There are stories we tell and stories we don't tell. Here are some of those.
I hate getting older. I hate everything about it. The slow metabolism, the wrinkles, the added cellulite, the loss of hopes and dreams. But what’s the alternative? Death? Um…no thanks. I’ll take failure with a side of bingo arms.
Read MoreI’ve been wanting to cut my hair short now for years. However, I feared I wasn’t able to make such a drastic change due to my mediocre acting career. Sure, famous people dye and cut their hair all the time, but could I? What will my agents think? Do I need to ask them for permission? I don’t want to confuse the casting directors. They get flustered so easily. Actors are a dime a dozen. Don’t make it difficult. Also, I didn’t feel skinny enough, pretty enough or young enough to pull it off. Even a couple of days before my hair appointment, a male acquaintance said, “No, don’t! Women aren’t attractive with short hair.” Thanks for your unrequested input, asshole. I did it, anyway.
Read MoreOh hey. Happy New Year. We’re all getting older. Our metabolisms are slowing down. It’s getting harder and harder to lose weight every year. Plus, we’re one day closer to death. Cheers!
Read MoreMy mother was classically beautiful. Her looks were the embodiment of a nice girl. Freely smiling in every picture, exposing her perfect teeth and optimism. She had big, bright eyes that sparkled with charm. But underneath…was something completely different. There was an ugliness. A hatred towards herself. It was so loud she escaped to heroin, abusive men, and excessive spending to silence her demons. She endured an overwhelming emptiness, but nothing could possibly fill the void within. She was never able to love herself, and that torment eventually led to her drug related murder. People have mentioned to me that I look so much like my mother. I especially have her eyes. But do I have everything beneath as well?
Read MoreI had gotten dumped earlier during the day by Sal, my improv teacher boyfriend. I needed a drink or two or twelve so I decided to walk over to the Dresden, a trendy bar where my friend worked which wasn’t too far from my house. My friend, Betsy, was a cocktail waitress over there and would discreetly give me drinks that the bartender mistakenly made. The hangovers would be gnarly, but at least I was drinking for free. I was terrifyingly broke. I was 27 years old and had less than 20 dollars in my bank account. Now I was heartbroken and broke.
Read MoreI stood there. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, as I was watched my father, slouched over in handcuffs, being taken away by two police officers above from my bedroom window. The cops were both a head shorter than my dad, even with his incriminating posture. My dad was quite militant about our postures. Shoulders up. Chest out. But I guess, at this moment, it wasn’t important to stand up straight. They escorted him down our hardened gravel driveway into one of the seven police cars along our house. An older, overweight officer was readily standing there. He opened up the back seat door, and guided him inside. My dad did not glance up to my window to look for me, to tell me that everything was going to be okay with a nod or a reassuring squint. Rather his head was down. His face seemed tight with anger. The fat officer closed the car door. Then they drove off. And just like that my dad was gone…
Read MoreI was lying on my bedroom floor on a Tuesday night, talking or rather listening to my new boyfriend, Riley on the phone. It was Fall of 1998, so yes, it was a real phone with a telephone plug and a spiraled wire that always got tangled without even touching it. The chord wasn’t long enough to reach my bed, so I had most of my calls on the blue/greyish carpet that hadn’t experienced a vacuum’s touch in years. Riley was a sophomore. I was a freshman. Riley often said the n-word and spoke fondly of David Duke. He was also obsessed with the Insane Clown Posse. ( The ugly, white hip-hop duo who painted their faces in black and white clown make-up and rap offensive things, in case you didn’t know. And if you did know, I won’t tell anyone). The past weekend we took a streetcar, followed by a bus, to Tower Records in the French Quarter. He pushed me to buy ICP’s latest album- The Great Milenko. So, I did. When I got home that day, I started to listen to the CD, but had to press stop 6 seconds in. It was too abrasive and well…the worst music ever. I told Riley I listened to the whole album. “It was really good.” My youth was either me lying or not saying things out loud even when I should have.
Read MoreGrowing up, my dad would always tell me… your friends are your worst enemies because they take up all of your time. Practice the violin or read a book instead… be careful who you hang out with because they will bring you down. Also the classic hit…Trust no one. Simple, but to the point. He also planted misogynistic seeds into my head as well. Women aren’t as smart as men. Women aren’t as funny as men. They even change their last names to the man’s because they are less superior. He understood having sex (for his son, not so much for his daughter). So for awhile I never trusted women or even wanted to hang out with them. If I can’t fuck you or get a job from, then why hang out?
Read MoreSooooo….I’m freezing my eggs in a couple of weeks. That’s right. I’m being injected with a f*ck ton of estrogen and will hopefully release a lot of little eggs, and then place them in a mysterious freezer until further notice. Ahhhh…just how I imagined things would go when I was a 22 year old planning out my life.
Read MoreIs there anything worse than Tinder conversing? Well, other than dying alone? Or worse, Bumble, where the woman has to send a witty message to a complete stranger while there’s a ticking clock? Dying alone doesn’t sound that bad after all.
Read MoreHeart is beating. Blood is flowing. Bowel movements on check. No UTI. No yeast infection. No ingrown pubes. No lumps. No weird moles. A belly that jiggles, but whatever.
Read MoreSo…you guys are just rippin’-’n’-dippin,’ right? It’s getting hot and heavy, and you finally are able to let go and allow yourself to be in the moment and feeeeeel the magnitude of pleasure and passion all wrapped up in a thrust or a gentle nipple twist. The desire between you two is all-consuming. His breath is heavy as he grabs your hips and pulls you in. You can’t help but let out a moan. A squeal. A scream. You don’t care. Nothing matters in this point in time. You’ve surrendered all considerations of your body, anything that jiggles. Every concern about your life is put on hold and fuck that to-do list anyway. The only thing that matters is the two of you giving freely to one another. No boundaries. No barriers. It’s that fucking primal bliss that just feels so right and irrefutable. As he fervidly climaxes, you feel like a goddamn sex goddess. You both take a moment to just exist in that shared mutual euphoria. You now need to lovingly and gracefully undue your sweaty body after that heated sexual experience that’s almost impossible to put words to since all words fail to describe this type of exhilaration. Then it happens. The always unforeseen, ever explosive…queef.
Read MoreOh yeah. 2018 is when this prune blooms into a plum…which I know doesn’t make any sense but neither does any of this. Because that’s basically what we’re doing here on Earth. We’re relearning everything we’ve ever been taught. To return to ourselves before we got fucked over and enveloped in heartache and debt. Before all the twisted ways our parents and society has taught us to see ourselves and others. Before the tweezing and coloring the grey away. Let’s not let anyone know that we’re aging. Either that means we’re one day closer to death or another day that we luckily get to live on this beautiful planet. But we’re pessimistic and narcissistic, so let’s take the fat from our ass and inject it into our face because that’s the logical thing to do. But I digress…
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I’d rather have sex with a guy I barely know or even a guy who I know, but I can’t stand, than to masturbate. Sitting on some annoying guy’s face is easy, but being alone with my body and exploring me? Now that’s hard.
Read MoreI want everything to be perfect. This blog, my bikini line, my… life. But it’s not and it never will be.
Read MoreThe stand-up comedy scene is a dark world filled with miserable human beings that hate themselves. So naturally I’m drawn to it like a lost cub who just found her herd. Except, the herd are a bunch of dicks who want nothing to do with the cub other than fuck it. Let’s get out of this cub metaphor, because having sex with a baby cub is quite disturbing.
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A thing or two about me is that, I love anything with tomatoes and…I grew up without a mother. Even though I know you’re really intrigued about my love for tomatoes. (All tomatoes? Like in everything? Tomatoes as a topping on a pizza? But it already has marina which is tomato based. What about ketchup? Do you count that? It’s mainly just sugar). But this piece isn’t about tomatoes. (And yes, I group ketchup in as my love for tomatoes obviously). < Sigh > It’s about the latter.
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