Alright, real talk: It’s 4:27am and there should be laws against writing at these hours. Is this what drunk driving feels like? Because I’m pretty sure my eyes are doing cartwheels and my brain is like, “What the ****?” and all the while my stomach is all, LISTEN LADY IF WE’RE DOING THIS I’M GONNA NEED SOME ASSISTANCE DOWN HERE. I mean, I normally wouldn’t mind dragging a bag of Doritos into bed with me at this hour (it’s
Let me tell you what: American women may have Victoria’s Secret, but Italian women have another secret altogether. You know it by the way she holds her head a little higher than yours, eyes on fire, gliding down the god damn sidewalk as if her and Mother Nature were tag teaming. It is not just confidence—though confidence is plainly written across her shoulders—nor arrogance, judging by the way she laughs with her entire body alongside her friends in the piazza.
I used to be a really nice person. I was the kind of person who would nod sweetly and enthusiastically, as if I had a permanent coating of cotton candy on my lips—even when I was seething inside. (Whether this made me nice or a moron is still up for debate.) I would never question anyone else’s opinions, assuming that if they thought it, that made it true; that they saw something I didn’t. I would never tell anyone “no,”
“Why won’t you kiss me?” he had asked. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Didn’t he understand what I was going through? Didn’t he have the same worries?! He inched closer. I inched backward. I couldn’t kiss him. Not there. Not with the faint smell of burnt popcorn swirling in my nostrils; the scent of sweaty leather fighting for an equal opportunity to infiltrate my senses. There was suppose to be candlelight. And a bowl of spaghetti. And Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love
“How many pisco sours have you had?!?!?!” The words galloped out of my mouth when my best friend, M, asked me—the girl who spells god with a lowercase g and who has openly questioned the institution of marriage—to officiate her wedding. The first image that came to mind was me standing on an altar wearing a maroon-colored robe, flicking water onto their foreheads and cueing Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act. The fact that my fingers wanted to type “alter” instead
Are these people on crack? It was the first thought that came to mind as I read this Inc. article that advises you to take your glass of warm Yellowtail, roll up to a stranger at a networking event and all but murmur in their ear: How can I help you? The theory is that you’ll get a better response by trying to be helpful than trying to be salesy—but in execution, this thinly veiled, “I’m here to help!” Pee-wee Herman
There’s this collective group groan that happens when the words, “elevator pitch” are spen. (For the record, it sounds like: gggggeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrduuuurrrrrruhhhhhhSPLAT.) In my experience, this is usually for one of three reasons: Someone once insisted that if you’re ever riding in an elevator, you MUST! BE! ABLE! TO! SELL! YOURSELF! BEFORE! THE! NEXT! STOP! (So now you have PTSD every time someone asks you if you’re—ding, ding ding—going up.) You couldn’t explain what you do in thirty minutes, let alone
Out of 100,000 adjectives in the English language, if the best you can come up with is nice, then I’m doing something wrong. It’s like spending Thanksgiving Day ripping out gizzards and mashing actual potatoes, only to be told that the food is “very good, thanks.” VERY GOOD, THANKS? What is this, a $5 blowjob? Now that I’ve taken the blog to all new inappropriate heights, I might as well tell you what I really think. (P.S. To all my