Tag: Travel

Searching for Meaning & Purpose in Your Life? The Answer Might Be Hiding in Plain Sight

We hear it all the time: FIND MEANING IN YOUR LIFE, SHITHEAD. (I’m a huge fan of elegance.) It’s become the advice du jour. The magical solution to our woes. The on-call prescription for disappointment with life. In a sense, the search for meaning has become a religion of its own. We worship its ideals and bow at its implications. We’re kept awake at night, hoping to form a relationship with meaning. We want to feel its presence so deeply in

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The Fear of Being Uninteresting (And a Crappy Plot Twist): Is Originality Actually Preventing You From Being Happy?

This question.Is going.To blow.Your cerebral cavity. Are you making decisions in order to be special . . . or happy? Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait! Look at me! I see you looking away. That question is a B-E-A-S-T. But, answer it, you slippy little nipple, you. WOULD YA RATHER BE SPECIAL, OR HAPPY? Bear with me here: I have biiiiiiiiiiig thoughts on this. Including the following statements you may or may not wish to read with a whisky: Many of

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How to Prove Yourself to Non-Believers (& Other Dollar Store Peanut Trolls)

Can we talk about friends for a minute? <Cue group groan.> Why is that? When did friendship become A VERY HARD THING? I’m not talking about your ride-or-dies—you know who they are—I’m talking about the very real problem of: (a) Being an adult;(b) And making friends;(c) Who kind of suck;(d) And aren’t supportive. How did we get stuck with these hambonis? Case in point: a woman emailed me the other day about “proving yourself to non-believers.” And I thought: who

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“I Want More Adventure & Whimsy In My Life”—And the Worst Advice I Ever Read On Getting It

There’s terrible advice, and then there’s the type of advice that makes you want to fake your death and ride bareback on a donkey through Cleveland. Until today, I thought that the Cosmo advice to “apply a little Ben Gay to his privates for an unexpected treat” was that kind of advice. (Do not try that at home, or in any grocery store parking lots, ever.) Turns out, though, there is at least ONE ARTICLE doling out even more questionable

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The Courage to Ask: “What Do I Really Want?”

Oh, look! I made it to 2022 without committing suicide. That is a pretty terrible thing to say, but if you know me, then you also know I am a pretty terrible person—at least, when it comes to: (a) Dealing with most people; (b) Pot roasts; and (c) Matching my underwear to my bra. (Though bonus points for really wanting to be that person. Do you know how many times I’ve bought matching sets, only to completely and totally rebel

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Listen: Do What You Crave Without the Guilt. Travel to Italy. Enroll in That Workshop. Make Your Art Every Afternoon. And Hurl Yourself Into the Unknown—For This Is The Best ROI That Money Can Buy.

My almost-mother-in-law gets really fucking nervous when I travel—especially when I bomb off to South America for a month by myself to drink ALL THE WINE and celebrate ALL THE BOOK DEALS. But she doesn’t get worried in the typical way a mother might; not the way my own mother would have been worried, which would have sounded something like: “Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph, Ashley, you think they won’t kidnap you and rape you and leave you for dead?

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Bake a Cake and Shut Your Mouth: Or, How to Be Unhappy, Unfulfilled, and a Martyr to Your Own Life

I am a fickle bitch, and it’s one of my greatest qualities. In fact, I wish the word “fickle” were more attractive—it sounds too much like “pickle,” and one time in college I read a book called “Tickle His Pickle,” so I think it’s clear that (a) I am a true academic, and (b) Using the word “fickle” makes my mind wander. But if the word weren’t so ugly, I’d use it to describe myself all the time. Fickle (adj):

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You Can’t Be One Thing Forever, My Darling

Things I’ve learned to be wary of in life: Oklahoma. Normal people. People who say, “you like fish, you just haven’t tried it cooked THIS WAY!” (Oh yeah, Satan? Did you want to cut up my chicken for me, too?) Self-important narcissists who just like to hear themselves talk, and talk, and talk. (One time, in Dublin, I literally got up and took my drink into the bathroom—FOR AN HOUR.) People you can’t get off the phone (see number 4).

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Right Now, Someone Out There is Admiring You, Greatly.

They might not have said it. In fact, they probably kept it to themselves—“don’t want to seem like a creepy ass stalker.” But no matter who you are, you have changed things for someone. You have made them rethink their career. Rethink their stance. Rethink their makeup. (Because, hey, Urban Decay is a religion.) You have made them bolder. Brighter. Less afraid to use their voice. You have made them hopeful. Hungry. Reinvigorated. You have shown them what’s possible, simply

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You Don’t Exist to Please Dipshits

You know how when you meet someone, and they give you this snotty little look like, “you’re a fucking freak,” and then you start wondering, “AM I A FUCKING FREAK?! IS THAT WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?” And you’re so quick to second guess yourself instead of second guessing the constipated stuck up instead? I hate moments like those. When I was young, I thought that any person who looked at me sideways was looking at me sideways because something about

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