I do not eat meat. I am a Hindu. Go vegetables!!
And besides, I don’t care much about other animals but please treat cows with all the kindness. Cows are sacred. But then again I will totally support you eating beef. “How could you?” but yeah, I totally get it. Not really.

2. Love Iyanla Vanzant.

These real-life hairy gurus in India will charge a fortune. With this horrible economy who has the time and money. Iyanla is my Guru. She is my she-ro. She talks the talk. She can heal and she rules. That bitch is fierce.

3. Have a Grindr account.

“Do you use a Grindr?” I asked one of my gay friends. “No, mama uses a hand mill to make curry powder, besides grinders are very high price with our economy you know”, he replied.

No one uses Grindr here anyways. I still have one because it’s popular in America. Snap!

4. Aerobics over yoga.

I would rather jump around and sweat my body to a Lady Gaga song.

Yoga is so overrated. Who wants to listen to a half naked fur ball taking about how to clear you skin with yoga doing breathing exercises? Start with shaving your facial hair. Maybe you can see some skin then.

5. Use hair removers.

Lots and lots of hair removals. Bushy eye brows are so not westernized. So are arm pit hair, hand hair, feet hair, toe hair, and so on. Thank God for hair removals!

6. Pout.

They will pout in every one of their pictures. Their Facebook profile, their library card, their spoken English tuition cards and their Call centers employee card.

7. Follow American politics

“Yes we can!” TEAM Barak Obama. We won. Hurray. Mitt Romney can go suck it. Sorry about it, republi-can’t! Equal rights. Gay marriage forever!

Meanwhile I have no idea what is happening in India. Can I go to jail for being gay?

8. Coffee over tea.

Tea is the national drink of India but coffee is better any day, even if I do not like them both. In fact I love milk. Did I hear a new Starbucks is opening around? OMG yay!

9. Marry anyone for a green card.

For a green card? Absolutely anything for the American dream. Anyone?

10. Watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.

The most exciting reality show ever created. Miss Sharon Needles for world president! Can I get an “amen!” up in here?

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image – RuPaul’s Drag Race

2. Big Momma’s House IV: Big Momma’s House Into Darkness

3. Cowboys & Aliens & Postpartum Depression

4. A Choose Your Own Adventure film where all of the endings were written by M. Night Shyamalan.

5. Don’t Wake Daddy: The Movie

6. A three hour opus devoted to Ken Jeong’s penis.

7. A documentary about photosynthesis called A Convenient Truth.

8. A Hangover Part III where the guys wake up from a blacked-out night of debauchery to discover that they spent the night making responsible, prudent decisions like filing their tax returns and backing up their hard drives.

9. Is It Herpes? Yes, It’s Herpes

10. The Hangover Part III: Vatican City

11. Rerelease the first two films after using extensive CGI to edit out Justin Bartha, the guy that plays Doug; replace him with something more charismatic, like Carson Daly or a clothes hanger.

12. The Hangover With Mr. Cooper

13. Wilmer Valderrama Presents Yo Momma: The Movie

14. A third Hangover film where all of the dialogue is taken from reviews of The Hangover Part II, leading to snappy exchanges like:

Alan: “Somebody must have roofied me. I left The Hangover Part II feeling dazed and abused, wondering how bad things happened to such a good comedy.” (Rolling Stone)
Stu: “The movie’s an unclean thing and a mostly unfunny one.” (The Boston Globe)
Phil: “If you want to avoid plot spoilers for The Hangover Part II, don’t watch The Hangover.” (Film.com)

15. Regis Philbin Gets a Colonoscopy

16. America’s Saddest Home Videos

17. Two hours of Zach Galifianakis reading Popsicle stick jokes.

18. Ernest Gets Bukkake’d On

19. Any of the films that Troy McClure claims we might remember him from (I’d be particularly excited for Christmas Ape Goes To Summer Camp, The President’s Neck is Missing, Alice’s Adventure Through The Windshield Glass, or Get Confident, Stupid!).

20. Mr. Magorium’s Black Tar Heroin Emporium

21. Test out that thing where you give typewriters to a bunch of monkeys and see if they can eventually produce the works of Shakespeare.

22. Millard Fillmore: Zombie Trapper

23. The Hobbit: Are You F—king Kidding Me? You’ve Been Holding The Map Upside Down This ENTIRE TIME?!?

24. Rumpelstiltskin: Armed & Dangerous

25. We Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident, That All Men Are Created Equal, That They Are Endowed By Their Creator With Certain Unalienable Rights, That Among These Are Life, Liberty, The Pursuit Of Happiness, And The Right To Die Hard

26. Footloose II: The Stanky Legg

27. The Intoxicating Moonshine of the Homeless Bum

28. How Clay Aiken Got His Groove Back

29. Just rerelease the first Hangover, call it The Hangover Part III, and see if anyone notices.

30. Create a movie franchise where all of the films aren’t made using a single Mad Libs template. Wait, that’s actually a good idea…

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image – The Hangover III

Age Five

You can’t construct this sort of memory without the assistance of your mother’s persuasive confidence. Everything looks hazy and unfocused when viewed through the fog of lost time, those early, early years that your mother has gleefully documented via VHS tapes and piles of crumbling photo albums.

Apparently, you had found a “boyfriend” in your kindergarten class. How this came about, it’s a mystery. His name escapes you and fortunately, your father and mother don’t remember. But the pictures show a small, pale twig of a boy in a dark, thick sweater, his brown hair snipped into a shaggy bowl cut. You are holding hands with the unknown classmate and he is obliviously smiling with little Chiclets of teeth and you’re wearing a navy blue dress, white tights, and your mother’s gleaming white pearls. Even at a young age, long before you had discovered your father’s Playboys in the garage or ventured down the rabbit hole of 90’s AOL chat rooms, you were mixed up and gullible about love, chasing the illusive, searching for someone to not only compliment you, but complete you.

Maybe this assessment is an overreaction, a consequence of hindsight and cynicism. But you have the sneaking suspicion that this was not an accident or some monolithic rite of passage. You read too many books and watch too many movies and feel too connected to art and so you like to think that the photographs are permanent evidence, the first page in a book that defies one genre.

Age Eleven

Your mother lets you watch a movie called Pretty Woman. This is one of her favorite movies. You watch it in your parent’s bedroom, curled up beneath the blankets. Your mother doesn’t mention anything about the true nature of what Vivienne (played by Julia Roberts) does for a living. She is simply “a woman who worked in a bar” and somehow by the complicated magic of serendipity, Vivienne, a diamond in the rough, meets Edward, a dashing yet emotionally unavailable millionaire, and they eventually fall hopelessly in love and he gives her a classy makeover and some snooty blond saleswoman is mean to her in a gaudy boutique on Rodeo Drive.

Your mother likes to craft a teenage past that omits the poverty of the Philippines and the crime and the instances of dictatorship. Instead she likes to talk about all her suitors, the ex-boyfriends and the ex-admirers and the ex-soul mates. She was the kind of girl who snuck out of her bedroom window to meet some boy after the sun went down. Your mother was only twenty-one when she met and married your father. She spoke English and heavily identified with American culture (school dances and lazy summers featured a soundtrack provided by Madonna and Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson), but she had never been out of the country. She had told you that she may not have married your father, that she had been entertaining a proposal from a handsome British medical student who was perpetually broke but movie-star handsome with clear blue eyes.

What made you pick Dad? you wondered. You couldn’t help but think that there was a note of wistful regret in your mother’s voice; each time she told this story, she could still picture the British student with impeccable detail.

Because he didn’t have it together. And your father did. And I loved him.

You instantly notice that love is listed as the second reason, having taken a backseat to stability. Was that the true nature to love, the key to success?

After all, would Vivienne have fallen so in love with Edward if he were absolutely broke?

Age Fifteen

You’re not sure what love feels like, but this may be it.

A new student is transferred into your homeroom and your English class. He instantly becomes the class clown, a role that he laps up with equal parts glee and deep-rooted thirst. You wonder how you can be attracted to someone so outgoing, someone so able to thrive on the quick flash of fifteen minute high school fame, someone not afraid to play the fool if it means winning attention. But as much as your personalities are opposite, you cannot help but be drawn to his aura, this carefully cultivated image. You like his smile and his laugh and the way he doesn’t judge your occasional bursts of social awkwardness. He liked your writing and he liked being around you and that was all that mattered.

A few months later, after weeks and weeks of casual hand holding and one afternoon of sneaking him into your bedroom like some paranoid Cold War spy, he decides to date a different girl because you, in his very own words, “act too much like a white person.”

Age Eighteen

You’re in the club and you made sure to wear red lipstick because somehow you’ve been conditioned to believe that a woman instantly looks more appealing with a slab of red lipstick. The unspoken uniform of the club’s patrons seems to be body-conscious and monochromatic. You try to dance without thinking of how lame you probably look; your confidence and self-worth instantly rocket up when an older man makes a beeline for you. It’s all a game (to you) and thus when you and your gaggle of friends are invited to go back with this frosted-tip, frat boy looking stranger’s hotel room, you don’t hesitate to accept. Wasn’t this the validation you were desperately craving? The stranger is sharing a room with his friend, who works with him. They offer you all a joint. Eventually, you make out with the stranger in his hotel bathroom, the door shut, his hands slowly slinking down your shoulders, down your hips, down the small of your back. He’s not a very good kisser but it’s nice to be kissed by someone, anyone really, even a telephone pole technician with pleather pants, because you’ve never been on a date and all of the boys at your high school thought you were downright ugly.

Age Twenty-One

You thought you had found someone who liked you for you, fumbling social anxiety, allegiance to nerdom and all. He had big, grey eyes, a chiseled chin and a boyish smirk. On your first date, he hadn’t kissed you goodnight and you had wondered if you had sent the wrong signals. On your second date, you went back to his apartment, expecting some sort of haven for a bookworm turned high school English teacher, but his room looked more like a boys’ locker room, the carpet littered with crumpled clothes, the bed spread stained, the desk cluttered with trash. He had told you that he preferred to date black girls over white girls because they were exotic and better in bed. He waited until after you finished hooking up to let you know that he wasn’t interested in anything serious, and in fact, he thought he may be addicted to sex and he was “like a heroin addict.”

You were too scared to leave his apartment in the middle of the night because you’d forgotten how to get back to the subway stop and you didn’t want him to walk you there. You were disgusted with him and disgusted with yourself. You wait until the pale light of a yellow sun hits the New York skyline and then quietly slip on your clothes, gather your purse and your shoes, and then hightail it out of the apartment.

A week later, you feel so lonely and helpless and ugly that you almost give in to meeting him again. But you have enough self-control to eventually decline his invitation to dinner. You realize that something has died in your heart, something you had been holding on to since you were fifteen, something that prevented a head-first dive into the quicksand of the martyrdom of a hopeless romantic.

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You don’t get to close the discussion before my opinion gets heard. You can’t be both someone who values me and someone who refuses to hear my thoughts on an issue I am passionate about because I might outsmart you. Women see this all the time: a guy makes a casually offensive remark and acts wounded when we call him out. “Whoa, calm down! Can’t you take a joke?” It’s dismissive. It’s a cheap shot. You can’t call in backup, so you have to question my ability to have a rational discussion. And if you are so worried about constitutionality, maybe go back and read the part about inalienable rights. I don’t think it contained a “unless a huge group of people gang up to take them away” caveat.

2. When you brought up your ex girlfriend on our second date.

You ex-girlfriend sounds like a fucking bore, by the way. She listens to Dr. Laura and doesn’t understand why anyone likes Harry Potter. I can’t fathom the active self-loathing it would take to boast either of these qualities. This should have raised one of two red flags for me: either you are hung up on this woman so you will probably bore me just as much as she would, or you must be so insecure that she jumped to the forefront of your mind the minute she moved on from you. By dating you, I was placing myself in the crossfire of an unfinished shit-slinging contest. Plus, between this ex and every woman in your family – an onslaught of one kitchen fixture after another – I felt like I was deconstructing the Feminine Mystique every time I considered what a future with you would be like.

3. When you told me “I hope I never have a daughter.”

One of my girlfriends is convinced that when a guy say this, what he really means is that he sees women as sexual objects; given how he views a woman’s role in society, he cannot conceive of a world where he is responsible for loving, guiding, and protecting one. You are so comfortable being complicit in female oppression that you don’t think a female life is worth the trouble it takes to challenge gender norms. I felt so dehumanized when you said this, I wondered if having extended contact with me was also too burdensome for your privileged brain. I finally came back with “I guess you and I can never have kids, because I’m only having girls.” I love being female. I love women. You cannot shame me for my identity.

4. When I mentioned my idea of applying for a competitive writing fellowship in addition to graduate programs, and you told me I shouldn’t.

It was a shot, even if I was fumbling in the dark — a shot at something I’ve wanted since toddlerhood when I stared at the symbols in those heavy books my parents read and knew I had at least this much to say. I don’t know why you hated this idea. Perhaps because the fellowship was out of state, or possibly because you thought it was a ridiculous goal. Really, I should’ve known I was ill-advised to sleep with you after you blew off my offer to let you read an essay I’d gotten published. How little you must have regarded my voice to choose to preserve the effort it takes to glance over a few pages.

5. When I landed a teaching assistant gig and you said it was a waste of time if I wasn’t getting paid.

You praised this accomplishment until you realized that it actually required some commitment of me — time when I should have been at your beck and call. It never registered with you that I was working toward a career — all you knew is that I didn’t make enough money to lay down a grand for some dream vacation or to order sushi twice a week. Last I heard, you’re still burrowed under the same desk your mom helped you land when you were two years younger than I am now.

6. When I asked you what kind of tattoo you would get if you ever got one and you replied “I don’t know — some kind of really bad ass design.”

I get that ink is not for everyone. But you know what is? Having an identity. Knowing what you’re passionate about, what drives you. You should know in the most general sense what you’d want people to see if they could read your skin. If what you want people to read is what a fucking man you are, then you don’t have the balls to stay with me.

7. When I told you about the time I was sexually assaulted in a Whole Foods parking lot and you said it must’ve happened because I looked so sexy.

You interjected this gem as I tried to convey how terrified and powerless I felt. How I approached the counter in tears and told a cashier what happened. How I dialed 911 but my fingers were shaking too disruptively to press “Send.” How I circled the plaza in my car, trying to track down this man because I’d forgotten to pay attention to the color of his hair. How I replayed the incident over in my mind, furious that I didn’t knee him in the groin. You somehow managed to turn my story of this assault into some kind of foreplay. At the time, I did not have the language to express what a misogynistic fuck you were, so I laughed.

Laughed.

It wasn’t until after we broke up — after you started ignoring me unless you were inside me and I confronted you about it, and you spewed a slew of cliches about not wanting a traditional relationship — that I sought to understand what I’d been through with you during the last year. Our time together was less about me trying to be good enough for you and more about you undermining my worth so I’d never stand up to you. It was more about your need for someone to validate your interests, make you feel desirable, and help do the work necessary to create the life you wanted without something as pesky as individuality getting in the way.

Someone recently told me you’d become engaged. I don’t have to meet your fiancee to know that she fills your spaces with no shifting or expanding required of you. I haven’t reached the final stage of metamorphosis but when I look to the woman I was then I see that I’ve outgrown both of you – and that forever proving myself forced me to crystallize who it was I wanted to become. Now I teach other people how to do things that I was too scared shitless to try back then. There is no part of my body I’m afraid to tattoo, no job I think I’ll never qualify for, no amount of failure that I believe strips away my worth as a human — not even my failure to become your obedient wife. That’s why when you asked me to get back together a week later, I rejected you after a brief deliberation. Yes, I should’ve realized a lot sooner that we were wrong together, but at least I worked it out faster than you.

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The Lax Pics

Apparently every single guy on Tinder plays Lax. That’s cool, I’m definitely into athleticism, but if every single one of your five pictures is you, in a full face mask, cradling a lax stick, I’m swiping left. If you don’t have the confidence to put up a picture just of you, your face, I’m not interested. No woman wants to have anything to do with a guy who is perpetually stuck behind the fact that he’s only good for one thing: laxin’.

The Pics of You With Beautiful Girls On Each Arm

What the fuck are you doing on this app in the first place? If you’re rocking two beauties, both probably better looking than the girl who’s checking you out on Tinder, you are a waste of a swipe, left OR right. Grow some balls and hook up with the casual models you felt the need to put in your dating app pic. Throwing it in our faces that you’ve hung out with girls way hotter than us is rude, and makes us think you’ve got nothing better to do than brag about the girls you KNOW, but don’t ever get with, to complete strangers who are actually trying to find someone.

The Pic Of You With Your Ex

Okay, REALLY? A picture of you tenderly kissing your pretty ex-girlfriend on the forehead? OR, more than one picture of you guys together? You are sending out ALL the wrong signals buddy, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m swiping LIKED for someone who’s publicly showing how clingy they are to a past relationship.

Your Tagline Info

Maybe you guys don’t give girls enough credit, and think we’re not checking out the info you’ve provided past your pictures, but we DO. Therefore, it doesn’t really matter if you’re a total knockout in 4 out of 5 pictures (the one picture where you’re funneling doesn’t cut it and is pretty fucking lame anyway), cause I’m reading your tagline to find out something about you. If you’re tagline says “slaying sluts and baggin hoes”, you’re disgusting and need to mature about 20 more years before any woman is going to be interested in you.

The Five Mirror Pics

If you have chosen to provide ONLY mirror shots of yourself, you’re getting an automatic NOPE. Women want to see you in social situations, outdoors doing manly activities, on a boat holding a fish, ANYTHING that indicates you’ve got a life. If you’re showing us five pictures of you, alone, taking a picture of yourself, we can only assume you have no friends and (probably) no job.

The 45 Year Old

I’m sorry, I don’t WANT to discriminate here, but I have to. Tinder is for 20-somethings. Please get a match.com account, because there’s honestly not a chance in hell I’m swiping LIKE for a forty-something year old in a sea of 25 year old gorgeous, toned men.

So there you have it. Women are shallow too, and truth be told, probably more picky than you guys. When Tinder offers guy after guy after guy, it’s hard not to be particular. In a sea of lax bros, chauvinists, “slut slayers”, and men too old for smart phones, there are few handsome, successful looking guys, but they ARE there. Those are the ones we’re swiping LIKE to fellas, so get on board.

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By nature, I am a rather mediated person. I can see and understand both sides of a given situation even if I resonate with one side more than the other. In this case, I understand that everyone has the right to have individual opinions and to believe things vehemently, even if they stand alone on those beliefs. But a principle of being a good human is that you cannot harm others on the basis of your individual opinion.

Life is all a matter of perspective, and really, lines are constantly blurred and we live in abyss of grey. But if there’s anything that’s not blurred nor grey, it’s love. It is our driving force, the topic of which so many people are compelled and perplexed and reach for and are destroyed by because of how powerful it is. It’s the most beautiful thing we have, and to be killed over it, descriminated for choosing to live your truth and be who you are? It’s the epitome if injustice. You are always entitled to your opinion. You are never entitled to hurt someone in the name of that opinion.

I’ve heard people say that even if people feel that they are homosexual, that they should choose the righteous way and not act on these Satanic compulsions. Satanic compulsions, you say? If that’s what you call loving someone, what do you call killing? The only choice is whether or not you will be who you are and love who you love. I suggest that the people who feel compelled to kill others start choosing love as well.  

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Today the topic is friendships and them coming to an end. Now, I have had friendships end in the past, haven’t we all? Mostly though they have ended due to time spent apart and two people naturally and mutually growing distant. Sometimes lives simply start to take different directions, before you know it, you can not remember the last time you spoke to someone over or met up in person to spend time together. Your friendship becomes a series of likes and comments over Facebook and even that over time comes to an end.

However, when a friend breaks up with you, it is different. There is no gradual progression and break down of the relationship. All you get is the slap in the face stop. It is something that up until last year I had never experienced.

Now that a few months have gone by I’ve had time to think about our friendship. Was it a good one? Yes. There are a lot of very fond memories I have of this person. It is important to me that I keep those memories, and to always look back on them with love. I never want to be angry and think negatively of the good times we had because at the time we were having them I was happy – we were both happy.

There are a series of pictures I have from the last time I hung out with this former friend, and a few of our other mutual friends. I was looking at the pictures and a part of me strongly wanted to go into Photoshop and remove her from every single one of them. The great thing about pictures though, is that they never change, even when the people in them do. I like that girl in the picture.

Do I fault her for our breakup? In some ways yes, but I understand where she is coming from. I am a passionate person both when I love something and when I hate it. When I disliked something my very opinionated “That thing sucks!” approach clashed with her more passive “It is not for me.” approach. Over the years she began to resent my outspoken views and ended the friendship.

For what it is worth I really am glad of the three solid years of friendship we had. In the words of Dr Seuss ‘Don’t cry because it is over. Smile because it happened’.

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Today, these young women want the freedom that we won, but they don’t want to acknowledge the risk. That’s the problem. The minute you go out with a man, the minute you go to a bar to have a drink, there is a risk. You have to accept the fact that part of the sizzle of sex comes from the danger of sex. You can be overpowered.

So it is woman’s personal responsibility to be aware of the dangers of the world. But these young feminists today are deluded. They come from a protected, white, middle-class world, and they expect everything to be safe. Notice it’s not black or Hispanic women who are making a fuss about this— they come from cultures that are fully sexual and they are fully realistic about sex. But these other women are sexually repressed girls, coming out of pampered homes, and when they arrive at these colleges and suddenly hit male lust, they go, “Oh, no!”

These girls say, “Well, I should be able to get drunk at a fraternity party and go upstairs to a guy’s room without anything happening.” And I say, “Oh, really? And when you drive your car to New York City, do you leave your keys on the hood?” My point is that if your car is stolen after you do something like that, yes, the police should pursue the thief and he should be punished. But at the same time, the police— and I— have the right to say to you, “You stupid idiot, what the hell were you thinking?”

I mean, wake up to reality. This is male sex. Guess what, it’s hot. Male sex is hot. There’s an attraction between the sexes that we’re not totally in control of. The idea that we can regulate it by passing campus grievance committee rules is madness.

The girl in the Kennedy rape case is an idiot. You go back to the Kennedy compound late at night and you’re surprised at what happens? She’s the one who should be charged— with ignorance. Because everyone knows that Kennedy is spelled S-E-X. Give me a break, this is not rape. And it’s going to erode the real outrage that we should feel about actual rape. This is just overprivileged people saying they want the world to be a bowl of cherries. Guess what? It’s not and it never will be.”

Her statements in the early nineties generated a lot of controversy. What do they invoke today? Is Camille an idiot? An iconoclast? Silly? Dangerous?  Has the debate evolved at all? Are we making progress? Is she right? Wrong? Is there even such a thing?

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1. Show up to the party with a wide selection of alcohol, the majority of which would suck. Netflix has arrived at your place for the fiesta, and it brought three gigantic cases of cheap, awful Natural Light, but only a small six-pack of delicious Heineken. Netflix brought five bottles of the bottom shelf clearance wine, and a single glass of the good stuff. Now, we can’t really complain because quantity wise, this is exceptional, but in regards to quality, we’d rather have a decent amount of delicious beer than a ton of bitter brews.

Why do we pay for Netflix? Not because of Thankskilling or the array of low budget paranormal flicks. Those give us options, but the classic and popular films and shows like Reservoir Dogs or Parks & Recreation or Lost are what we really want more of.

2. Make inaccurate assumptions. Have you ever seen the erroneous suggestions made by Netflix’s ‘Because You Watched’ feature? Well that’d translate to real life when Netflix would say things like, “Oh, you enjoyed the breadsticks at Olive Garden? Well you should try the crunch wrap supreme from Taco Bell.”

3. Leave you in awe by doing amazing things every so often. Netflix helped deliver NEW EPISODES OF Arrested Development to the world — imagine what the human version would do for you? That’s like if someone surprised you with a trip to Italy on a Wednesday or went through the trouble of manufacturing you brand new, exclusive flavors of Starburst.

4. Not invite all of its other really awesome friends to hang out. By this, I mean Friends. Netflix has lots of things, yet we’re still waiting for Rachel, Ross, Phoebe, Chandler, Monica & Joey to be a part of the festivities. Realistically it’s probably not in our productivity’s best interest to have access to 236 episodes of brilliance anyway, but that hasn’t tamed our wildest dreams.

5. Make you feel bad for your bad habits and unproductive routines. Every once in a while, and I mean a long while, Netflix will check in with you to make sure you’re still watching. Maybe it’s meant to be a thoughtful little “Hey, sweetie, just wanted to see how you’re doing,” but I take it as a condescending “Yo, have you seriously been on that couch for the past eight hours?” In real life, Netflix would ask you things like if you ate that ENTIRE box of 100-calorie cookie packs, and as you chomped down the last mouthful of ‘em, you’d shamefully nod your head and continue.

6. Be GREAT with kids. Much like Netflix’s ‘Just For Kids,’ — Netflix the human would have memorized jokes, games and kid friendly material that it would bust out whenever a child was around, preventing you from having to deal with awkward, 8-year-old to adult interaction, and keeping said kid thoroughly entertained for hours.

7. Get you addicted to drugs. Half of the TV shows I’m currently hooked on came from chaotic weekend binging with my bad influence, hoodlum homie Netflix, and that would certainly translate to the human version. Technically speaking, everything I know and love about crystal meth is a result of Netflix, which flaunted Breaking Bad in my face for months before I had no choice but to give it a try. Just one episode, I thought, but before I knew it I was re-watching my favorite scenes on YouTube and blowing off responsibilities for that crystal blue persuasion.

8. Understand all of your obscure pop culture references. Quote as much Chappelle’s Show as you’d like – if nobody else comprehended your remark, Netflix would save the day with a hearty laugh to stave off any awkward silences, or deliver a rebuttal line that makes you two seem like cool, inside joke having besties.

9. Hookup with you. In Netflix you would friend a friend with benefits – not the Timberlake-Kunis movie, although it does stream No Strings Attached, which is essentially the same thing. Anyway, after spending significant amounts of time together and seeing you in your least sexy attire, covered in food stains and comfortably sprawled out, it’d only be right that at some point you and Netflix get to second base, minimum.

10. Hookup with all of your friends. If you possess a Netflix account, chances are there are friends who’ve requested access. The real life version of Netflix would draw interest from your clique as well, and possibly make rounds until several of your amigos & amigas were involved with it. Perhaps you’d even get a little jealous or sick of seeing Netflix and so-and-so canoodling, so you’d tell them to find their own special buddy (AKA spend their own $8 a month), because you changed your mind and want some exclusivity.

11. Tell your friends everything you say, even the embarrassing stuff. On numerous occasions, that godforsaken ‘Recently Watched’ feature has exposed the fact that I have the television and film watching habits of the average 15-year-old girl, and the human version would be no different. Netflix would be the friend who you’re always hesitant to share stuff with, because you know good and well that there’s a high chance your deep, dark secrets will come to light in slightly degrading fashion, courtesy of Netflix’s loose lips.

12. Loudly smack while eating. I don’t know, Netflix just freezes, gets blurry and takes forever to load sometimes if the connection isn’t strong, so smacking with a mouth full of food is like the human equivalent of those annoyances. 

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I love the smell of the subway.

The way it makes me feel disgusting and itchy at the measly hour of 9 am after my loyal alarm clock has woken me up for some quality time with my loofah. How it brings those dolled up, high-heelers, who are painted with pounds of colorful over-the-counter cosmetics, back down to reality. Down here, even the most expensive bottle of toilet water, Chanel # 5, can’t make you any cleaner, any more well off than the rest of us. Because come 9:15 am, you will exit this rat infested, urine stained, trash collecting hole smelling like it, but at least that’s what all of us morning-miserable straphangers have in common. We all smell.

I’m fascinated by tourists.

A walk home from work is a walk through the parade of Nations during the Olympics. The baby steps they take forward and back, trying to figure out where the Empire State Building is, Times Square, Central Park. To them, a crack in the sidewalk warrants a photo and a few spare coins is enough to make a difference in some persuasive beggar’s life. The ones who travel here are the ones who see the things we see daily, differently simply because they look up, anxious for the history, the stories, the textures, and the nonsensical structure that holds this city together. While we who live here constantly look down.

I appreciate overpriced things.

Because they finally blister into our head that they are just that, things. Nothing here goes on the clearance rank. As if one day my landlord will call and say, “Hey Jen, rent this month if 50% off!” You become picky, as you should be, and what you want is only determined after you can afford what you need. A roof over my head costs me 3/4 of my monthly paycheck, therefore what I am allowed to want the rest of the month will be worthwhile as much as it will be appreciated. The way saving up enough money for a glow in the dark yo-yo was in the 3rd grade.

It’s nice to not always say sorry.

For your fast paced, always in a rush mistakes. Bumping into strangers, grinding your size 10 sneakers on top of their bony feet, knocking over their warm vanilla late with your elbows. When you become part of the lint that clings on to this city, you no longer have the time, the energy, the focus to say “sorry”. Instead, you learn to walk a little faster and hold on tighter to the things that really matter to you, letting the disposable go at the sudden push of another.

The feeling of getting lost in a crowd.

The oddity of how synchronized the masses of people are here. Most of us spend too much time standing out. At work, in our group of friends. Here, you can finally be yourself. Recite Shakespeare on the top of your lungs on a packed F train, walk around in a bedazzled leotard and neon tutu, dance the running man in the middle of Washington Square Park and all you’ll earn is less than .0001 seconds of attention, the honking of a needy cab driver.

When you start to see the flaws, the deep-rooted pores as merely just that, dents of the past in the halves of the whole. It’s then that you can be certain, you are in love—really in love—with that person, with that place, with that thing. 

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Maybe I’ve just been missing my family a lot lately but I’ve had Africa, the Motherland on my mind a lot lately too. See Africa is a very big place – it’s a continent as I so often like to remind people. But there’s something that ties African identity together, something that makes me very proud to be African. It’s something that transcends language and speech; it just is. Anyway, because I’m an emotional-cutter, here’s a post about just some of the reasons I love and miss my Motherland.

1.The warmth of the people

I know Americans get tired of hearing this but a lot of Americans really are cold compared to people from African cultures, and other cultures as well. Africans are warm people – we go out of our way to make others feel welcome; it’s a part of who we are. I miss being around that.

2.The weather

Notwithstanding that when I went to Nigeria during Christmas one time, I fainted because it was so hot, I really do enjoy being warm. Now this is my fault for choosing to live in Chicago so I guess I can’t really say it’s only a Motherland thing. But there is still something about that scorching African heat. Too bad I can’t stand it for too long anymore.

3.The food

Oh how I miss African food. Sorry America the food here is crap. The way food here is produced just leaves much to be desired. And sure I still cook once in a while but not as much as I should and African spices are ridiculously expensive here. I miss the spiciness and the taste and the love in which food is prepared.

4.Celebrations

African parties are basically a weekend affair. First of all they won’t start on time. Ever. Second of all, they won’t end on time. Ever. But whether it’s a wedding or a christening or a promotion or a party just because you could, Africans know how to put together a celebration.

5.The sense of humor

I’ve tried to explain the African sense of humor before to non-Africans. It doesn’t work. Our sense of humor resolves around making fun of ourselves and each other and talking about how our parents “disciplined” us or the way African guys approach women. I don’t know, you either get it or you don’t.

6.The straightforwardness of African guys

I never thought I would ever say this but I do miss how straightforward a lot of African guys are. There is no silly playing games or staring at you without doing anything or claiming to be intimidated. As a girl with three older brothers, this is how African guys are raised to approach women: You like a girl, you go and tell her, and there’s no wasting time. (You can see why I legitimately just don’t understand most American guys in this context.)

7.The happiness of the people

For a place where people have a lot to be grateful for, the truth is I find that many people in this country are very unhappy. It’s exhausting to be around sometimes. Most African countries do not have the comforts of America in a lot of ways but people are contagiously happy despite this. I like living here, I do, and I am very grateful that I am here but sometimes I miss how happy people are in the Motherland – it’s the kind of happiness that comforts don’t bring. It’s authentic happiness from gratitude and community and neighborly love. And I guess no matter where I choose to be, I’m grateful that I learned this from my Motherland and will take it everywhere I go.

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A post published recently at Thought Catalog, written by an anonymous author, recounted a situation where a friend was drinking with another person and was “taken advantage of.” No consent was given. The incident did not escalate violently. And thus, the author’s friend doesn’t call it “rape.” After all, a person simply took advantage of the body belonging to someone who lacked the capacity to exercise their own agency:

Just because someone thinks they weren’t raped doesn’t meant they were not raped by definition, right? Does state law define rape or do your emotions?

I know that I will always be there when he wants to talk about it.

But do I tell him he was raped? According to state law, he was sexually assaulted. According to him, he was just too drunk to realize what was happening and say no. In my mind, that is rape. But in his mind, it’s just an unfortunate incident.

But there’s one problem here: that is rape.

Let’s be clear about this: rape is a violent act of power and control exerted over another person. In the USA alone, one in six women and one in 33 men are the victims of an attempted or completed rape. Furthermore, a Harvard study revealed that 72% of college students who were raped over the course of the study were intoxicated. If the 72% holds true across the entire population of rape victimization, alcohol is a factor in approximately 12.37 million survivors’ rapes. (Ironically, rape survivors are 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol.)

Sexual assault support websites like RAINN have advocated on behalf of inebriated rape victims for years. Intoxicated victims are often blamed for their own rapes, although feminists and survivor advocates have been fighting this stigma and working for years to convince the world-at-large that anyone who is “physically impaired (due to voluntary or involuntary alcohol or drug consumption)” can’t give consent, making clear that sex you’re unaware of, unable to stop, or too incapacitated to have to fend off is rape. Furthermore, RAINN provides a three question checklist to establish if a rape has occurred. The pertinent question is: “Do both people have the capacity to consent?” If there’s no consent, there’s no sex. If there’s no consent, it’s rape.

The Thought Catalog author asks “am I victimizing him or is society?” This is a difficult quandry – respecting your friend’s experience is obviously important, as is supporting them in any way possible after any sort of violation. But as a proponent of blaming who is at fault, the perpetrator victimized the author’s friend, and I feel that needs to be recognized no matter what words we’re using to describe what happened. Danny Brown calls his assault “the incident,” and throughout history we’ve been conditioned to think of unwanted sexual activity as “bad sex,” “awkward situations,” and – worst of all – something that is our own faults. That doesn’t change anything about what happened.

Rape is rape is rape, no matter what it’s called.

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The only problem I’ve had with Adderall was in 2009; I got really into Farmville during the LSATs and I started to farm while I waited for the productivity surge. 9 hours later I’d become a mega tycoon of agriculture and had drifted into a nap.

I still did ok on the LSATs.

I haven’t quite discerned if I am, in fact, deficit when it comes to my attention span. While I do have the concentration of a goldfish, I also have no other brain to serve as a comparison. It’s the year 2013, isn’t everyone kind of like a goldfish? When people go on tangents about how “A.D.D. is not a real thing”, I just shrug. Maybe it isn’t real. I have no idea. All I know is that I keep 2-3 bottles of addy squirreled away just in case someday someone decides A.D.D. really for real isn’t a real disorder and the well dries up.

I’ve gone to the same doctor for 8 years. I have to come in to see the doctor every 4 months. I’m not sure what the point is, but I follow the rules. The office is called “The Doctor’s Office”, basically it’s like I’m in a drug addled corner of Sesame Street. I would never, ever go to this physician for any legitimate medical concern, but she approves my prescriptions without asking 21 questions trying to figure out if I’m peddling the goods on the streets. They don’t make actual appointments there, it’s walk in status. It touts the organizational capacity of a very, very busy Planned Parenthood. By going in for a prescription you are going into the depths of the unknown.

The TV in the waiting room is set to NJ 12 news. I don’t believe in local news, and as far as local news goes, NJ 12 is the last stop. I learn that it’s been 199 days since Hurricane Sandy, and they play clips from Prince Harry’s visit to the Jersey Shore. Governor Christy gave him a fleece. What to get the man who has everything?

I read 31% of Samuel Beckett’s Godot, and they call me back. I’ve been chosen.

In the examination room I ask if I can sit on the chair next to the padded table with the paper. “No” “Why?” “It’s closer.” I question this because the chair looks pretty close, but whatever. I’M JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE.

She checks my blood pressure. I always ask what my numbers are, they don’t automatically tell you, so I always ask. It means nothing to me, but it seems fair that I know. They only check my blood pressure, nothing else. Not my eyes or ears or weight. Doctor don’t care. Just the pressure of her blood, please.

The nurse leaves and I wonder where my file is hiding. I don’t want to look at it. I mean I do, but I remember that episode of Seinfeld where Elaine reads her chart and gets physician black listed. I can’t take the risk. I’m not a hypochondriac, but paying for my own health insurance has given me a sense of entitlement to professional knowledge.

I once went to a dermatologist for the exclusive purpose of finding a cure for blushing. Shes a very good doctor, she was ranked in a magazine, and she had pretty good skin, which enhanced her credibility.

“How can I stop blushing?”

“You can’t.”

It was a 3 minute appointment.

She didn’t take my blood pressure. But she probably made $300 dollars or whatever doctors make, so obviously I don’t feel bad.

Back at the Doctor’s Office the time between the nurse leaving and the doctor coming is about the same amount of time as the waiting room. The whole appointment structure is extremely deceptive. Though, I prefer this waiting time because there aren’t all the other sick people and the TV that are on display in the waiting room. I lay down on the padded table and try to go to my zen place, which I’ve never been to before but I’m sure will be great when I get there.

I’m distracted by the “Take off your shoes and socks if you’re diabetic” poster on the door. What? Must Google. Très concerned. Note never to get diabetes. There is also a book on the counter on type two diabetes, the pages are made of cardboard, as though it was meant to be read as a bedtime story to small children. The photo in the diabetes book features someone eating an apple. I hope if I get diabetes it’s not because I ate too many apples. What a sincere bummer. Should have eaten more cheeseburgers, more cheesecakes, whole cheesecakes in fact! Probably wouldn’t have this disease eating away at my toes.

Enter the Doctor. She always asks why I’m here today, as though there’s a variation. I think of the movie Memento and how dangerous of a condition that would be for any medical professional.

I’m literally typing this sentence you are reading right now as she is talking. I would be a pretty good legal transcriber. Anyway, I get my prescription.

The lady at reception is wearing a scrunchie. She tells me $110 has been in collections. We argue and I discover that the problem was there’s, they also discover it but are in denial. My face gets red out of frustration. This can also be called argument blush and I’m sorry to say that there is no cure.

After my trip to The Doctor’s Office I go to The Coffee Store, a.k.a. Starbucks. I run into a my friend Stav who is with his friend who I have never met, and whose name I now forget. Rude. He introduces me, “This is my friend Jess, she’s a writer” I tip my Iced Macchiato and smile awkwardly because no one has ever followed my name with that identifier before and I’m processing the moment.

I consider that I’m probably the first person to be called a “writer” who borderline has no concept of where to place a comma. Comma placement is my own personal state of delusion. I had shared my grammatical woes with another friend on a different day who replied, “Does anyone really understand commas?” I reply that I think that they do.

After introductions at the Starbucks Stav and I talk about a camping trip to KY that we’re leaving for in 2 days and debate whether I can teach him to drive stick shift in time. He also says he just came from a day of hiking, and now has work to catch up on. I say I just came from a doctors visit, and I’m writing about it.

He laughs and asks, “Is that really something you could write an entire article about?”

I reply, “We’ll see, I guess.”

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What people seem to miss, is that selfies are actually great. No, scratch that, selfies are brilliant! One of my favourite pastimes at work is to (discreetly) scroll through my Instagram feed and see pictures of my friends feeling good about themselves.

Isn’t that why people post selfies? From new outfits, to haircuts, to experimental makeup techniques. From first thing in the morning to right before bed. Just for a moment someone is not worried about how their forehead is actually a fivehead, or how their nose is not “perfect.”

A few adjectives usually associated with selfies are vain, narcissistic, cheesy, and basically anything to do with the superficial. For only someone with an inflated sense of self would waste time taking their own picture.

Here is my issue with that type of mindset. I thought we were supposed to be confident in our own skin. Don’t we encourage each other to be ourselves, and love ourselves. Are we not supposed to celebrate and embrace our flaws, or at least run them through a filter that minimizes them.

That is what the selfie is! It marks a time when someone feels beautiful and self assured. When they are having fun and are not worried about the daily personal problems we all have to face. In a time when feelings of insecurity run high and people shy away, the selfie is an instant of boldness.

So do not allow anyone to take those moments from you. To try and shame you, and clip those wings of confidence. To make you feel as if your moment of awesome is not worth sharing and celebrating. Because it is, and phuket to anyone who says otherwise!

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1. Mr. I’ll-Never-Get-Over-You. It’s the person you always come back to, the one you ugly cry over after a glass of wine too many This is the person your friends all know to be wary of and you try to avoid passing on campus at all costs. Sometimes its a boyfriend from high school, or someone you learned to lean on while in your high-school-to-college transition. Regardless, two things remain true about this relationship: it’s messy and everybody has had it.

2. Mr. Would-Be-Right. Actually, this is more of a fantasy relationship we have in our heads and ladies you all know what I’m talking about. The guy you would be perfect for and everything about him is magical and mysterious and if he would only give you the time of day you’d probably have a ring by spring. If you manage to coerce him into dating you, congratulations, please give me a few pointers.

3. Mr. Right-Now. More or less the most viable option for your dating life. It’s something you know won’t last forever, but you still want to date him anyway. It’s the relationship you know has an expiration date post-grad. Whether or not you’re hoping that expiration date isn’t real, it’s Mr. Right-Now that’s the one you look back on and kick yourself over for wasting your college years when it clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

4. Mr. We’re-Really-More-Friends-Than-Anything-Else. You get along, you have a great time together, you enjoy each other’s company and your relationship may even be physical solidifying being in ”relationship” territory as opposed a the sad, sex-less “friendship.” But there’s something that’s missing with this guy, and it’s that compulsory oh-my-god-I-am-enamoured-by-you glue that keeps people coming back to one another. We call this the spark. Mr. We’re-Really-More-Friends-Than-Anything-Else does not ignite such fire.

5. Mr. Reach-And-Settle. This is the relationship where one of you is the reacher and the other is the settler. Regardless of which side you’re on, someone is settling, and that’s reason enough to shrug it off as just another flimsy college relationship.

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mikebaird

You’re not always going to look good. Some mornings, you’re going to wake up with a little snot hanging out of your nose and skin that’s more blotches than flesh. It’s going to be a mess. And even though you really want to impress the person you love — and to pretend that you are some permanently-sexy creature that is always at its best — you are going to have to see them. And you want someone who makes you feel loved and welcome even when you are at your least presentable, someone who can make you laugh through your sinus infection, someone who reminds you that you are at home. You want your best friend.

It’s the person you are always happy to look beyond, the person who seems as though they will always be there simply because they always have been. It’s easy to take your best friend for granted — it’s kind of in their job description. Their love is unconditional, and that’s a kind of compassion we’re not used to receiving. When someone offers their entire heart to us on a daily basis with no expectation of compensation, we’re inclined to push it aside. We have bigger and better things to chase after. But at the end of the day, theirs is the love we really need. Their touch is the one that we’re not used to seeing as sexy, simply because we see it as ordinary.

But nothing could be less ordinary than someone who cares about us when it’s least convenient. When you have the friend who is there for you on the night when nothing has gone right and you’re left shivering in the rain and no one is there to pick you up, at least part of you realizes how important it is to have them in your life. At least part of you (and maybe just the cold part) understands that this kind of dedication is rare. Even if it can get lost in the current of daily life, it is something that we might not even deserve, yet is offered to us on a regular basis just because we are who we are. It is real love.

We imagine that there is a whole lifetime ahead of us of mistakes and do-overs and opportunities, and maybe there is. But we allow it to blind us to the happiness that we have with our best friend. We mistake the flame of infatuation for the comfort of a real home in someone’s heart, something that we construct on an unglamorous, daily basis with the person we call our friend. And when you are really with someone who loves you entirely for who you are — and not how new or different or interestingly sexy you might be on any given day — you realize that relationships are all about the supposedly boring things that happen between the big moments. Love is all about just sitting in front of a fireplace, reading a book, drinking some tea. It’s about feeling your best when you’re in the company of someone who cares for you and makes you laugh un-self consciously

And that’s what we all deserve, if we’re willing to acknowledge it’s there.

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Naturally, before reaching this point you have passed preliminary evaluation with flying colors. Therefore you are respectful, witty, and let’s face it, attractive. So here we are, in a full on committed relationship, Facebook status’ updated to let everyone know we are no longer on the market.

I want you to think of this letter as a sort of, expectations cheat sheet. Featuring a hybrid of my quirks and your boyfriend obligations. So as not to overwhelm you, I’ll keep it short and sweet — like me!

Firstly I would like to address my habit of obsessing over things. It might be a book, or a TV show, but it is sufficient to say that at any given time my mind is consumed by the lives and goings-on of fictional characters. I will talk about them endlessly, and look for excuses to bring them up in every day conversations. All I ask is that you listen to my ramblings and nod at appropriate intervals, giving me the illusion that you are at least moderately interested in what I am saying. Listen, I know that you have heard me lament about those two characters on that show that need to just get together already! (I am looking at you The Mindy Project) And I have read and re-read you my favorite parts of ‘The Fault In Our Stars’ to the point you can regurgitate them in your sleep. Just allow me, these moments of fangirling. If it is any consolation in a few months I will be on to my next obsession, and you won’t have to hear about my current one again! Well, not until the movie version of the book comes out, and season two of the show premiers.

I’m not going to expect you to sing along with me when a love song duet plays on the radio, and don’t worry I am not one to give you a pet name let alone call you by it in public. As far as nauseating couple behavior goes, my only requirement falls on the weekend surrounding October 31st. That’s right dear boyfriend, Halloween. Answer me this, what exactly is the point of being in a relationship on Halloween if you do not get to fully immerse yourself into the festivities by having a couples costume? Besides, look at all the options available to us. From superheroes to cartoon characters, to historical figures, and even inanimate objects. Surely two intelligent people such as ourselves can agree on a costume that tells everyone around us without them asking that we are an item. That we go together like Cleopatra and Marc Anthony, Batman and Catwoman, eggs and bacon — you get the idea.

Finally, the only time that it is acceptable for you to lie to me, is when it comes to my hair. If I have done something disastrous to my tresses, be it cut or color, trust me I am well aware of the fact. My self-esteem will be at a low, and I will be feeling hideous and vulnerable. I have most likely already sent photographic evidence of my mistake to my sisters and friends, who have all confirmed, that yes, it really is, that bad. So when you see me, and I ask for your opinion, just lie. Don’t over compensate by showering me with compliments, I am not a moron, I know it’s awful. A simple “I think it’s cute!” will suffice. Even though I know you are lying through your teeth, the gesture will be appreciated.

Now those are not so bad are they? On a scale of one (do I even have a girlfriend?) to ten (my girlfriend is insane!) I believe these fall at around a four.(my girlfriend has realistic and achievable expectations.) If you think about it, you are actually lucky, how many other guys do you know get a reference guide into their relationship! This is why dating me, was a good idea.

Your girlfriend,

Sam.

PS: We’re getting a puppy.

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And I know you know, and you know that we’ve been here before.

I haven’t put it into words recently; I haven’t really acknowledged that it’s even true.

I guess, it’s because I haven’t wanted it to be this way. But this time I’m not scared of it anymore. I am not afraid that something will happen, or that people will judge me, or that people will see me, that you will see me and that you’ll know that after all this time.

It’s always been you.

But there’s a catch. I’m in love with you, but there’s a catch. There’s something about the way that I love you that isn’t. Ideal.

I don’t love us. I don’t love what we had. I don’t even miss it. I’m not still in love with our love.

Our interests don’t match, we have nothing in common, you don’t think I’m all that impressive. You don’t stoke my ego. You like things, I like feelings. I want the whole world, you’re fine without it. We don’t see eye to eye, we don’t even entertain our differences. You roll your eyes when I get going and I keep going even though I know you’re not listening but because I want you to give a fuck or something.

But, you’re not complicated and neither am I. And. I think that the illusion of this physical world pulled us and stretched us.

I scratch my head, and I scratch my neck and I roll back my shoulder and I adjust my shirt. Trying to put the pieces all together.

I love you for a lot of reasons but I love you the most because of how insecure you are, because you don’t see all the good stuff that’s inside of you. And that, for some reason, makes you more beautiful than anyone I’ve ever really known. And. In some perverse way, you not liking yourself made me want you more. You deserve that. And, no, not just because you’re you, but because, we all do.

It’s easy to ignore how much I love you when I don’t see you, when I don’t hear about how you’re doing, when I know how much the people in your life want me around. It’s easy to forget you when I don’t want you back. Necessarily.

But every once and a while, you creep, and I can almost tell, I can usually feel that it’s coming. A picture of you with her. A thought of you. A dream, sometimes. A answered text. An encounter in a crowded place.

A conversation that seems light, but a feeling that’s almost heavy. Not suffocating, but intense and emotional and I know I never tell you this but, it’s always scared me too. You’re usually uncomfortable. I’m usually pensive, trying to choose my words so fucking carefully. You’ll ask something serious then, and you’ll fix your eyes on me and I’ll look at you and I’ll lean in a little. And that’s when I’ll know. That it’s still there.

I’ll know just how real it still is.

I don’t know how to feel, now that there’s a good chance we’ll never see each other again. I don’t know if, your physical absence will cause it all to disappear or bury itself or just hang around. I have no way of knowing.

But I know now, that there are some things that we eventually grow weary of running away from. And. No one understands, and that’s fine. And I don’t want you back. And that’s fine too. But, you hold a place in my heart, and as a matter of fact, maybe it’s even more than that but I’m too tired to be afraid of it anymore.

I’m not sure what’s keeping me here, and I’m not asking you for an answer. I’m not asking you for anything, really.

You’re leaving, and I’m staying and maybe you’ll come back but I think that from now on, when you’re here I’ll probably be somewhere else and when you’re there I’ll be here.

If I’m going anywhere, I’ll probably go to far. Probably away from you, chances are.

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2. Go out of your way to be there for him. Stay up all night helping him study for an exam when you have your own that you need to study for the next day. Pick him up at 2 am when he’s drunk and need a ride home. Continue this until he loves you back.

3. Sleep with him while both of you are black out drunk and not remember a thing. Because that’s the only way either of you will initiate it. But it’s better than nothing, right?

4. Have him be the last person you think of before you fall asleep at night. Every night. Think about everything you guys talked about that day and every day since you met him. Dream about him. Wake up. Repeat.


5. Inadvertently ruin every relationship with everyone else because of him. Compare your new boyfriend to him. Take note that he doesn’t make you laugh as hard as your friend. Or that his eyes don’t do that same thing when he smiles. That thing where if you covered the rest of his face up you could still tell his eyes are smiling. Think about this as you fall asleep next to your new guy and feel like he’s invading your personal space and your thoughts as he spoons you.

6. Go out of your way to be nice to his new girlfriend when he introduces you to her. Buy her a drink. Tell her how much he’s told you about her (even though he still hasn’t brought her up and the only way you even knew she existed was because of social media). Never talk about her after you meet her that one time. Never talk about your boyfriend, either. Talking about your relationship status is weird for some reason. Until you’re both drunk and about to hook up and you convince each other that you’re single.

7. Google “Signs my guy friend likes me as more than a friend”. Brush off the fact that only 2 out of the 10 signs are true for you. Let those 20% odds be enough to keep you holding on.

8. Over-analyze everything he does. He texted you at 3 am when he was out with his friends? Must mean he’s thinking about you. He fixed his socks while talking about you? Wait a minute…I saw that on that list of “Signs my guy friend likes me as more than a friend”. Shit he loves me!

9. Watch a lot of TV shows/movies where two friends end up falling in love and living happily ever after. I’m looking at you, Jim and Pam Halpert.

10. Leave yourself with no way of getting over him. Plan out your schedules for next semester together so you have all of the same classes. You can’t get over him if you still see him every day. Better luck next semester!

11. Make up excuses for why he hasn’t asked you out yet. He doesn’t see you that way because you had a boyfriend when you first met. His psycho ex scared him off girls. If you lose 10 lbs he’ll realize what’s been right in front of him this whole time and he’ll hit himself for not seeing it sooner and you’ll ride off into the sunset on a big white horse.

11. Waste a lot of time waiting. Because you’ve already waited this long and giving up on it now would mean coming to terms with the fact that it may never happen. And that thought is downright terrifying.

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There is an expectation that we have of others, with regard to how they are and how they should be. To those who are familiar with me, I am often happy and laughing and friendly, albeit while also being deep-thinking and sometimes lost in my thoughts. But sometimes I’m angry, I am frustrated; I am filled with venomous passions. And I have had to learn to temper those passions, to seclude myself, in order to not speak or act out of anger because I don’t want to. But I also don’t want to put on a performance of being happy and laughing and friendly when deep inside, in the moment, I am not.

And if you stray away from this expectation of whom you are who you should be, people around you become uncomfortable. There is an inability to deal with the inconsistency of you being something other than what they are used to you being. You might even get the comment, “You’re not your usual self.” And maybe it’s within someone’s right to perceive you as not being consistent with whom you’ve presented yourself as being. But maybe more than that, it’s within your right to be something other than your expectations, even if it’s only for a moment. What is a usual self? Because when I’m angry and irritated, I feel like myself, it’s a part of who I am; it’s just a part that more often than not, I like to keep to myself.

I think that many parts of life are a performance. The well-known Shakespeare line in As You Like It, “All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players,” is something that doesn’t ring truer than when you try to deviate from the role that you’ve presented to others. But I can’t help but feel that these roles and parts that we assign ourselves keep us from being human and seeing others as human: Humans who are intertwined between their blessings and challenges, and their fortunes and trials. Humans who are happy but sad, exhilarated but exhausted, and grateful but just might want to scream and yell and be angry because in the moment, they are.

Being human means being complex, it means being consumed by a million and one thoughts at any given moment. It means trying to survive and thrive and create a self that you’re happy with. But that self is complicated, that self isn’t perfect and it never will be. And rather than expecting people to always live up to who we think they are, maybe we can accept that people are allowed to be complicated and to be inconsistent and to live, rather than to always perform. Maybe just maybe, we can allow each other to simply be human.

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laszlo

Now that I’ve turned 27, I’ve successfully gotten very deep into two stereotypical activities for 27 year old college-educated males: talking about The Wire and going farmer’s markets. Before you stop reading, let me say upfront that this is not going to be one of those posts that compares everything to The Wire (Marlo is Capitalism, bro…) and praises the joys of healthy eating (processed foods are for slobs, bro…). This is an informative post about life on the Farmer’s Market’s streets. That being said, eating a really choice salad with fresh organic arugula, verde, beefsteak, hydroponic tomatoes, and summer lettuce while watching David Simon’s biting-yet-brilliant statement on American society does sound pretty epic. But I’m getting sidetracked here, the real joy of the modern, urban Farmer’s Market, is that they operate just like the drug trade. So here are some rules for the Farmer’s Market, and as we know, “it’s all in the game.”

1. Know A Dealer

Currently residing in the fruit bowl in my kitchen, I have about seven dollars’ worth of avocados, snugly nestled in there with my 19-cent Trader Joes’ bananas. These ‘cados got there cause I know a guy. Said guy sounds a lot like Zohan (shout out to Adam Sandler’s underappreciated masterpiece) and makes appearances at Farmer’s Markets in the LA area. I’m not gonna give up his name because snitches get stitches, but let’s just say this dude moves the finest product at the best prices. He has successfully used the basic Haas avocado as a gateway drug to move me onto harder stuff like bacon avocados (cool it, hipster, they don’t taste like bacon), and some that are just called “fuerte.” I walk up to him, give him the scrilla, and he gives me a grab bag of product. If I’m lucky he even throws in a lemon — because I know the guy.

2. Know The Product

But that’s just the avocados, don’t even get me started on the strawberries. This is California. Second only to weed, Californians are experts at describing their tomatoes in hyperbolic terms. Two weeks ago I got a basket of Chilean, seaside-enhanced, pesticide-free, organic, semi-sweet minis. I was underwhelmed. This week, however, I wanted to cop volume so I went for an Orange County Avalon strain and was highly satisfied. That said, your favorite berry could be wiped out by a wildfire. You gotta have a backup plan so, in case those Avalons go dry, you can switch over to the Boleros.

3. Have a Plan

You don’t walk into the jungle without supplies and expect to survive. In this Farmer’s Market game, we’re pawns and the fruit pushers are the Dons. Before you approach you gotta know what you’re looking for and where to find it. I’ve seen many a lost soul get sucked in by the sweet smells of the Kettlecorn tent. I’ve seen old men get lost in the glasses and hair bun of the flirty French babe at the crepe stand. Know your entrance. Always know your exit. Also be aware of the ambush spots (aka the Hare Krishnas) and the sinkholes (citrus stands with toothpick samples will do you in for hours). I shouldn’t have to tell you to roll with only the cash you need and nothing more. If you go in there with a fat wad of green and dreams of paleo smoothies, you’re going to be walking out with gluten-free sweet potato cobblers by the dozen. No bueno.

4. Be on The Lookout For The COP

I know what you’re thinking. What does the current police state have to do with my quest for butternut squash? Everything, shitbird. There is always one COP, one singular officer of the law, that hates the Farmer’s Market. The friendly, aromatic street gathering is full of college stoner hippies, unlicensed food venders, and immigrants. Three things this guy hates. Just by associating with Patience (your tomato girl), you’re making yourself a target. Don’t be surprised if he puts you in their database of 27 year old malcontents. And, once you buy that Phish/DMB ticket for the summer show, you’ll move from database to watchlist. Be aware of your surroundings and constantly watch your back. Just because his post at the butter cake stand (closest thing to donuts, duh) is at the entrance, it doesn’t mean he won’t follow you in.

5. Stay Humble

Sure, you have a one on one relationship with each dealer, that’s great, but don’t flaunt it. This is a Farmer’s Market. If people wanted a show off, they’d go to the Whole Foods on Wilshire. Put your purchases in the thin, plastic CVS bags they give you, not your freed-trade/plastic-free bag you bought at Living Green. No one wants to know you’re rich. This is place for common folk, leave your entitlement at Trader Joe’s.

As you can tell, I take this Farmer’s Market game very seriously. Anyone who doesn’t is probably still housing milkshakes and telling you Sons of Anarchy is the best show ever. I didn’t make these rules, years and years and seasons of seasons of product and produce did. Me, I’m just like anybody else in this produce game… trying to become the king.

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My entire Daily Practice revolves around this blog. I stay healthy so I have the energy and drive to wake up early and work on the blog. I started the blog shortly after I got married and began eliminating various negative relationships in my life. That elimination worked magic in my productivity. The blog itself is usually the way I come up with the ideas to exercise my idea muscle. I also read every day to either help with the ideas or to get inspiration from different writers I enjoy. And for me, this blog is about how to combine the spiritual with the secular, the soul with success. Every aspect of the daily practice I have outlined comes full force in how I do this blog.

And most of the time, I love doing it. I feel creative. I’ve made lots of friends through this blog. It’s been such a pleasure.

But I know myself. Two years is sort of my time limit on anything. I’m not the sort of person who spends 50 years doing something (more on Mick Jagger in a future post). I was at HBO for 2 years before I started my first company, Reset. Two years after that, I sold the company. Stockpickr from beginning to end was about two years. I traded for hedge funds about two years. I only stayed in graduate school about two years before I was so burnt out they threw me out.

Does this mean I should stop doing the blog? No, of course not. But the feelings of burnout are natural. They are natural for me. They are natural for you. It’s the body’s way of saying, “Whoops! Time is up. You need to make a change.” Something has to happen. If you stay doing what you are doing, you will regress. If I stick with this exact routine, quality will go down. I know it. So something has to change.

I don’t know what it is. You don’t know what you have to change either. That’s why we are experiencing burnout.

When you say “burnout” it really means you have two problems. One is that you have high expectations of yourself to achieve something. Two is that you did not meet those expectations so now you are unhappy. So the answer is, stop being so hard on yourself. Why the high expectations? Did someone teach you that life would be bad unless you always set yourself up for such high expectations that you were bound to be ultimately disappointed?

Don’t be upset at yourself for experiencing burnout. Be thankful.

If a child didn’t have nerves in his fingers then he wouldn’t know that the barbecue was hot. A child is thankful for those nerve cells. Burnout is your mind touching a hot stove and the mind’s nerve cells are reacting. Hence: “Burn” out. Pull your hand a way. Stay healthy. Continue the Daily Practice. Don’t be afraid of change. Change doesn’t mean loss. It doesn’t have to mean stepping back. It just means “change”.

And then wait. Take walks. Stay away from the computer as much as possible. Eat well. Change your routine. Your routine is designed (correctly) to make sure the unconscious stays out of your process. You didn’t need it. Now you do. So by mixing up your routine, you let your unconscious come in and tell you what it thinks you need to be doing now.

If you respect the burnout, trust that you are not in total control of your universe, be grateful that you live in a world that allows for change and continue all aspects of your daily practice (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual health), then only good things will happen. They might be small changes. They might be rejuvenated energy and creativity. They might be 180 degree changes. You and I just don’t know what they are yet. Surrender to it.

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As some flatteringly loyal readers will recall, my beloved cat Cheese passed away a month ago. It was awful, and remains so, but things improved somewhat when I convinced my girlfriend to bring her cat over for the weekend. And then, well, I refused to give him back. It’s a cat-napping, if you want to get cute about it, which obviously I do. Henry The Cat has been here a few weeks now, and I have already successfully taught him to puke on the carpet AND eat turkey slices out of my sandwich. I’m kinda the Cesar Millan of housecats.

Anyway, having a new cat in the house after time alone allowed me to rediscover some of the charming and insane things we endure to keep our kitties happy. Here’s a far-from-complete list of every feline-sourced indignity we experience, with great thanks to Henry and Cheese.

Cleaning a Litter Box: “Oh, don’t mind me! I’m just gonna scoop these balls of charcoal, poop, and piss out of this box and…oops, got some on my hand! Well, that’s OK. It won’t happen again, I’ll just be extra careful–nope. Got more on my hand! Yippee! I am now covered with the only thing worse that cat pee, old cat pee. This pet thing is working out great!” If the person you loved most in the world asked you to scoop their waste out of a box of dirt, you’d slap them in the face. But for a pet, we do it in exchange for a lap sit and a few face licks. Plus the occasional confused bite. And somehow, it’s all worth it.

Cat Licking Her Butt in the Middle of a RomCom: “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, ask him to love—-” AAAAAND my cat is licking her butt. Nothing ruins a perfect Julia Roberts smile or Sandra Bullock pratfall quite like your cat diving into its own hindquarters. And it’s never in the corner, it’s always right in front of the TV, as if they’re saying, “Sure, you’ve seen Notting Hill, but have you seen THIS?!” And yet, there is something transfixing about watching a cat lick their butt. They just go right after it, without the tiniest bit of shame. If we could lick our bums, you know we wouldn’t commit fully. In the back of our minds, we’d be thinking, “Good God, is this horrendous. My mouth is on my rear end! Fine, I’ll do it, but just dabble. I’m just dabbling!” Not cats. I can’t decide whether that’s admirable or horrifying. Let’s move on…

Wrestling Whatever Weird Thing Your Cat is Obsessed With Away From Them: Henry eats plastic bags. And packing tape. And toilet paper. He’s a lunatic. It’s kinda cute at first, and I yell “Oh look, he’s playing!”, then I realize he’s biting off large chunks of plastic and swallowing them down like roast beef. So then I have to get up and try and fight the plastic bag away from him. You know life is turning out just the way you planned when you’re yelling “No! You’ll Get SICK!!” while you’re trying to pull an old Ralph’s bag out of a cat’s mouth at 10:30pm on a Friday night. Especially when he gets defensive and bites you, just as you get it away from him. And then you feel bad and, for some reason, apologize. Sigh. Life is hard.

Your Cat Licking Your Face Immediately After It Eats Gross Food: There’s nothing sweeter than a cat lick, in my opinion. Dogs will lick anything. Grab an old paper towel out of the garbage and a dog will lick it to shreds. Cats, however, are more discerning. (Please disregard previous paragraph about licks, butts.) You feel like you’ve really earned something when a cat licks your face. It’s rough, but feels like genuine affection. Until you inhale and realize your cat just ate the fish mush you put on the floor for her dinner. And that means, along with kindness, you have just received a thin layer of processed fish parts all over your mug. Yippee?!

When Your Cat’s Tail Touches Your Privates: When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for a human to be naked in bed, your cat will always want to join. And cuddle. Even though I fail to see the pleasure in cuddling up to a big naked thigh. It’s uncomfortable, but cats don’t really get uncomfortable about anything (Please re-regard previous paragraph about licks, butts.) Then, just because they know it will creep you out, their tail starts wandering all over the place. Balls, boobs, butts, the whole deal. They look at you like, “What? Oh, that makes you uncomfortable? Kinda like when you removed my sexual organs altogether, right?!” Touche, cat boob toucher, touche.

Cat Watching You While You Go To the Bathroom: Most cats seem to think going to the bathroom is a public activity. Possibly because we stick their toilets in an open closet, then say hello to them peeing while we read a magazine. But every cat I’ve had likes to be present for bathroom activities, and let me tell you, nothing makes you reconsider how you’re performing bodily functions like a withering look from your kitty cat. “Oh, that’s how you do it? Chump.” Henry, however, likes to sit on your lap. While you’re on the toilet. And stare dreamily in your eyes, as if you’re doing something infinitely more romantic than what you’re actually doing. It’s disgraceful, but such is the lifestyle we have chosen. Kitty cats, forever and ever.

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Earlier today, I was in traffic in West Hollywood, waiting at a red light. Two dudes on bicycles were standing at the same stoplight, also waiting for it to change colors. As if on cue, they leaned toward each other and started to kiss. Embarrassing as it is to admit I sneered at the sight of them. Then I felt eyes on me. When I turned my head, I caught the driver in the car next to mine, staring at me. He looked disgusted with me. His face pinched in the same way I was glowering at the two kissing lovers.

Quick to do the math, I guessed what his story must be. I figured the other driver assumed I was some certified homophobic asshole. I always hate how my face is so easy to read. Freeway billboards aren’t as easy to read as my face. I wanted to drop my window and explain to the driver I didn’t care a whit that two guys were lip-locking at the stoplight. I don’t lump people into groups and then hate on them. I always dislike people individually. I wasn’t mad because two gay dudes were kissing. I was mad because I wasn’t kissing.

Basically, I was envious of their affection for each other. I knew, with the same certainty one knows rain will get you wet, I had no one to kiss and my lips would remain dry for the conceivable future. Jealousy gnawed on my heart with the ferocity of a starving rat. It was just like how my girl Fiona Apple sings it, “hunger hurts.”

Those bicycle-riding lovers could’ve been two grey-haired geezers swapping spit and I would’ve sneered at them. Luckily, the two kissing dudes couldn’t see me. Only the other driver caught sight of my ugly face. But I couldn’t explain to him how I was solely disgusted with myself. The two dudes were just a mirror and made it impossible for me to ignore the fact I had no love to call my own. I’d been depriving myself the ecstasy of such a spontaneous kiss. Their sweet love moment made me feel all the more alone, sitting at that red light on a warm spring day in May.

If you look at the world as a reflection of your state of affairs, you will experience moments like these. You will say to yourself in that hideous serpentine voice of envy, “Fuck that — I don’t need to see that.” It doesn’t really matter what “that” is, all you care is, it’s not you, or it’s not yours. This is a mistake we all make. Just like how children get upset when they see other kids enjoying bigger cookies than the one they got for snack-time. For some reason we tend to focus on how our cookie isn’t as large as the cookie others are enjoying. And then we get mad. It may not be love that upsets you but rather it’s the fact others have more money, power, or prestige. It doesn’t really matter. It’s not the cookie but the comparison that triggers jealousy.

It’s exceedingly difficult not to measure our lives by contrasting our circumstances against others. One of the hardest things you have to do on a day-to-day basis is ignore the temptation to compare yourself to someone else. It’s just so easy. And it’s so misleading. How do you know anyone else’s circumstances? Those two guys on their bikes might’ve been kissing because it was the last day they’d ever spend together before one of them returned to Portugal.

Rarely, if ever, do we detect the truth. Yet we think we know what’s going on when it’s happening right in front of our faces. We tell ourselves the story of what we see. And we’re almost always wrong. There’s usually something we’re missing from the picture. Yet this doesn’t stop us from having an emotional reaction because there aren’t many stronger or faster feelings than jealousy, which is usually followed by the anger that courses through us as we “see” how everyone else is doing better than we are.

We compare ourselves so often and so easily a casual observer would think we actually gained something from it. But on the real, nope, we’re just seeing the world as a reflection of our mental/emotional state. A person only knows what they know. And there’s just so much each of us doesn’t know. We rarely get it right when we guess. Which makes it a completely useless waste of your limited time on this garden we call Earth.

The guy in the car was most likely wrong about me. And it’s just as likely I was wrong about him. Maybe I reminded him of some college roommate he despised for sleeping with his ex-girlfriend and he hadn’t even noticed I was sneering at the two kissing guys on the bikes. And those two dudes enjoying a sunny day in May… maybe theirs was a secret affair, and there was no beautiful love involved at all, and instead it was a moment of escape and stolen romance. I don’t know. We never really know.

If, like me, you catch sight of what appears to be a happy couple, and their love makes you feel lonely, unwanted and passed over, the only truth in that moment is, you feel alone. Instead of chalking it up to the gross unfairness of life, do something about that shit. And rather than swallow any more bitterness or resentment, focus on the positive, think about how you can find someone who wants to wet your lips with kisses. Anger and jealousy won’t help you find such happiness. They’ll push it away. So fuck all that noise. Reject your tendency to compare. Seek what you wish to find. This is the season for romance not envy. And you deserve beauty and love, too.

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Dear every male I have ever lived with and any men that may reside in the same domicile as myself in the future:

1. I just cleaned the bathroom, so please do me a favor and trim your beard now but feel free to leave all of your gross stubble all over the sink that I just wiped down two hours ago.

2. Oh hey that sponge looks like it belongs IN the sink. It couldn’t possibly belong, like, next to it, after being wrung out.

3. Did you happen to notice if the garbage was full? Just wondering. My back hurts. My back hurts tomorrow, too.

4. Those dirty dishes from yesterday in the sink look really lonely, they probably miss their buddies in the DISHWASHER.

5. Did you drop this disgusting, rancid, worn sock on your way out of the door? Or no? Also, why are there so many holes in your socks? Seriously, go buy new socks. They’re like $7.99 for a pack.

6. No, I TOTALLY wasn’t planning on eating that. I just brought it home for fun! I’m glad you enjoyed the rest of my celebratory steak dinner, though. Now that you’ve eaten my leftovers, perhaps you could throw out the week-old leftovers of your own sitting behind the milk.

7. I love it when you do things like put the Fast and the Furious II DVD in the box for Closer. Fuck Julia Roberts anyway, right?! Vin Diesel is where it’s AT.

8. Please make that bass louder so I can’t hear myself think at all. UNLESS YOU WANT TO HEAR BRITNEY SPEARS ON REPEAT. I know I was making loud sex noises til 5 am last night but please turn your weird fucking music down.

9. I cleaned under the toilet seat and had to ask myself if your pubes are so afraid of your balls that they just jump ship every morning. Also, I’m not sure what trying to aim with or without a boner is like, but you are clearly not very good at it or apathy has taken over because you’ve given up on cleaning up after yourself, too.

10. Why are your beard hairs in my razor that I use to shave my vagina with? Did you confuse the pink Venus handle with your own very similar looking Schick disposable razor? I can’t begin to tell you how much I am gagging right now, and it’s not in a fun way.

11. Look I know I’m not your mother, but you should really start picking up your condom wrappers off the floor. Or at least consider lining the garbage with a plastic bag so the condoms themselves don’t stick to the inside. Just a tip. A gross, sticky, condom tip.

12. Sometimes I’m also guilty of leaving clean laundry in a hamper for days or even a couple weeks at a time (I don’t know how I do that to myself), but please tell me how you are comfortable just putting it on the FLOOR? Why not just in something that is slightly less covered in filth, like a laundry basket? Maybe men who roll out of bed and wear floor shirts to work build more character.

13. If you’re going to watch porn, that’s fine, but you can close the window when you’re done so I don’t open up to PornHub or bigbootiehoes.com or whatever when I’m trying to get my GrubHub on. Also, if you’re going to borrow MY porn dvds, respect the disc and return it when you’re done, bro!

14. I don’t care what other sports game you want to watch, the NHL Blackhawks are playing and that is more important. Go eat some chicken wings elsewhere and LEAVE ME IN PEACE WITH MY HOCKEY AND AGGRESSIVE BEARDED MEN.

15. When you leave your wet laundry in the washer, or better yet, my wet laundry on TOP of the washer… I just die a little bit on the inside. Mold is not so not in this season.

Let’s be honest though… living with guys isn’t all that bad, especially when you don’t want to share a bathroom with a “girlier” female that wants to borrow all of your clothes without asking, or use the bathroom for two hours to get ready and straighten their hair everyday. I don’t regret living with most of these dudes, or any of the good times or beers that we shared — but I still think they are kind of gross. 

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image - Three’s Company: Season One