The Flight Of Our Stars

When I was a young girl back in Chicago, I went on a camping trip to Wisconsin with friends. In the middle of the night, four of us snuck out of camp and hiked down to a meadow. We threw out a blanket, flattening the grass around us, and lay down.

Immediately before our trip, I had developed a bad case of swimmer’s ear that eventually led to a busted ear drum. I would never regain full hearing in my Endless Nightleft ear and until the drum healed, I was only capable of hearing about 30%. So, as the girls whispered and giggled around me, I stared blankly up at the sky. Soon enough, their voices became muffled tones over the singing of crickets; fireflies danced around us and the smell of dew hung heavy in the warm air. Coming from Chicago, I had never seen a sky like this before. It felt like seeing the world for the first time. Shades of blue hugged every leaf, every blade of grass, every item of clothing we wore as the stars swung over us, a million at a time.

Somewhere in the middle of that moment, as we all found ourselves silent in awe, there was a feeling of togetherness, a melding of spirit and soul, but a similar feeling of being happily singular in the universe: like kings and queens of a world so beautifully perfect as it balanced all forms of life in just the palm of one hand, that we lost track of time.

Meeting Mike was like coming back to that meadow and lying down to get lost in the infiniteness of a steady, happy calm. Somewhere between the intertwining of souls and the strength and confidence of knowing exactly who you are while they blend, we fell. The newness of someone usually brings an uneasiness with it: a time in which you are unsure of what to do, what to say, how to react. There wasn’t one moment that I felt like I didn’t know him or more, like we hadn’t been friends forever. Three hours after meeting him, I sent one text out to my mother. “I found him,” it said. “Who,” she asked. “Him. The one. I know it.”

Since then, there hasn’t been a moment we’ve spent together that I am not completely, madly and sincerely in tremendously, compassionate love, spirally endlessly through a lit sky. A love that has no words, no explanation, no expression or act that can be recreated to prove who we are and what this is. It just is. In it’s beauty and wholeness, it found its counterpart and clung tight.

How can this be? What do I love about him? What is it? What happened? A thousand questions I’m not even sure I can answer because it isn’t something I see, it’s not one particular thing that happened. I can only feel it. When he cradles my face, it’s there. When he closes his eyes and kisses me, it’s there. When he looks at me, through me, into me, it’s there. He once said to me, “There is something I admire so much about you. You think you’re crazy but in all the chaos or the silly moments, you have this steadiness about you. I’m not sure I’m saying this right or can describe it, it’s just this perfect steadiness.” What he doesn’t know is that he is the root of that steadiness. My life was a ship, tirelessly battling the waves of one perfect storm after another, until he showed up. He was the compass I had lost. Now found, I know my direction and I sail confidently into the sun: beaten wood decks, tattered sails and all, knowing there isn’t a thing out there I couldn’t live through… knowing, now, there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do or live through to be with him.

Peanut Butter & Rock N’ Roll

I can’t even remember how we initially got on, just that he compared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to rock n’ roll.
Then he asked me a series of questions:
“More peanut butter or more jelly?”
“Crusts on or off?”
“Cut diagonally or down the middle?” 
And once they were answered, he said “I’m gonna make you the best sandwich you’ve ever had

Fitzgerald's Intimacy

The Beauty And Pain Of Falling In Love With The Right Person At The Wrong Time

I have never reposted an article before but this one hit home. It’s very hard to explain to someone who has not experienced, first hand, what it’s like to love someone so intensely, so passionately but have to let them go. I was happy to learn that I was not alone in loving someone well beyond the relationship expiration date.

Thank you to the author, Paul Hudson, for this intimate look into his life. To read the article from it’s origin on Elite Daily’s website, click here:


“When I was about 18, I met a girl who changed my life. She opened my eyes to a part of the world – a part of life – that I didn’t know existed.

This was the first time that I ever fell in love, and it was the deepest I have ever fallen in love. The frequency and intensity with which I felt, anything, was something I didn’t believe possible – I honestly didn’t know that a person could feel so incredibly happy and horribly miserable.

Finding the right person, a person you want to spend your life with, is the greatest accomplishment one can achieve. Yet, the unfortunate truth is that the right person doesn’t always come at the right time. And that makes all the difference.

You’re not guaranteed to find the right person at the wrong time, but it can happen. I’m living proof. I understand you may be thinking that if you met the right person, the person you loved with all your soul, things would just work out.

We see it in all the movies. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. And they live happily ever after – roll credits. How wonderful it would be if the world were so simple.

In reality, human beings are emotionally complicated and because we’re so emotionally complicated, we manage to make situations complicated. Even if you do find the right person, if you aren’t the right person you yourself need to be, the relationship will fail.

Relationships don’t only fail because the person you’re with turns out to be the wrong person; they also fail when you yourself aren’t yet the person you need to be. If you aren’t yet capable of being in a loving relationship then the two of you are doomed.

You will most likely implode emotionally and take it out on the person you love. This goes for the person you love as well – if this person isn’t at the point in life where he or she can be a loving and devoted partner, the relationship won’t work either. There are so many ways a relationship can fail, it’s amazing that we aren’t all alone.

Many people will make excuses for why they aren’t in a place in their lives that’s conducive to a healthy relationship. Many will argue that they need to focus on their careers. Some will argue that they still want to explore life and spend more time flying solo before settling down.

Others will even convince themselves that the love they’ve felt for so long wasn’t true love. They will twist their emotions and memories to make themselves believe that it was more of an illusion than anything else, a dream they need to wake up from. Yet, these are all excuses that veil the truth.

The honest truth is that whether you can admit it to yourself or not, you are not capable of loving – not the way the other person needs to be loved. We should only allow ourselves to settle for one sort of love. The sort of love that is all-consuming, intoxicating, passionate and, at the same time calm, collected, caring and supportive.

We should only settle for a love that embodies the definition in its purest form: to love fully, deeply and selflessly – or rather, as selflessly as humanly possible. I’m not talking about the love of fairytales. I’m talking about the most ideal love that people can possibly be a part of.

Now, the problem when you do find the right person is that you may not yet be willing to give up a part of yourself – because that is what you’re going to have to do.

You are surrendering a part of yourself to your lover. You are giving up on certain things, making concessions and compromises in order to give yourself to the other person. You are devoting a chunk of your life, your thoughts, your dreams and your future to them.

The deepest, purest love is the love shared when both individuals give a piece of themselves to the other, but not entirely without expectation. We may not command anything in return, but because we are only human, we expect our love to be reciprocated.

More so, because we do love our partners, we want them to have the love that they deserve. So what do you do when you love a person knowing you cannot be the person he or she needs you to be?

What do you do when you find the right person, but cannot love that person the way he or she deserves to be loved? If we aren’t willing to make the tradeoffs then there is really only one thing you can do… you have to let that person go.

Letting a person you love go is the most difficult decision you can make in your life. The worst part is that the longer you are apart, the more you come to realize how difficult it is – the more you realize how much you actually love that person.

I haven’t seen or spoken to that girl I met nearly a decade ago in years. And I still know that a part of me does, and always will, love her. Thinking about a person every day of your life that you know you will never be with is a hell of its own. But it’s okay.

It’s okay because it is a part of life. It’s a learning experience like no other. Some of you will fall in love with the right person to find that it is the right time. But some of you will go through what I go through.

I just hope that you have the strength to keep going, not to give up on yourself. You may have had to give up on your relationship with that person, but you can find love again.

You have to believe that you can because it is possible. It is possible to find another right person and to find him or her at the right point in your life. It’s happened to many and will happen to many more. I have to believe that it will happen for me just as you have to believe it will happen for you.

There is no worse way to live life than to live it while giving up on the prospect of love. Love is the only purpose worth living for.”

Things You Learn From Doing Instead of Reading a Buzzfeed Article About Doing.

Dear BuzzFeed Readers,

I bet your life feels more complete now that you know how it feels to wear makeup when you’re not used to it, or none when you are. The icing on the cake was when Mrs. Kristin Chirico went braless. We can all rest easier knowing what we’ve always known (deep down) and still need [constant] reassurance of; everyone is self-conscious and everyone is self-conscious about their own little thing. Thankfully, most times, we’re all fretting about something that will more likely than not go unnoticed if changed. Surprise! This really isn’t high school anymore. The popular guy is all of a sudden not that same guy that picks on people’s imperfections. So why doesn’t Buzzfeed just do an article on that? Or better yet, let’s all move to the Bay Area and live the lives we want to live… at least, thats what I did.

Allow me to elaborate: 6 years ago, I was a city girl, born and raised. I grew up in Chicago, taking on a job that not only paid well (probably more than I make today, and with considerably less bills to handle) but also required me to know the ins and outs of my city, as well as the secrets (i.e. where to get dry cleaning done on a Sunday). Surprisingly (completely unsurprisingly), I squandered ALL of my money on clothes and nights out. Why? Because youth… but also magazines and TV and loads of other socially influencing media all saying I should look my best and know how to show it off with a good time (i.e. impress people). Did all that make me feel beautiful? No. Well, maybe for about the 5 minutes it took for me to get out of my house, lock 20 locks, make it down the 3 flights of stairs and over 3 blocks to where I’d found parking the night before. By the time I’d strapped into my car, I was already rethinking what I was wearing or my hairstyle or the sandwich I’d eaten 5 hours before that I swear I could feel latched to the sides of my stomach. Conclusion: I was in a constant state of worried fear and inevitable unhappiness. Don’t get me wrong, media didn’t make me depressed but the idea of what I needed to look like did, and therefore, I spent far too much time trying to manage a fear I couldn’t escape…. and 4″ heels that I lived in but were certain would cause me to fall flat on my face in the middle of a crosswalk while downtown heading to happy hour at the fashionable WildFire someday.

Then everything changed. In July of 2009, I moved to the North Bay of San Francisco; to a town I refer to as small (by city girl standards) with a population of just over 170,000. Santa Rosa is the largest city north of SF, so it’s certainly no podunk but you definitely can’t expect to head to the market in your PJ’s when you’ve forgotten to buy coffee beans (organically grown, fair-trade coffee beans… cause you’re in the bay area now) and not run into someone you know. It took me almost 2 full years to learn to love the place. I moved on a whim, for a boy who immediately had to leave me behind to get to know the area by myself as he traveled for work. It took a while for 24 year old, city-girl me to realize no one wore heels out, there was only 1 club in town (and it seemed to shift owners frequently as it attempted to keep it’s doors open), and that restaurants weren’t open past 9pm (what, no 5am pizza delivery?). In the process of learning this, I also learned that converse go with every outfit, bras are optional and make-up is typically nonexistent. Maybe it’s all the pastured-raised beef, the humane-certified, family-farmed milk, the perfect mixture of hot, dry days and cool, humid nights or maybe it’s just that once you stop caking your face with the Maybelline factory your skin does exactly what it’s supposed to do -take care of itself! Either way, we seriously have good skin out here! Who needs makeup anyway (he’s gonna see you without it on one way or another).

I admit, it wasn’t a quick change. I didn’t throw off my bra and drown my make-up the second I gazed upon my first NorCal hippie. It took time. Years. But eventually, it occurred to me that I felt better when I wasn’t attempting to dress or cover up the real me. Not to mention, studies show that not wearing a bra can actually be better for you in the long run! Slowly, I learned to love the me that wore jeans and a t-shirt every day (even Saturday nights at the bar), wore less and less makeup, spent less time blow-drying and styling my hair. Do you know what happens when you stop attempting to cover yourself up? You get to know the real you. Maybe you don’t particularly enjoy the real you (I’ll admit, I wasn’t exactly who I wanted to be then either). Well congratulations, cause now you have more time to work on becoming the person you want to be!

I noticed that once I stopped fretting about someone seeing the real me and instead I worked on being the real me, someone I was proud of, I made a hell of a lot more friends and racked up a hell of a lot more suitors. Beaming with personality, smiling ear to ear was the only thing I needed to wear out to attract people to me, in all forms. The best part is that I’m also not afraid to be silly, witty, or teased because I know who I am, and whether someone is laughing with me or at me is all the same. I’m a more confident person in my own skin now that I’m not hiding behind the painted and plastered ones you buy.

“So, that’s all well and good, Charlie, but Santa Rosa isn’t New York or Los Angeles. What do you know about keeping this up in the big city?” Well actually, I live in Los Angeles now and it’s reaffirmed my belief that less is more. Firstly, anyone far too gone in the realm of make-believe (also known here as “fashion”) is not a person I necessarily think I’d enjoy spending enormous amounts of time with anyway. And I don’t mean that in a negative way, just that seemingly our priorities are different. Secondly, I hear daily that I should style my hair a certain way, wear lipstick, buy heels, act more “girlie” so that I fit better. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be a factory line product when you could be a Singer Porsche? Please, help me understand this.

I don’t want to to look like everyone else because I’m not everyone else, I’m me! I’m cultured, self-sufficient, independent, free-thinking, free-spirited and fun. Why in the world would I subdue who I am, just to clutter it with someone else’s idea of what I should be? I don’t need push-up bras, green eye shadow and chunky jewelry to prove I’m a bit wild. You’ll just have to get to know me. Which is funny because, all joking aside, the number one thing I have heard every new Angeleno friend say to me is  “You’re unlike any girl I’ve met here” (typically followed by a comment on my killer beer knowledge, of course). Eventually, if we talk long enough and the topic comes up about fitting into L.A. (because about 50% of us didn’t grow up here), they want to know why I chose not to try to fit in or why it matters that I do my own thing. Sometimes, they even attempt to warn me of what it could be like if I don’t try to fit in (“you’ll be single for-ev-er!”) but it always, ALWAYS ends with some sort of semblance of regret that they sort of lost themselves in the move to SoCal.

Conclusion: Be you. Seriously. Life truly is far too short to live it unhappily, even slightly, when the alternative could eventually lead you to finding yourself and in that, loving yourself.

Signing off,

The Braless, [mostly] Makeup-less LA-livin’ Hippie.

How To Convert Baggage Fees Into Investments

019 copy In 11 days, it will officially be 2 years since the world I previously knew imploded and sent me off on a tumultuous journey, filled equally with both actions of self-destruction and [naturally following] self-construction. I came to the realization that this anniversary was upon me last evening, while having pints with a friend who lived through ‘the mess’ with me. “2 years,” I said and the words stuck to my tongue. 2 years. Parts of it feel like it’s been a lifetime, others, like it was just yesterday. It’s something I rarely give thought to anymore, but in the wake of the anniversary and a few conversations I’ve had recently, paired with an extremely interesting article in the Huffington Post, it’s now a growing thought. Growing, only in that I now know, without any lingering doubt, I have no regrets and similarly, I would have never lived it any other way.

This week, a friend I met through the odd circumstance of renting a house from his mother, who then ended up being an elementary school classmate of my best friend (did you follow that?) and I were talking. He’s been going through his own life-implosion and simultaneous explosion when we started talking deeply about life, relationships, work, happiness and love. By the time I had explained my new self down to the realization that it’s ok for me to live as 5 different people at once as long as I keep them all in check with the other, he had figured out what many others have mentioned to me lately: “You have an amazing amount of self-awareness,” he said. I do, and although I have been fearful that admitting to knowing this may make me seem cocky or overly-confident, the truth is that I am and I’m quite proud of that. Happiness is the only thing that can follow the immense undertaking of becoming consciously aware of who you are and how you treat yourself and others.

Recently, I met a guy that sees life and experiences it with the same zest that I do. We’ve both recently made career moves that saw more uses out of our sleeping bags than the last 10 years, combined. Our conversation spurred a discussion on intimidation, to which I noted that I am rarely intimidated anymore -part of my recent growth of self-awareness. He disagreed that knowing yourself could affect your feelings towards intimidation in any given situation, to which I explained: if you truly know who you are and you meet someone who is, let’s say, better at excel spreadsheets than you may be, someone who has an incredible figure, someone who lives their life one extreme adventure after another, you are not intimidated anymore; You know your limits, your boundaries and your goals. If anything, those people are now your inspiration. Intimidation is a reaction to fear. When you know what you can live through, when you understand your weaknesses as much as you understand your strengths, intimidation doesn’t find a home in your mind any longer. At the sight of something or someone that creates a want in you, you find yourself searching for how that plays into your life, how you can make that happen for yourself, where it once may have roused the insecurities that lead to intimidation and from there, many worse things.

Upon my growth into self-awareness, I went through a long, pain-staking journey to the realization that I am built like an ‘Irish farmer’ (or so it was explained to me one day while working on the farm). Meaning I will never look like the girls who grace the cover of Glamour magazine. Even when my waistline was small enough to have people questioning my health, I was only bordering a size 6/8. I will always have built arms, shapely legs, wide hips, a large ribcage, and guess what? People still care for me. What a simple thing to say. What a simple thing it should have been to understand, and yet it took me nearly 30 years to conclude: I will be loved whether I have the frame of a Thai boy or a lumbering Netherlander, and there’s a reason outside of image as to why: I am fun, witty, intelligent, open, a great friend and most importantly, I consciously choose to find humor in almost every situation. In fact, I sat down next to an older English gentleman at the pub the other day who couldn’t stop telling me how funny I was and how refreshing a young girl with such wit and humor was to meet.

Today I stopped by the grocery store, riddled with children running up and down aisles, screaming their heads off. I am well aware (having not had children, myself) that this is something that annoys me. And so, when I passed a little girl playing with her tiny brother, sitting in a cart -him screaming bloody murder- I laughed. I giggled to myself. To be that age! To be young and carefree and oblivious to the outside world and what people think of you. To have fun again, in whatever way you wished, that’s a reason to smile. I chose this path. I chose to view what could have been an annoyance with different eyes because I knowingly went into a situation aware of who I am and how I react to people and consequently treat them.

This has also rolled over into the way I speak and interact with people. The Vulgar Buddhist, I shall call myself. Open, friendly, honest, spiritual but the obscenities slip freely with me (the result of a decade of living in a man’s world out on the road when I toured) and I actually think it helps people relax. The English fellow I met told me I’m dangerous: a deadly combination of fun and intelligence with a sharp tongue and gorgeous eyes, which followed my explanation for why it is that men are so simple and women cannot stop over-thinking things. It took me a while to come to the conclusion myself: that society has doomed us women into the land of over-analyzing. We must be womanly, girlie. We must be delicate. We must allow the occasional situation that requires a man to step up and save us, or step-in to care for us. We must be smart, but being too smart is intimidating to a guy. We must be independent, but too much independence makes a man feel like he is not needed. So we must also be strong; physically, mentally and emotionally… and yet, not… at the same time. Do you see where I’m going with this? How can a society that claims that women should still play the ultra-feminine mother roles also expect us to be the stable powerhouses; emotionally, financially, physically and mentally sound sans partner (and WITH a partner), and not expect our minds to be in a constant state of confusion? Women are forced to psychologically assess every human relationship within every given situation and decide if this is the moment to act strong and bold or emotionally-vulnerable and wanting. And if we are constantly assessing what the situation requires of us, than we can’t imagine that men aren’t as well. And so we think. A lot. About you, what you’re doing, how you feel, what you want, because (as society has said) we’re caretakers and caretakers want to care for others and make them happy. Whew! It’s exhausting.

When I was a wee thing, I was quite the anti-social; always with a book in my face. My younger sister was the firecracker. She was the life of the party: funny, bright, loud, animated, people loved her. Her and her friends used to go downtown Chicago and sing on the streets for extra cash. Hell, they’d sing on the streets just for fun. One particular day, while I was wishing to be more like her, more like the outgoing girl with tons of friends, she attempted to help me open up. “You have to sacrifice yourself for the laugh, Charlie,” she spit out through gulps of air and giggles. Logically, I could not make sense of this at the time but as the months and years have gone by, it’s come to mean more and more to me. It’s now, actually, one of the most meaningful things someone has ever said to me. “Sacrifice yourself for the laugh, Charlie.” Simply, don’t take yourself too seriously. Know your weaknesses, know your discomforts, know your shortcomings and make light of them. Fake it to make it, if you have to! This is the greatest place to start getting to know you and becoming comfortable with who you are. Once you can begin to laugh at yourself, you are ok with others finding humor in it too and surprisingly, folks find that sort of courage refreshing. They’ll eventually start to mistake it for confidence, well, because it is. You’ll find the more you practice being ok with that horrible prom picture from when you were forced to wear some tacky second-hand dress or your unique aptitude to clumsiness, the more you’ll start to actually love these things about you.

Before I left the pub last night, a man sitting next to me randomly cheers-ed me for my ‘dedication to the recovery of another day.’ He was quite literally a loon, but he was a lovable loon and during one of his long rants (that I had begun to zone out of), he said “We need to accept our differences cause if we don’t, we’re all the same and that’s not why we were put here. This world wouldn’t be any fun if we were all exactly the same person.” How absolutely correct. Accept who you are. Embrace what makes you different and shine that side of you the brightest. I promise you, it will make the biggest impact on your life -for the better. sunset-hair

How To Grow A Mustache & Man A Chainsaw

I’m recent weeks I’ve come to the unsettling prospect that men in today’s society are not living up to the title of “men.” I mean, obviously, this is a troubling concept. As a woman submerged in a Disney culture, the title of “man” holds to it a specific distinction. A structured sort of dependability, honor, respectable nature and, of course, heroism that women have grown accustomed to over the years. But through the years, times have changed and along with it, men. Gender roles have skewed, males and females were cited as equals and the advance of technology and the presence of sexuality [through media] gave women a leg-up when it comes to seeking out the proper mate and making their intentions known.

That being said, it seems men have taken a lazy approach to courting, seducing and retaining women as their counterparts. Never fear though, I will attempt to make the distinction of the male role a bit clearer. Women, no matter how progressive in their beliefs, are still looking for men to be men and although that list could go on and on, I have a few personal things to add:


1. LOL:

LOL was first introduced as an abbreviation to the written phrase “laughing out loud” when a vast majority of communication with our peers was done over cellphones whose keypads resembled that of a touch-tone phone. Abbreviations became a necessary requirement to limit ourselves to the 140 characters allowed per text message and assist in eliminating the effort of having to hit the 7 button eight times to achieve a lower case “r. Nowadays, however, LOL and such abbreviations have become replaced with unlimited text plans and full computer-resembled keypads. So, if you’re one of the men out their still sending “LOL” at the bottom of a 4 page novel depicting your experience of reuniting with your frat boys after 10 years, it tends to leave a bad taste in our mouths. I mean, honestly, a 4-page novel and NOW you decided it’d a good time for abbreviations?! No, thanks.


2. Soft Hands:

Ah, this one gets me every time: I have been out to bars, on dates, and at parties where I seriously started connecting with a guy and, for whatever reason, his hand reached for mine and the next thing you know he’s caressing it while I wonder how far I’m going to let it go from here. SPOILER ALERT! No-fucking-where.

If you have soft hands, forget about it, baby! Sorry [I’m not sorry], but if you have softer hands than me, that probably means that someone wipes your ass for you -and thats just the start! Men are unfit to possess the title of “Men” without a little man-work first: Changing your car oil, rotating tires, putting the kitchen drawers back on their track, fixing the drain, drilling, plotting, pulling, weeding, fixing, mending, welding, s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g. The last thing I want is your hand clasping mine and immediately feeling self-conscious about how much I’ve lotioned-up in the past few days! As a woman, I have enough superficial crap society has deemed worthy of my immediate and significant attention without having to worry that I may be more down-and-dirty in the work/home-improvement department than you.


3. Nails:

Man hands are one thing but no one wants an unclean, unkept guy reaching those twiggy fingers into the convents of our sacred places without, at least, trimming those nails. Just like you can probably feel every little bump, pulse, push, clasp and flow of the inside of our lady parts, we can feel every inch of those raggedy and jagged nails once inserted into the plush, holy ground within. It’s not attractive on the outside, and inside us, it’s even more of a disturbance. Sally, Target, Walmart, Walgreens, even some gas stations, sell CHEAP nail clippers! Let me know if I need to invest in a set for you, cause I will gladly do so.


4. Phone Use:

No girl likes a man that spends more time on his phone than she does, and she especially doesn’t like it when you pull that thing out to text your bestie about drinking next Friday night instead of enjoying the evening you two have set out in front of you. Period. It’s a disturbance. It makes us think that we’re boring you. And if we are, in fact, boring you, we’d rather you just say so so we may all get outta there and enjoy our evening the best way possible than you indulge yourself in Twitter like a 12 year old girl obsessed with the next Justin Bieber siting. Seriously, just stop it. Put it away. Leave it in your car. Anything but obsessively check Instagram for Mila Kunis updates -thats what boys do, NOT men.


5. Make Excuses:

Let’s be completely, entirely and frighteningly honest with each other for a second: excuses are a gift, a present, like Christmas morning. When a good one comes to you, it’s the best part of your week! You’re thrilled your boss actually believed a homeless, coke-addicted, trench-coat wearing vagrant terrorized your train car this morning and attempted to threaten a child in a stroller till you stepped in and saved the little darling, armed only with your cream cheese and lox covered bagel. Points for creativity, but it means way more to us when you can stand up and take accountability and responsibility for your actions than seek out the perfect story to excuse your tardiness. And if you do it with your boss, you’ll do it with us.

I had no idea how incredible it would feel to hear a guy take credit for his actions till the first time it happened. And quite literally by the second time, I was ready to practically get down on my knees and beg he let me reward him. It’s THAT rare, which is why it’s what gives dudes the prestigious title of “Man.”


6. Rabbit-Humping:

Last but certainly not least (and this may be the most important): Rabbit-humping. Far too frequent, far too often tolerated and far too much like a 15 year old boy. At 29, I’ve had my fair share of rabbit-humping during sex, but that mostly only occurred in my [much-younger] youth when we were all still attempting to figure out what sex was really about. At 29 and recently single after years of committed relationship after committed relationship, I am bothered to be introduced to the rabbit-humpers of America once again.

On a recent outing with a friend in LA, the topic of circumcised men verses uncircumcised men was brought up as did the correlation to circumcised men and rabbit humping. Look, I get it. Someone chose to extract thousands of euphoric sensors from a pivotal point on the male specimen (no pun intended), but honestly, that is just all the more reason to explore, think, task yourself with the role of indulging into the sexual experience and learning what works for you and what works for her. It does not (because real men don’t excuse their issues) give you the right to violently attack our vaginas the same way a 15 year old beats off to Jennifer Lawrence while watching the Hunger Games in his mom’s bed. This has to be the single most frustrating thing on the planet. I will never be excited about seeing you naked again, and therefore going out on a date with you again, if you fuck me like a two-cent whore or a stuffed animal from your sister’s closet. Done. Done. SOOOOOOO done. Just don’t. Stop. The awkward talk about what I like or what you like is 10 times better than rabbit-humping, no matter how fresh our partnership is. Please, do yourself a favor. Just say no to rumping (a.k.a. rabbit-humping). T-H-A-N-K  Y-O-U in advance to the men out there willing to listen. You shall be rewarded!




Today I woke up in Boston, Massachusetts. I slept through 2 alarms, which were thankfully set 2 hours before I even needed to be awake. Knowing that every day is a coin toss as to how I’ll feel mentally, emotionally and physically, I’ve prepared myself for days like today; when the fatigue has drained me so completely the only thing I wish to do is curl up into a ball under a river of my own tears.

“I am not my disease,” I tell myself. “I am who I choose to be. I am the sum of the decisions I make, and I choose to be positive, healthy and bright.” But it’s not working. I’m tired, I’m beat, my foot hasn’t healed from an injury I sustained in January and the pain is tearing an expanding hole into my normally sunny exterior. I gaze out the window at a perfectly beautiful day in Boston. A day, in another life, that would have been perfect for running. I ache thinking of missing the ground under my feet, the world whizzing by, the moments to myself. I miss the pleasurable feeling of that kind of tired; the kind of tired that you feel deep down in your muscles from having used up all your energy on something so wonderfully productive…. I have to turn away from the window.

I jump online and the first thing I read is a post on Facebook my mother has shared in support of my step-father, who is suffering from Lyme Disease, embedded into his spine. A chronic illness he’s been suffering with long before me. It has not only stolen years from his life but his career, his time with family, birthdays, holidays, and vacations. The post itself, was an attempt to remind people that although those that suffer from chronic illness may look ok on the outside, more often than not, they are struggling on the inside.

Secretly, so many of us deal with shame and embarrassment from what we’re doing through, attempting to over-compensate for what we think we lack. On days when my body is terribly broken and hurting, I make an extra attempt to take the long way into work, carry my bags up the stairs instead of using the elevator, be extra patience with people. Usually, however, I believe I just end up looking slow which could possibly be thought of as deflecting from my responsibilities, and the quieter I become [in an effort to not let the negative thoughts or pain escape] the more people ask questions. And what am I to say? How can they ever understand?

On these days not only does the weight of my pain overcome me, but the weight of my body. Pulling at me, mentally straining and clouding all thoughts. 30 pounds in a year is not easy to get used to. Not when you’re so used to a fit lifestyle. Financially, I can’t keep up with the growth, and no amount of dieting or exercise has yet to work. Hormone pills for my condition do little to affect the rate of my metabolism, working out hasn’t changed anything, and most days I eat only one meal and do some very light snacking around dinner time because the thought of adding anymore weight to this systemically-built bone structure disgusts me to a point that thoughts emerge I don’t believe I can ever share.

And whats worse is you push everyone away. Anyone who might care, you push away thinking they don’t deserve to be put in-between this because when they become your safety net, you’ll let go. And when you let go, you expect them to catch all the shit. I don’t want to throw that on anyone. I don’t want to ever be comfortable laying the weight of this weird world I live in on anyone. It’s mine to burden. May I apologize in advance if you ever intend to be close to me.

So where do I go from here? How do we, do I, better plan for days like these? Days that are completely unpredictable. Days that steal away a piece of me, a piece I never gave permission to be used. I don’t know what I believe when it comes to a God but I plead for something brighter, something bigger than what I feel I am, on these days.


And then thats it. And then it’s time to load in. Put on your happy face, turn into the world you know and try. Try your hardest, give it your best, cringe and bite, and bleed, but do it. No regrets. Push.