Category: Online Marketing

The Scene: The United States of America. 9:57 am: Walk into L.A. Fitness. 9:58: Meet stunningly fit individual named Alberto. 10:00: Decide there is some fucked up pheromones wandering around body that insist on me + Latino men. 10:01: Wonder if Alberto’s name really is Alberto. Consider how unsexy it would be to call him Al. 10:02: Make mental note to call him Al in an attempt to become less attracted to him. 10:03: Wonder if he’s related to Vin

Note: This post contains adult language. It’s so adult, you might swear you’ve just been transported to a seedy, smoke-laced Las Vegas strip club filled with large Italian men. The good news is that you haven’t. The bad news is that somebody let me have my own blog. And…so we begin. What I want to talk about is some weird shit. Weird shit always makes its way into my day, so why not talk about it here? You see this

[The scene: She apathetically releases a puff of smoke from a pair of fiery red lips, before she stands up, yanks at her fishnets, props herself clumsily upon the bar, leans just a little bit too much (so you can kinddaaa see her boobs)…and makes an announcement…] Note: You should probably click below to listen to me reading this post partly in a ridiculous fake Russian Accent. Yes, that’s right. I actually did that. You’re welcome. You will either hate

Holy disco ball, it’s 2012. I’ve (just now) decided that this year is going to be all about less vodka, more water. …Maybe. It’s also going to be about silk sheets, billiards, baseball hats, and love. Yeah, that’s right. Luh-uh-ve. I’m going to fall madly in love this year. And that person is going to fall madly in love with me back. I just know it. He better be hot. Anyway, while I was performing all of this high-level brainstorming,

You have your panties in a bunch. That’s not an assumption–that’s a fact. The reason why I know you have your panties in a bunch is because instead of creating–doing–progressing–experimenting–trying–you froze up, kid. You didn’t move forward on that idea you had (because what if it doesn’t WORK OUT?) You didn’t write that book you wanted to write (because what if it isn’t GOOD ENOUGH?) You didn’t get that website up and running (because that’ll mean you’re really COMMITTED) You

Yesterday, I was certain I was going to die. Not just on one occasion, but two. The first instance was when I agreed to ride an ancient, rusty, rickety, RIDICULOUS ski lift up the side of a volcano. Vollll. Caaaaa. Noooo. Obviously that’s what you do when you’re in Patagonia with a group of friends–ride volcanoes. The south of Chile, apparently, is loaded with lava. My head, on the other hand, was loaded with WTF WTF WTF WTF WTF. It

So, I’m a huge salsa fan. The love affair began nearly 10 years ago, when I first traveled to Costa Rica on an exchange program. His name was Alejandro, and he was the first boy to ever ask for my hand on the dance floor. He was golden tan with dark blue eyes, and long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. If there were a white stallion somewhere near by, it would have seemed perfectly normal for him to

Remember how yesterday I tortured you with a story about 21-year old me + a boy + Christmas, and then turned it into a marketing lesson? Well, with this Christmas drawing near, and no over-sized, bear-like, tattooed boyfriends to buy thoughtful gifts for, I already feel myself tensing up about the whole thing. Not because I’m single, but because holidays are always a weird time for me. Typically, I give myself the gift of travel, so that way it never

When my mom died, I was 21 years old. By Christmas time of that year, I had met a boy. Not just any boy, but a boy whose mom had also died. So, like, we had stuff in common. Except he had a tattoo with her name. Talk about making me feel like an asshole. I mean–I certainly didn’t have a tattoo. Fuck, I barely knew where her ashes were in the midst of my year-long shock and haze. I

Allow me to introduce you to Jose. Jose is my friend and Costa Rican empanada man who wakes up at 5am each morning, and then proceeds to make homemade empanadas with his wife, before loading them into coolers, and then spending the day from dusk ’til dawn hiking the beach and neighboring towns, selling his beef, chicken and cheese heaven (complete with homemade spicy sauce that will trump Frank’s, and you KNOW I don’t ever, ever diss Frank’s). I met