the following: A fancy networking gala, a CrossFit competition, a zen Yoga Group, an Improv Show, or some sort of seminar on the meat packing industry. I know I’m going to be surrounded by people who share a passion that conflicts with mine, and I’ll be in the minority. Such a reality check, because I can never keep my mouth shut but this forces me to. Sometimes you just need a bunch of people to tell you that you’re wrong, and it’s even more powerful when you HATE the people.


Hobbies, Find Em: I joined two soccer leagues and a flag football league. I try to go to the above referenced open mics at least once per week when I don’t have a soccer game. I also try to set up networking drinks as frequently as I can manage (never.) When you fill your week with activities you have less time to be sad about sleeping alone in your cat litter laden bed (at least you can pretend you went to the beach?) I’m realizing that I actually really enjoy outdoorsy activities, like camping. These hobbies are helping me become ~a more complete woman~


Force Yourself Not to Be An Idiot: You know all those instincts you’ve developed over the years? Your impulse to run from all complicated scenarios? Your tendencies to shut people out when you feel them getting too close? That weird thing where you pick at the skin on your knuckle until you bleed and people ask you if you got into a fight and you have to lie and say your cat scratched you? Your Eat Pray Love period is a great time to try to retrain those. It’s painful as hell and you’re going to feel like a toddler screaming and shitting yourself every day. You might even actually shit yourself- in which case… Give me a call for diaper recs.


Don’t Put Up With Bullshit: When I was in high school I would convince myself that the CLEARLY douchey guy I had a crush on, who by some grace of da lord started to give me attention, was actually a great guy. I asked him if he liked me, he said “I like your ass.” I told him that I didn’t want to just hook up, I wanted commitment, he said “Probably not.” I told him I thought he was smart, funny and talented. He said I was “cool.” And you know what? I thought that was so sweet of him. I was so innocent back then. I wanna go back to that past Katrina and slap her across the face repeatedly. When bullshit presents itself, what do you say to bullshit? “Not Today.”


Quit Making Excuses For Yourself: You wanna lose weight? Stop making up excuses why you can’t go to the gym, and stop eating like a fat fuck. You want to read a book? Stop wasting hours writing political posts on Facebook. You wanna make friends? JOIN SHIT (just please not Improv for the love of God.) You wanna get laid? Spread your legs and watch your back. You’re not too busy. If you’re a twenty-something without children or a significant other, you have nothing but time. I don’t care if you have a job, I have a “job” and I write this blog when I feel like it. The world is your uterus, start building a fetus in it.


Wear Clothes That You’re Comfortable In: I felt obligated to wear jeans today because I wore joggers the other day and everyone made snide remarks about my “sweatpants.” Fair enough, they’re very comfortable. But sometimes after you go on a camping trip and eat copious amounts of burgers, sausages, eggs and bacon (without working out at all, mostly just while drinking beer) your jeans just don’t fit like they used to. I’m walking like a bow legged sailor. Or maybe like a lego man. Or maybe like a wooden doll. Just something that can’t move it’s extremities with ease.



One last nugget of wisdom before I wrap up this breakfast burrito: you really don’t have to Eat, Pray or Love if you don’t want to. Of those three activities, I am only doing one of them. It is Eat. Praying is fine if you’re a religious person or know how to pray to an ambiguous Godlike creature. Loving is cool too- but if you’re in this mess in the first place I’m assuming your heart has turned into a shriveled up black hole like mine. My heart is like a pancake that was left on the griddle for too long. It’s pretty much just charcoal, butter and flour. If you poke my heart it will disintegrate and its ashes will absorb into different parts of my body, giving me some kind of communicable disease that will shorten my lifespan drastically. Please, don’t touch my heart. So of the three things, Eat, Pray, Love… Just make sure to pick one and do it well.



(the above picture is an image of my heart)