The Frenemy.

So even though I’m not a big fan of New Year’s Eve, I am a big fan of stupid people in glittery dresses throwing up on sidewalks. So I’ll celebrate in order to point and laugh and brag about how I can gracefully over-drink 343 days of the year without the aid of Forever 21 cocktail attire.

The first day of 2011 for me will feel much like the last day of 2010 unless I magically become sober and married to James Franco at midnight. Sidenote, marriage is becoming less appealing to me ever since I realized that my spouse will NOT share my college loan burdens with me once I trick him into nuptials. I Googled that today. However, following in the true grand tradition of things, I’ll pretend to want to shed my snakeskin and become a firework. This means I’m already two drinks/mini quiches in and I have finally come up with a promise for the upcoming year. New beginnings, nah mean?! Here goes:

I officially declare 2011 the year of the “Aw Hell Naw” 

(you can’t see me, but I’m raising a full wine glass at the computer)

Listen. I ain’t putting up with no more bullshit. Not mine. Not his. Not hers. Shit stinks so when it’s in the room, I’m going to smell it and say something about how it’s gross to shit in a room and it shouldn’t be there. I’m not going to make any more excuses or accept them, either. Well, not ‘I don’t want to go to your party because a new True Blood is on excuses’, but more like “I didn’t mail my loan check out today because I’m tired/he’s not calling because he’s busy” kind of bullshit excuses. I resolve to say “Oh FUCK no” at least thirty more times a day, whether it be some guy who cancels plans at the last minute, some friend who forgets to call when they say they will, and even the bitchy hag at the grocery store who cuts me off because she’s old and a hag. I will be dishing out “Aw Hell Naws” to me and whoever else is making my life stupider when it doesn’t have to be. Ch-ch-check it. 

I also should return phone calls and texts in a more timely fashion. 

Anyway, that’s what I resolve to do in 2011, a year in which I know is going to produce a lot of big changes for me, this blog (fingers crossed on some really-big-too-huge upcoming projects, y’all) and for you all, too. I hope that you celebrate the start of it all with lots of booze and lots of friends and street dogs, and prepare for the fact that 2011 will only start to get awesome once March rolls around and this shitty snow isn’t all up in your fucking boots. 

Oh yeah. And one more note for you guys: 2010 was the year I graduated and didn’t have much to show for it except American Literature notes I won’t read again, slutty ripped tights, and blind unending terror. To ease the pain, I started this blog because I like to be funny but I don’t like leaving my couch. The fact that you guys read it and are enthusiastic to me every day about it makes a terrible horrid curmudgeon like myself warm a little bit on the insides. There are more drunk angry people like me out there! See, dad?!?!  I promise to get funnier in 2011. I also promise to never ever date successfully, drink only two beers at a party, or go on a grapefruit diet.  You keep reading, I keep loving you. 

Happy New Year, or whatever.

Alida

A couple of days ago I asked who would be down to do a little experiment for me. A lot of you were down, so let’s get this bitch started!

Tonight me and a friend are going to test bunny it out for you and report back to you.Then I’m going to ask you to try it out in your city and report back to IAMTheFrenemy@gmail.com or my ask box by January 15th. I’ll post some of the best as they come in, and eventually post a recap sometime after that. And finally, I’m trying to organize a NYC bar outing in March where we all try it out together and hang out and take shots. Hopefully, these memories will leave us with some funny yet important lessons, much like a feel-good teen movie. 

Here’s what I’m proposing:

Go to two bars and try collecting numbers. (probably like, one number) You don’t have to give out your real number and you don’t have to use your real name, unless you want to. I’m going as Ali tonight. 

At one bar, use only your shining personality and whatever else you usually do at bars except magical powers to get some play. At the other? Only Cosmo tips. ACCCKKK.

The main how-to-snag-a-husband’s I’m using are: 

1) The 5 second stare: stare at a guy across the room for five seconds. Then look away. I find this tip endlessly creepy. 

 2) Perform a background check: When you spot a sexy guy at a bar or lounge this weekend, don’t go up to him—approach his wingman instead. Pull his buddy aside and say “What’s the story on your friend? He’s hot.” This one’s going to suck. 

3) Mistake his identity: That’s weird and creepy but OKAY.

4) Your choice: choose a tip from this article and send me a message or reply with the one I should do. The one with the most before I leave the house, I’ll try out.
http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/dating-advice/become-a-legendary-flirt

Lord Help Me. I’m wearing a short black dress with combat boots, so as to confuse and allure all who meet me! Run Lola Run!Anyway, I might be able to wean out the things you should and should not do while tacklin’ the bar scene, and at the VERY least make a big fucking fool of Cosmo AND myself. Vodka sour at 6pm to prepare? Yes. I’d say yes. One of many. Anybody down?

The other day I was perusing the Target book aisle, which is mostly just vampire fiction, Susan Boyle’s autobiography and misplaced Jennifer Love Hewitt DVD’s, when I happened to come upon The Skinny Bitch Diet. Even though I knew that I wouldn’t like it because the cover of the book wasn’t a large picture of fried pizza, I scanned through it anyway. It was worse than I thought! No cheese, periods of liquid dieting, only a trace amount of alcohol, and the shitty kinds of snacks that have flax seeds in them even though they’re snack chips. Listen, I like eating healthy sometimes. Raw vegetables are yum, I know that avocados are the good fat, and handfuls of unsalted almonds should be eaten on the reg but that’s not how I eat 24/7. Sure, there are days and even weeks where I try to eat only a slice of muenster a day and use that salad dressing spray a lot. I jog when I feel like it, and I’ve never eaten a stick of butter. But if the book says it’s a BITCH DIET, it better deliver. When I am feeling particularly bitchy/luxurious/non-restricting on a weekend, whether it be because of PMS-a boy-not enough sleep-Project Runway fave kicked out- I have my own way of dieting. I will relay the real BItch Diet here:

Saturday Diet Plan

Breakfast: 

• 30 hangover chugs of whatever mixer in the fridge exists (diet tonic water, avoid the glass of coke and rum you couldn’t finish last night so you fridged it)
• 3 bites of  leftover lo-mein for the protein and veggie benefits.
• Coffee starts the day off well, so brew some but the milk is kind of questionable and the filter rips so day is not started off well at all and you get three voicemails from your mother while you are drinking grainy tar and ‘no i’m NOT GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP, MA.’
• Try to make an egg. A slice of toast, maybe. Burn the toast. Scrape toast. Butter overload. Too lazy for egg. Watch six hours of Caroline in the City (I’m trying to trick you into thinking I wrote this 12 years ago).

Lunch:

• OPTION ONE: Friend asks you for lunch. Assess if you need to shower. You look kind of gross, but if you wash your face, wear a hat and use 80 body sprays, you can get away with not..Eat a big ass bacon cheeseburger/side salad. If you’re a veggie, mac-and-cheese with side salad. And a light beer or two. You didn’t eat breakfast, like at ALL so you’re fine and the side salad is to show self-restraint.
• OPTION TWO: Go shopping in leggings and spend all your money on one trendy jacket you’ll wear twice, three tank tops/ soft t-shirts you have millions of, and one long layered fashion necklace. Top the day off with a huge burrito with salsa, various vegetable pieces, NO sour cream and it’s basically health food. Drink a 30 dollar specialty coffee because you’re like, a total celeb with all this petty spending. Cry at your bank account later, which may result in fro-yo run.
• OPTION THREE: Finally decide to go grocery shopping after weeks of eating stale crumbs and maybe just handfuls of pretzels. Buy boursin cheese because it’s on sale, tomatoes that will rot before you finish them, hummus and 80 dollars on shit! cereal’s expensive! Make yourself the only good wholesome lunch you will make in two weeks, which is probably some sort of luxurious sandwich with bagel and avocado.

Snack One: 

• One handful of potato chips.
• Six handfuls of potato chips. 
• They’re Cape Cod, which is kind of low fat, right? 
• Don’t judge.

Snack Two:

• You’re doing laundry and your roommate is making lunch in the kitchen. Her tofu stir fry looks so delicious. So. Delicious.
• You ask her all the ingredients of it until she asks you if you want to try it.
• Try it.
• Have another bite without asking.
• Slice yourself some cucumbers with hummus/crackers with cream cheese so you can ‘sit with her.’ Eat her leftover rice bite.

Pre-dinner:

• Make your way to the liquor store. Bottle of wine if you’re feeling romantic, flask of whiskey if you want to rage, six pack of light beer if you’re feelin’ pretty lame.
• Six pickles because pickles are no calories?

Dinner: 

• OPTION ONE: The “I’m already 30 minutes late to party” dinner. Bowl of cereal, frozen meal, can of soup.
• OPTION TWO: The “I’m not prepared for making dinner” meal. I’m craving three slices of cheese and whatever I can put these three tablespoons of jelly on. Whatever, you’re going out later.
• OPTION THREE : “Culinary Creation.” Oh, some sort of recipe you saw on “Barefoot Contessa” some macrobiotic magazine, or a website. Take six hours to prepare. Have to go out of your way to find fresh sage or curry paste. Drink three beers and add too much liquid the sauce. Fix the sauce by adding flour to it and it becomes thicker but immediately oversalt it. It tastes okay. Have six pounds of leftover of which you will have 64 drunken bites of until it molds.

Snack Three: 

• Two shots
• One beer
• One strong mixed drink
• Hot make out sesh.

Drunk Meal:

• OPTION ONE: Shared french fries or chicken fingers or something with a lot of gravy on it. Eat it sloppily in a diner while everybody texts and screams and forgets to squat in the restroom.
• OPTION TWO: well, we all know the drunken pasta-bilities. 
• Whatever, I don’t even give a SHIT. 

Something I say a lot: I am attracted to assholes. 

What I really mean is: Out of all the people attracted to me, I choose the assholes.

What I should be saying is: “Sarcasm and likes to wear knit caps” should not be synonymous with “asshole.” LOOK HARDER.

Okay, so falling for ‘the nice one’ is something I’ve only been guilty of once. It was in high school and he obeyed curfew and we lasted two months. Did I say “falling for” I was 16 lol. However, it should be noted that I do love nice people. I find it heart-wrenchingly hopeful that there are awkward and adorable folks out there who call people they like regularly and make mixed-CDs for them. I adore them, but I am probably not attracted to them.

I credit this to the fact that as a kid, I had a crush on John Connor from Terminator 2 and Aladdin who was a thief. I really like the look of leather jackets. Jocks find me brash and don’t want to date me and I eat my egg yolks RAW. These must be factors, right?

Well, at least it made me believe that I wanted to date ‘the rebel.’ It started in high school with the guys who didn’t want to do their homework. It lead to guys in college who slept through class and drank in water bottles during American Lit. And now? Gettin’ kicked out of pubs. However, this always really just meant I like people who smoke cigarettes and made funny jokes about how they hate everybody all the time. I don’t need no polo-shirt wearing fool, I decided. I had a type because I listened to guitar-heavy music and drank while I read books. SPORTS FANS?! Screw it. I like the whiskey-sluggers, the used-book readers, the pine-scented infrequent bathers. I like the scratchy throats, the old boots, and the vinyl collectors. The quick witted and the careless. These are the kinds of people I understand because I have sworn to myself and others that I am not the average girl. I will fight when provoked, I will be loud and yell and I am not going to wear pink or like Taylor Swift. I am the girl rebel you, see? I will handle your indifference and your lack of common courtesy with a cool hand luke because you are rough around the edges with a wall even Nixon couldn’t scream at! And I’m a CHILL GIRL so I understand that. Let me walk on eggshells because I AIN’T EVER ASK FOR NOTHIN’. And by that I mean I won’t cry in front of you. This is normal, right?

NOPE! I’m wrong. When I say I like assholes, I don’t MEAN assholes. Assholes suck. Assholes are mean and make you feel bad, but I always thought this was a cute nickname for guys who ‘weren’t like, who Cosmo Girls would date!’ Nah, they’re universally shitty. I want somebody hilarious who looks good in very unwashed jeans, not guys who forget I like cheese or hate cilantro. Guys who read, you know, the literature of the oppressed and drink their coffee black don’t get to be a shitbag to me or you because they hate going to SEARS. And just because I can stomach warm Jim Beam doesn’t mean I don’t want to sometimes get complimented/not hugged and get some attention sometimes. Sarcasm and disdain do not mean you automatically treat people badly! Oh wait, I just realized something: you’re a fucking asshole, dude. 

Given this information and a freezer to put my Jim Beam, I promise to no longer look for the asshole as if that is a trait I can handle. Instead, I will look for the funny. The witty. The capable. The woodsy drinkers who call. Those who could be slightly rough but also aware that doing nice things for somebody they enjoy is not that hard bro. After all, I don’t want no scrub, a scrub is a guy who reads Hunter S. Thompson but doesn’t call me BACK. A scrub is a guy who yells at dudes in bars who are getting to close to me but still ‘doesn’t like to define relationships.’

I officially declare that asshole is now my four-letter word. I hope it becomes yours.

and would come to a bar and drink with me sometime in the next couple of months? Anybody down for a super-sized “Frenemy meets Cosmo” experiment?

And if you’re not in New York City, care to experiment in your own stomping ground?

(I have some serious ideas brewing and some possible deviance to ask all my bar-hopping bitchez to partake in. I’ll let you know more soon, once I see who is down.)

After I asked you guys what you wanted to see me write about dating and committed relationships, there was one request I received the most. (Good God, writing about this shit is going to be a sparse thing for me after all I have a headache now.) I weigh in on it here:

Long Distance Relationships. 

Without them, Vanessa Carlton would have walked a rather unnecessary thousand miles, Jet Blue would have marginally less business and also people would be a lot happier. 

This is because they don’t fucking work, ever! Well, by ever I mean usually. Basically, the key to a successful long distance relationship lies in two ingredients: a possible endpoint in sight and all the trust you’ll ever have. An endpoint means that if you will definitely be in the same city again at a given time, or if one of you has expressed interest in moving if it gets to that point of commitment. If you have both of those things you can possibly work things out, but it’s not easy and you have to be pretty invested in it. Be warned- it is not for the weak of heart/the jealous/the normal.

I myself used to be a pretty big fan of the LDR (like FDR, only Jon Voight has never played it in the movie Pearl Harbor and thus disgraced an entire nation) because I thought it was like the relationship equivalent to procrastination. You don’t have to really focus on the issues because you don’t see the person all the time and you get to nourish a relationship in the mind and the text and that’s where I do it best anyway. It’s also logically the best of both worlds because you can lay around and not shave your legs while still knowing you’re going to have sex AND breakfast with one person in the near future. However, it’s one tricky little lying bitch and it’s not nearly as fun as it seems. LDR’s are like going to the doctor’s office: if you’re going just for the yummy lollipop and the possible pain meds at the end, you’re a stupid but fun moron. If you have a really important and life-threatening reason to go there, than you just have to power through and deal. I basically mean ‘for the sex and fun’ kind of love, it’s a bad idea. But for the ‘we’ve dated longer than a year and I know what sucks about this person already’ kind of love, try it if you can. These kinds of relationships are hard, they’re not really that fun, and they make you feel like a crapshoot for most of the time. You spend too much on airfare or train travel and commitment and you still freak out when they don’t call you on a Friday. They can leave without a trace LEGALLY and you have to have enough trust to think that they won’t. Regardless, you’ll still feel a little bit nervous always (caution: when drunk) which is annoying but expected. This manic panic is multiplied ten fold but is similar with the feeling that comes with somebody you like that you hooked up with twice and now lay in the ‘what are we zone’ with…that’s the same kind of bullshit paranoia you live with in a LDR. Why? You have to rely on stalking and gut feeling. You worry when their FACEBOOK WALL (BONK) is filled with some blonde girl’s jokez and lolz, and you worry when they seem distant or irritated or not sure when they can see you again. Worse off, you’re invested. They know your family disease history, the way you squat naked, and have seen you cry at least once. They also have your dignity hostage and that makes it much worse.

The thing that can be a pro for an LDR is you have to learn how to control yourself, which is useful. If you’re the kind of girl that gets obsessed over somebody and can’t focus on your life and forgets to call your friends when you’re co-happy, you can’t do that if you can’t see them whenever. You have to reign in your crazy. And if you’re one of those flirty bitches you have to calm the hormones down or really fuck things up and CHEAT WHORE, which can be a major con. Don’t spend too much time on the phone. Don’t spend too much time touching other people’s arms and giggling. Balance, people! 

I don’t feel bad telling you that you have to be okay with going to bed alone for a long time. I do that on the regular, so deal with it. That is not the bad part of LDR’s. It does comes down to this: an important part of dating somebody is having them be there with you for the little things. The bitchy co-worker you want to complain about, the terrible nachos you ate for lunch, the Thursday night you need to go out for some wine. They won’t know your routine or all your friends or all your life. And that makes it harder to form a solid relationship. You will fight over the phone. You will drink heavily on weekend nights and you might drunk cry more than you did when you were just single and somewhat happy. Oh, and you have to deal with the fun pain of not being around the person you have finally found you can boom with on the regular and likes you enough to keep you around. Because that’s sooooo easy to find. I forgot about that! Plus, statistics show it most likely will end. Having fun yet?! Whatever, fuck you, I’m single.

Sidenote: If you’re in college? Don’t fucking DO it. DON’T!! Go have some unattached fun! 

Logically, sometimes it works. Super-logically, it won’t last! But it just might.  And if you want to risk your time and emotion because you are idealistic and hopeful and trust-filled, I say cheers to you.  I couldn’t have fucking done it if I tried. But I never was the gambling type. 

Captioning is fun and funny on weheartit.com, because some of these pictures are silly. But it’s all in good fun! Send me your captioned pictures and I just may post ‘em..

SUBMITTED BY SCOTT:

Okay, I never write about relationships. However, I’m aware some of you are in them and we’ve all been in some and I’m leaving you guys out! I’m terribly sorry and starting tomorrow’s post, I’m going to change. What do you want to see me write about them?

Oh for fuck’s sake:

There should be a point in your life where the ‘tingly butterfly unicorn feelings’ you get when meeting somebody who is willing to kiss with you get replaced by ‘reason and logic.’ I thought this would come with age, wisdom, or experience. Unfortunately, that seems to be like something that does NOT happen. We will always be relatively brain-dead when being excited about somebody like we are zombies of love who walk around with our arms extended saying “hugssss commmitmentttt hugggsss.” We might pretend to have walls and we pretend to be jaded. However, the old ‘run into this blindly’ thing has been replaced with the new ‘pretend like you are cynical but really just run into this intensely in the hopes we are wrong.’ Hint: both ways end up with totally misconstrued feelings and a lot of sad heartbreak. Wake up, people!! We’re not in a fucking movie, we’re not in a fucking book, and nothing is ever guaranteed to work out. Ever. So stop going to bed listening to sappy I-Pod songs like it’s your own personal soundtrack, stop staring at Polaroid pictures of staged couples in flannel in the forest and start learning to handle these emotions and this reality better. I’m stupid too, believe me, but we gotta hit the ground cautiously and aware that the ground is hard nail-filled pavement with lots of obstacles chasing us. And don’t count your love eggs before they hatch. Anyway, if there are three things I can tell people who sit around thinking about somebody more than they actually spend time with them, it is these phrases. Make them your mantra. Own them. Learn them:

1. THEY ARE NOT PERFECT.

Man, people are so lame! They do stupid things, they take shits, they sometimes have morning breath, they get really selfish and like terrible bands and talk too much when they get nervous. Guess what, friend? Everybody has shitty flaws and childhood issues they are trying to work out that make them not perfect. Listen: people tell you that you will love somebody despite their flaws because they’re assuming you will know that they are flaws. Instead, we all run around pretending like these are not flaws but just adorable things that make you obsess about them more. You are so great for loving them because they don’t tip well! (total dealbreaker, btw) You will, one day, love somebody despite their terrible traits and vice versa, because you have them too. This takes time and fights and does not happen right away. If you ignore these ‘bad traits’ now and put this person on a pedestal, you are being unhealthy and you are wasting your own time. Plus you will become a stage 15 clinger because you worship them and it’s lame and they can sense that. As harshly as you look at your own flaws, cut that in half and look at them that way. Remember: if somebody thought YOU were perfect, you would feel uncomfortable and creeped out because you know you’re not. Return the courtesy and acknowledge that they fuck up. Then remember that.

2. Don’t make excuses:

Don’t try to explain behavior if you know it’s shitty. Being ‘tired busy scared of leaving the house after Black Swan always working at weird hours getting a falafel for six days’ does not mean they get to not talk to you for three weeks. Being ‘fresh out of a relationship’ doesn’t mean they get to treat you like you are less important to them than their last relationship was. And feeling bad as often as you feel good, especially in a new relationship, is bullshit and should be not something that happens. Don’t let your friends tell you otherwise or nourish your excuses with delicious lies. They don’t have the heart to tell you it’s not going to work out. Go with your gut, of course. But more reasonably, go with your common courtesy. A third grader knows that you shouldn’t forget to call somebody when you say that you would. A third grader knows you can’t lash out at somebody and then say ‘I just get really scared sometimes.’ A third grader don’t put up with no shit! Would YOU also commit the behavior that you are questioning them on? Would you do it if you really gave a shit? If the answer’s no, cut the strings. If you allow them the bullshit, they won’t change. And they also won’t ever change anyway. Cutting the strings on a dick should be a fun activity to you, not a hard one! It will build your ego and YOUR DOUCHEBAG KILLING POWER.

3. Stop throwing the pity party:

OH SHUT UP. It doesn’t “ALWAYS HAPPEN TO YOU.” I’m sorry let me hand you a ‘i don’t give a shit for whiny people’ tissue to wipe away your tears. HARD TRUTH: If you’re between the ages of 16-100,  you have had some terrible immature relationships under your belt, but that doesn’t mean that you are this unloved freak human that needs to tell all your friends you have strongly accepted you will die alone. Stop being so fucking dramatic, you terrible actress! Your past means that young people are dumb and you got into a bad hormonal experience with somebody else that happened to end. If you’ve been hurt who gives a shit because it’ll happen again and it happens to everybody because it’s the price we all pay for wanting to find somebody who fits us. Remember that you’re not unlovable or pathetic because you’ve been dumped or are alone, you’re pathetic if you think you are because of those reasons.

I know I sound mean, but you’re a great person and I know that. You’re cute, and you’re funny, and you’re interesting! You don’t need to beat yourself up because some shithead stopped calling you. It’ll happen a million more times because you’re young and this isn’t Little House on the Prarie so you date a lot before you get married/not married. Get used to it! Start to like yourself and stop feeling like ITS YOUR END OF THE WORLD FAULT every time things go awry. You’re fucking fine. You’ll be fine. And just like you’re not going to love everybody in the world, not everybody in the world is going to love you. Stop saying “EVERY TIME” and start saying “this time.” All relationships are different, but stop saying ‘this relationship its different’ before you have any reason to believe that it is. Stop clinging on to the patterns of the past but also stop treating every person who pays you attention like it’s the only time it’ll ever happen in your life. Deal with it, hot stuff. I like you and I want you to be happy. Stop being in your own fucking way.

People, it’s not all you. They’re not 100% awesome! Learn to balance. LOVE IS GREAT ENJOY!

But really, love is great. When love is right. Shit. 

In the true spirits of being snowed in and watching rom coms/screaming at my television all day, I needed a little bit of booze at around 3pm. No surprise there! Especially because today marks the beginning of the stressful week where I have to find a dress and decide what the hell I’m doing for New Years PRESSURE FEST 2011. Finally, the Gods have answered my prayers and there is a Real Housewives marathon all day today! He still remembered me even though it’s was just his sons birthday! Two more reasons to drink! With all of these factors combined and 110 percent concentrated power of will, I have concocted and am now consuming the perfect drink recipe for the occasion. This is dedicated to my favorite Bravo television and the spirit of December 26th: 

The Bravo 26:

To make: Get dressed in your classiest pajama outfit, because you are just as innovative and couture as anybody from whatever boring fashion show is airing on Bravo this season. I wore my NEW flannel pants and my tightest, most form-fitting Gap zip up sweatshirt. If it’s before 5pm, (though this drink is best served around 6:30, right before you break out the really hard stuff) acknowledge to everybody in the house you are now going to drink alcohol and nobody should give a shit about it because it’s Sunday. God is resting, and therefore cannot see your sins. Get the largest mug in your house. Boil some water IN A KETTLE because you’re going to be classy and not just microwave water. Rachel Zoe’s breakfast is boiled water, so this is an homage to her. Because you want to be healthy and fat-free to be glowing and snag a man by New Year’s or Valentines Day-thanks for all the advice, Patti Stanger-you’re going to start by making this as low-cal as possible. Two heaping tablespoons of cocoa POWDER and four packets of no-calorie sweetener (that’s like, totally ten calories, bitches!) will do the trick. Now, you want to add a sprinkle of salt (how Top Chef inspired and gourmet of you!) to bring out the flavor of the choco. Add the boiling hot water and top with some sort of soy creamer/half and half/milk. This part matters the least, whatever’s in the house and not rotten is fine. Just don’t burn your tongue off. And now, of course, dedicated to my angel NeNe Leakes, my fairy godmother Kim Zolciak, that drunken psychic at the Beverly Hills dinner party, my Skinny Girl margarita Bethenny Frankel and all my other alcoholic Real Housewives: splash in a huge, obscene amount of boughetto liquor. This means huge splashes of Jameson whiskey (expensive bourgeois liquor) and cheap, plastic bottle ghetto amarett/peppermint schnapps. Let the hot booze hit your nose, and add a shit ton of whipped cream and sprinkles. Add some Andy Cohen fabulous flair by sprinkling on colored sugar. ENJOY, FUCKERS! Go start some drama!

Serve with: trash TV and cheap ass appetizers. I’m going with leftover Christmas dip and Trader Joe’s bean dip. Check it!

I’ve had three relatively important realizations today. Now that I am full of good food and surrounded by snowmen wrapping paper, I thought I would relay my Chrismas Miracle Visions to you:

1. U R Who They R: As I get older and wiser, I have slowly realized that DNA isn’t just a useful thing to break out when a CSI episode has been going on for 46 minutes without the B-list actor starring in it confessing to his crime. It’s also useful during the holiday season as a glimpse into your future. YOU ARE LIKE YOUR FAMILY. Maybe the good ways, maybe the bad ways, certainly not in all ways, but enough that you should seek them out and pay attention to these parallels. Don’t be scared of this piece of knowledge: you have to arm yourself with it so you can seek out how awesome you will become/fix your terrifying flaws. I tried to examine my family this holiday objectively, and I myself have realized that they have blessed me with many gift-curses: 

• my aunt went on two dates with a guy who later murdered two people. She didn’t want to date him because he ‘had this weird tic.’ Basically, I will never be the girl who ‘dates bad men,’ I will be the girl that ‘creepy weirdies are attracted to’ but I’ll stop dating them because of tiny, insignificant flaws.
• I will one day give out lots of socks as presents!
• Two glasses of wine is fine. Three glasses of wine is better.
• The appetizer portion of our meal was 66.6% cheese. Cheese forever!!!
• Talk about movies, not my college loans/responsibilities. AVOIDANCE IS KEY!

2. Mashed Potatoes are your shitty best friend. At least in the world of making foods drunk. On the one hand, you cannot fuck up mashed potatoes. All you do is keep butter, salt, pepper and milk nearby. Then you just kind of splash, drop and stir away to your drunky heart’s content. There is no way you can destroy this recipe because too salty and too buttery are phrases I literally cannot comprehend. Plus, it’s also a food that cannot be stained on your clothes. Plus you don’t have to chew, which saves a nice step with my sloppy and lazy self. That being said: you cannot fuck up mashed potatoes before they are MASHED. Meet the huge, monstrous obstacles of peeling potatoes, boiling potatoes, and smashing them. This requires knives, peelers, burning water, and other terrifying things that can kill you or slice off your hand. This is like the final boss taking place at the beginning of the video game! It’s wrong! If you manage to defeat them, you’re in a world of yum. Otherwise, you might have 8 fingers and a floor full of blood to deal with along with your hangover. I do not recommend making this food drunk.

3. DEAR T.G.I. Fridays: You should just man up and start serving a queso sauce appetizer at your locations. I have not eaten at you in years, nor do I plan to, but hear me out anyway. Even though you’re not a Mexican chain restaurant, queso sauce is never held in high esteem anywhere in the world and not in Mexico either. So it wouldn’t matter that you think you’re stepping outside the ‘american shitty food’ box of your cozy joint. Don’t worry, you’re not! There is no such thing as AUTHENTIC queso sauce. Unless if authentic means ‘served at places with people who have terrible choice in date locations.’ Actually, there is no such thing as a BAD queso sauce because there’s no such thing as a GOOD queso sauce. It’s just something that we eat when we’re not experiencing enough shame in our lives. Still kinda love it, though. It’s basically a guaranteed profit for you because people go to your place to eat shitty food, and that is part of the trifecta of shitty appetizer food. You have quesadillas!! Why do you have those if you’re too afraid to go the extra step? Okay. Don’t ask me why I thought of this, but you’re welcome.

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

This poem was boring to me as a child and I’ve never read it.

I did understand that nobody was stirring at the time of said poem.

NOT EVEN A MOUSE!

(This narrator has accepted the fact that mice run rampant through his house).

The stockings are up, to be filled with cucumber scented-lotion and furry socks

And other crap nobody really wants, like MAD LIBS and chocolate balls

As little children dream of sugar plums

Which I imagine are just plums rolled in sugar and that sounds gross!

These kids have stupid dreams! I have dirty ones about Zac Efron. 

Anyway, a loud ass noise wakes the narrator up

And instead of reaching for his gun because you never know these days

He runs to the window like a jackass even though he has a family to protect.

Luckily for him, it’s just a crazy old man who whips and ties 8 deer to a sled!

Who also has a large sack, which also isn’t concerning! It’s child-sized!

The stranger calls out for his reindeer but Rudolph’s not there.

He can’t serve Santa’s army because DADT was just repealed recently!

Not saying Rudolph’s gay but he was!  Fuck you, Comet, you homophobic prick.

Anyway, even though it’s late and everybody’s sleeping at this hour

Wacky old man screams and reasonably decides to jump on top of the roof

Even though the narrator is awake and watching and could open the door for this man

Since he’s there to give his children gifts and make up for their deadbeat dad’s actions.

Luckily, the roof holds up since on top of it are the toys for every Christian child 

IN THE WORLD

Oh, don’t feel left out, non-Christians, this holiday is now just about

Macy’s sales and a guy who likes to hang around sleeping children.

Now he just casually drops down the chimney since maybe the walkway is blocked

or there really are no doors in this poem because REALLY?! HANDLE IT BETTER!

Man’s dressed all in fur considering he’s no stranger to animal abuse 

He also seems high, smoking a pipe and laughing at nothing and wiggling like jelly!

Red ass nose, too, so perhaps he’s on the hard shit.

Finally, the narrator now states he realized Santa is ‘nothing to dread’

Which means that up until now, he had no idea what this dude was doing in his house

With his family nearby

Sleeping

Worse comes to worse, he’d just have to spar with A MAGIC PERSON ON DRUGS.

Good strategy, Dad of the Year!

After Santa doesn’t murder them and gives them toys and bounces

My stomach is filled with a lot of champagne and cookies

And I will have a fat hangover the size of Santa’s ass tomorrow

But I am happy and buzzed and hope you are too!

Because this season is fine when you have friends, family, and booze!

And after the last ten minutes of “It’s a Wonderful Life” 

And two glasses of Jameson

And now a Vin Diesel movie is on

I am sappy enough to say

I hope you have a perfect long weekend off and a very Merry Christmas

If that’s what the fuck you celebrate!

Happy Season to all, and to all a good night!

…but really just discover that there is no fucking way you will ever make a competent housewife one day, which only upsets your grandmother. You’re okay with it because the only two options from here are BRAVO REAL HOUSEWIFE and FOREVER BARREN. Bravo’s obviously first choice but according to some horror movie interpretations of children, many of them can start fires with their eyes because their dad is the Devil. And that’s no good for anyone. Is this modern woman empowerment? Mostly laziness, but whatever.

In this finest of holiday seasons, I spent most of today going to various grocery stores looking for my mother’s specific stuffing needs, getting mad at everybody in the grocery store, and failing at wrapping presents. Is anybody good at wrapping presents? I tried for about three minutes before I said ‘screw you reindeer paper, why you so thin’ and just threw everything into a cutesy Santa bag. Later, I got my mom tipsy off of two sips of DISARONNO sours. All I can think of when I see DISARONNO is (a) I am not classy/old enough to drink it and (b) that creepy lecherous kind of hot bartender in the commercials. She is going to be SO grateful on Christmas day to have a daughter who makes her a “NO MORE MICHAEL BUBLE MUSIC MIX.” I am a good daughter. Anyway, with all of this holiday happy cheer or whatever, I decided I would further the Christmas whatever and make cookies for my family. Not for creepy-break-and-enter Santa. Family! Everybody was shocked and scared to have their kitchen burned down tonight, but I insisted.

You see, I don’t MAKE cookies. I like cooking things, or as I call it: “throw shit into an oily pan and see what adventures unfold!!” I don’t like baking, mostly because all I can think of is how I’m not the kind of girl who is nearly organized and precise enough to do it right. I hate directions! Don’t tell me what to do, Ina Garten! Your denim shirts know not of who I am!  Anyway, I am aware of lots of lovely women who are great at making THUMBPRINT cookies and CAKE POPS and I admire them immensely because they will go far in life and I will buy cookies from delis forever and my house will never smell like cinnamon. As predicted, it did not go well:

How to make Cranberry White Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies:

The Right Way: After rolling up your sleeves and tying your hair into a cute and messy ponytail, you read the directions and do what they say. You adorably get a little flour on your nose while you mix the large bowl on your hip, and the house soon becomes fragrant with warm inviting cookies. You put them on a plate and people are excited to eat them. Somebody you don’t know yet will one day love you.

My Way: The first problem occurs when I realize that ‘soften butter’ does not mean ‘microwave cold butter on a paper plate until it kind of soaks through said plate.’ The second problem occurs when I decide to drink wine and eat spanokopita because spinach and feta fingers do not really go well with ‘making dessert.’ Later, I decide that going over to the computer and reading ‘the next ingredient is baking soda’ would simply be too hard, so instead I put in incorrect baking powder and did you know that ‘overbeating the fuck out of batter because a KitchenAid is fun to use’ is a bad idea? Well, that’s what my know-it-all baking friends said to me later. Whatever, I’ll just measure out the flour over an open utensil drawer and get the flour all over the forks and try to blow it out which does not work. And then I will get really tired of balling out little even balls of cookies, so I stop to watch a parrot sing “Bodies” and that Epic Sax guy rock out on the Internet for a bit. The cookies do not become the round flat normal cookie shape I have anticipated, just little messy balls of sadness. Probably because of the not following directions thing and the leaving them in three minutes too long because the big ones do not cook as fast as the little ones I have rolled. They taste like scones. Except maybe saltier and more painful. My parents pretend to like them, but as I shamelessly retreat to the corner of the couch with my drink, I suspect they begin the search for the three cows they will require for my seemingly necessary dowry. Nah, they really just prepare to buy me a family of cats I refer to as different Ms. and Mr. names. But you know what? I don’t even care! I ain’t never scurred! I make really, really yummy egg sammiches and ‘shit in my fridge I can throw into pasta’ pasta dishes. Plus I can BUY COOKIES. Fuck you, Betty Crocker. I’m sorry! You’re a lovely woman!

 I will eat these cookies tomorrow with my breakfast. But I will not be happy about it. 

I’ve mentioned ‘The Devastator” before. That lovely person who didn’t physically grab your heart out of your ribcage and stomp on it, but certainly the one who made you start using silly phrases like that seriously. I know you know who I’m talking about, and if you don’t, one day you will.

That “big” time you get your heart broken is kind of like the moment you first saw Bambi’s mother get wrecked by that hunter’s bullet. You are, of course, both Bambi and the child watching Bambi in this situation. (a) Bambi was a cute little cartoon deer who suddenly realized humans could be REALLY shitty, and (b) the child watching Bambi suddenly realized adorable lovely things could suddenly fuck you over right over to ‘terror town.’ The worst about all this is you were not expecting this pain, especially since you didn’t know to prepare for it in the first place. Nobody predicted the death of Bambi’s mother because nobody is that fucked up in the head to do so. Likewise, there you are jumpin’ around in happy meadow land with somebody who makes the sun brighter and your face shit grin like it’s high on the good shit. LOL! Surprise uppercut to the SOUL, commence!

The devastator is so devastating particularly because it tends to happen when you are stupid and young and relatively unequipped to deal with any kinds of OMG! emotions. Previously, everything slightly jarring becomes the ‘Apocalypse of the day,’ from prom dresses to acne to your parents making you come home at 11pm. You are a selfish piece of hormonal shit, so when you deal with something real and permanent you become a good ole fashioned basket case. A crazy screaming pile of laundry and tears. It’s ugly. I know this because at 17 I curled up in the corner of an American Eagle Outfitters and cried when “The Fray” came on the loudspeaker. Rock bottom has a new rock bottom, and it was me. And it was you, too. It really knocks you the fuck out, this kind of feeling. You cry like a bitch and are all like “how can I move on?!” in the kind of unending big way only being young will allow you the luxury of feeling. Losing somebody you love isn’t nearly as bad as learning that people you think you love can and will leave you. Sheryl Crow, the first cut IS the deepest! You saucy skank, you really got it!

Point is, I spent a long time writing terrible fucking poetry because of this Devastator. I spent way too long time chain-smoking outside college buildings, wearing their t-shirt to bed, and becoming a sappy-ass shitty human, too. But fuck you I was A KID. Eventually, as we all should, I pulled myself out of cry fiesta and learned the incredible joy of moving on and getting over something and being able to stand alone just fine. With the help of the 3 B’s: Best Friend (thanks, Bitty) Booze and Burritos, of course. Five years later, though, I bring up “The Devastator” not for nostalgia’s sake (I have no nostalgia for that shitwad) but to instead highlight 4 very important lessons I have finally learned and now want to express:

1. The Devastator sets a pretty serious foundation for your love life: Whoop-de-fucking-doo, because no matter how much you try to fight it, this person has now solidly set your five year plan on how you handle future relationships. Take a good, long hard look at how this relationship ended, because it is going to be a thing you remember a lot when you get into any others. Mine stopped calling. Biggest fear? TAKE A WILD RICE GUESS.  Yours cheated? GUESS WHO’S CHECKING THE EMAILS OF NEW LOVER NOW? A lot of these wacky insecurities in the future are going to be caused from the first time you felt so terrible you thought you would die of sad feeling and cry having. And it sucks, but until you finally have enough other terrible relationships under your belt, it’s something you just need to accept now. And you also need to accept it as something that you will eventually STOP doing, because you will.

2. You’re not insane: Nah. We all reach a pretty terrible low point when this happens to us. Curl up in a ball and sleep til 4pm. Cry when you get drunk or when you’re at Starbucks or any time at all. Listen to sad music and beat pillows up. It sucks. It hurts a lot. You’re not crazy.

3. It’s not the person, it’s the feeling: Eh, they weren’t that great. When you like somebody, even a little, you find things to truly obsess and admire them over. When you REALLY like somebody, you put all their little quirks and facial features on a pedestal and bow to it. NEWSFLASH: They were human. And they kind of sucked. Or they were decent. It doesn’t matter. They wren’t amazing, they weren’t the best, they weren’t even that good at sex or treating you or whatever. Seriously, I think about my devastator now and I kind of laugh at all the stupid lameo things I used to love about him. Ugh, his taste in music was TERRIBLE. Why did I put that on my I-Pod!? You’re not going to miss the person, you’re going to miss the feeling of never being hurt and being really excited about somebody you really like. End of story.

And finally, the most important lesson of all:

FUCK YOU.

You piece of selfish smelly shit! Fuck you for making us feel so terrible. Fuck you for making us scared or nervous or angry or making us build walls that Gorbachev has to tear down. Fuck you and all of you, always. You made us feel terrible, but you were just a blip in our life. It wasn’t even you, it was the general feeling you produced! Well, whatever. You weren’t that important, and I will be mad only at the fact that I held you in such high esteem. I refuse to remember you in any other way than ‘a bad idea.’ Seriously. Congratulations, you are no longer my devastator. You’re a drunken story to a new friend. Oh and if I met you now? Never would date you. SUCK ON THAT! 

The truth is this: I got over mine, I’m fine. You’ll get over yours, promise. Now, who needs a fucking drink?

Cosmopolitan never ceases to impress with the number of times it chooses to tell me to have sex in a hammock or send sexy text messages to a guy who is at work. If repetition didn’t exist, neither would this magazine. To be fair, Cosmo sex tips are kind of like a little compliment to me because they’re always assuming I have a boyfriend. Which I do, of course, because in my mind I’m dating two of the members of Lonely Island and a rich string cheese factory owner. They also think ‘Lesbian’ is the name of a chic Miami club in which they can meet men at. Anyway, the mag’s been doing a 77 sex positions in 77 days thing on their website, which is basic variations of ‘you don’t have to lay motionless during sex! Sometimes you can lift your leg up to the ceiling and spin around at a 96 degree angle while balancing on your head..oh whatever you’re tired just lay down.’ Anyway, at the end of this 77 day fuck journey, the writer decided to ask us readers to fill out a sex survey. I, being the CosmoGirl that I am, decided to comply:

1. How many times do you have sex on an average week? Does this change when you have your period?

The Cosmo Answer: I have beautiful relationship sex three to five times a week with the ex-rugby playing young professional who enjoys football, women who cross their legs, steak picnics, and being blonde. I do not get my “period.” I get my “menstrual cycle,” a birth-control induced grace period in which I am allowed to have three spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream and cry as much to Oprah as I usually do. My man does not enter the house at this time, he leaves on a 3 day football binge and finds my sexy notes in his briefcase.

My answer: On an average week?! What the fuck is THAT?! Surely you mean ‘every couple of months when I get into either some sort of non-labeled, stress-inducing romp fiesta with somebody’ OR when I get drunk at a party and make a horrible mistake with a friend?! What does sex feel like again JKJKJK TEARS?! But sure, sex on my period is fine if you don’t mind intercoursing with a full-blown demon who has the wingspan of a king-sized bed and the soul of a dragon who craves Taco Bell.

2. What’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex?

The Cosmo Answer: At my friends beach house in the Hamptons, in my friend’s brick-exposed master bedroom during a classy cocktail party with mushroom and bacon canapes, at a Holiday Inn on a road trip to a turquoise museum.

My answer: Any place where I’m sleeping with anybody who I’m not afraid will stop texting me. My own bed if it’s been made in the last week and I actually remembered to clean my room. Any place I’m having sex sober/kidding I mean at all.     

3. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever tried in bed? Handcuffs? Using food during the hook-up? A threesome? A sex tape?

The Cosmo Answer: One time, me and my boyfriend of six years took honey vanilla scented Yankee Candles and put them on the bed with satin bedsheets. We fed each other champagne and chocolate strawberries. I was wearing nothing but his work shirt and stilettos. Later we even did it doggy style! I think he might have pulled my hair, but that might have just been the Ecstasy acting up.

My answer: One time I had a plate of soy chicken nuggets in the bed right before me and another person were about to do it. If I had thought it was an acceptable action to take a bite during the said ‘doing it,’ I might have. Oh, and another time I was really bored during sex and the TV was still on so I ended up following a pretty good ep of The Office. I pretended to moan every time I laughed! Hey, Cosmo: I DON’T NEED FUCKING PROPS IN BED, MA BODY IS JUST FINE.

4. What’s the top thing on your sex bucket list? In other words, if you were going to die tomorrow, what would you want to try in bed tonight?

The Cosmo Answer: A bed wedding! I would wear the 3,000 dollar dress that I bought for our upcoming destination wedding nuptials, and you would recite how beautiful I am in our during intercourse vows. I would hold a bouquet of Kala lilies, and my friends would be crying silently on the side.

My answer: Wait. I’m dying tomorrow?! Oh hell, naw. I might be able to wrangle out a quickie or something, but my time will be well spent on some sort of roof deck chain-smoking (hey, I’m going to die), taking shots of expensive gin and eating plates of burritos with my very best friends. Sorry, sex. 

5. On a scale of one to 10, how important is sex in a relationship?

The Cosmo Answer: Whatever makes me sound like a modern woman with a variety of trenchcoats and pearls, a 9-5 job, and a sexual appetite approved by the ladies of The View.

My answer: It’s pretty high when I’m not hungry or there’s no good television on. Are you kidding me? If you’re on my damn couch and you’re laughing at my jokes..I’m going to wanna do it with you a lot. I tend to go on the Internet when I have stuff to get done in real life. Sex is a fine substitute for passing the time! GIMME IT.

6. What percentage of the time that you have sex do you climax? What about your guy?

The Cosmo Answer: I am able to have climaxes with the following three factors: (1) roses (2) endless love (3) I’m sorry, what is a climax?

My answer: Clarification: am I by myself or with somebody else? Because those are two totally different answers. Clarification #2: Not to be crude, but like, guy climax is when I can finally stop pretending to be into the sex, right? Because once I’m done, I’m like, DONE. 

7. Who in your relationship is more into sex—you or your significant other? Who initiates it more often?

The Cosmo Answer: MEN MEN MEN MEN MEN MEN MEN. Unless if it’s some sort of sexual innuendo via technology. Then it’s me.

My answer: I don’t know about this question. I don’t think it matters who sloppily initiates making out with somebody passionately until they invite you to a bedroom somewhere. Sometimes I leap on a guy like I am a mini alien who needs their life blood to survive. Sometimes I just smile at them with a kind of sexy/empty look on my face till they get the picture. Who keeps track? Wait, should I be keeping track? Is this another ‘deduce how much somebody really likes me thing?’ Oh, fuck you for that.

8. Do you have a “trigger fantasy”, ie something you think about that puts you over the edge?

The Cosmo Answer: Mild and romantic sex in an Italian villa with George Clooney. Slightly naughty (maybe with my pencil skirt still on) with my strong-jawed ex. A Renaissance princess in a large field with my unicorn nearby.

My answer: It’s the zombie apocalypse and I have a kitana and wavy hair that looks great even though I can’t wash it. OR getting a 500 dollar gift certificate to Trader Joe’s/Forever 21/Liquor Store. I think it would be hilarious to see Michael Caine do a Nic Cage impersonation. Or for Donnie Wahlberg to play Danny Bonaduce in a biopic. Is this about sex?

9. If you could hook up with one celebrity, who would it be?

The Cosmo Answer: Bradley Cooper.

My answer: Anybody but Bradley Cooper. HIS BLANK EYES SCARE ME.

10. If you could have sex in only one position from the Kama Sutra for the next 77 days, what would it be? What do you think your guy would choose?

The Cosmo Answer: Her answer: “The Emotional Hold Me For Hours Position.” His Answer: “Whatever, brah. Bang is Bang.

My answer: Her answer: “The 30 minute max, I get tired.” His answer: “I like her for her MIND, brah. Bang is bang.”

And what about you guys? Got any answers?

At this point, you seem to know a hell of a lot about me and yet I still don’t know anything about you. What a terrible relationship we’re having! I like you, baby, I just need to learn how to open up and listen! (That’s me being your cheating boyfriend, Brad, again) Anyway, I figure we can start this off by answering me a few questions:

If you want to, send me a little about yourself in my ask box. I’ll start following you if you would like me to (I realize I don’t even read enough blogs). As always, favorite food, favorite cheese, and favorite drink always are things I like knowing about people. I really wanna see who you are/why you read/what you like because you so damn loyal to this snazzy little piece of the Internet! And I want you to keep being that way, of course.

Most importantly, I’m leaving this open for responses. You read this blog and I wanna know what you want to hear about here. Let me know everything and anything: questions, broad topics, specific topics, whateva. TELLL ME I’M LOST WITHOUT YOUUUUUU.

What do you want to hear about?

Feeling the guilt of not posting in three days, I thought I’d just answer a question using only my ten fingers and my wacky-ass mind: 

Asked: How do you finally put a terminally ill relationship out of its misery?

Oh, I’m sorry, I was barely listening because I was too busy clinging onto all of the relationships I’ve ever had like they are my bedroom doorway and I’m six and my mom’s carrying me to bed when I have refused to walk there myself. Listen, I used to follow the Rose DuKate Winslet theory of relationships: NEVER LET GO. Kidding, because I am changed, and I will tell you why:

I changed when TBS did maybe sixteen people a favor and played that Titanic movie again and I watched it. All of a sudden, I realized that Rose didn’t ‘never’ let go. She was just saying that to make room on that damn door for herself! She let go until he DIED. Which, believe me, is not a ‘murder your significant other thing.’ It’s a ‘get out of your unhealthy relationship by starving it to death’ thing. Still sounds fucked up? Well, it’s not. I mean you should refuse to feed it. Right now, you’re breaking all the Gremlin rules (second movie reference, bitches!) and giving this relationship food for thought, snacks of over-attention, and full meals of ‘we just have this really tumultuous relationship where we’ll always make each other miserable because that’s love!’ And it’s gross! Don’t do it. You need to realize how terrible you are as a couple, and to do this, do nothing with each other for a night. Just sit in a room together and stare. You guys will soon realize how boring you are together when you’re not fucking or fighting. Don’t fight, which just feeds the passion. Don’t have sex, which feeds the comfort. Just stare at each other in the eye and realize how fucking boring you guys are when you are together. Really soak up how you have nothing to talk about. And realize how when you’re not dealing with how fucked up YOUR RELATIONSHIP is, the two of your are yams in a vegetable basket. BORING.

And don’t you DARE fucking say to me ‘it’s so great when it’s great!’ What? Because they took you out for a fucking movie and gave you a side kiss? PLEASE. Those “moments” that you are counting on are just five minute stretches before you two sit in your gelatin bowl of misery and hate each other again. It’s like the cig break at work: not that great, but better than what’s inside! If you’re always between fights, it’s a waste of time and it won’t get better! 

Listen, you’re smart. You know when a relationship is not working. Cut the chord! Let go of the Leo! Being single, you’ll soon realize, is not the worst thing in the world. It’s kind of fun! You WILL meet somebody else, and they will eventually suck too, so no worries! Plus, if you break up, you get a whole week of constant ice cream eating, mindless drinking, and friend attention to look forward to! Don’t postpone the inevitable. It’ll end much more yelly and whiny that way, with more tears and less dignity. Bow out gracefully. You know it’s over. Just remember: there’s at least six more terrible relationships to look forward to before you die/stop dating. Might as well put your feet in that freezing sea now!

Oh yeah. Recommend time: Click if you luf me. 

http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/humor/thefrenemy

GOOD JOKE: A LITTLE JON HAMM WITH YOUR CHEESE?! Spoiler: Not a good joke.

Ugh, I’m sorry I was gone for so long. But I swear, baby, I have good reasons and I’ll never do it again! There was no internet where I was staying! Well, there was, but me and the crew got faced all weekend with the band and I forgot. See what I’m doing there? I’m like your cheating boyfriend, Brad. And I was exaggerating. You see, I was really gone because after seeing the movie Eat Pray Love once, I thought “hmph. When I’m 40 and rich I will leave my husband in order to sex up James Franco then spend thousands of dollars on plane fare to eat pasta and find myself  I MEAN A MAN.” However, I’m an impatient person and I will never look as regal as Julia Roberts when I cry, so I decided to do it at only 22. And since I have no money and no husband to leave, my ‘me moment’ meant a weekend in a city three hours away that I just moved out of six months ago. Yet much like the book-to-movie, I too would wander the streets looking for my center in this mysterious and freezing East Coast wonderland! Seriously, if you guys haven’t done something like this before, you really should. If you sleep on couches, it’s pretty cheap, and you get back more refreshed and happy than when you left. Promise! Although I didn’t fall in love with Anton Chigurh, I did fall in love..with vodka….well..here’s a list of ten important life lessons I learned this weekend and I hope that they help you in your Oprah-approved journey:

1. There is such a thing as productive avoidance: I’m going to be honest. Whenever I have a particularly big problem I don’t want to deal with, I like to do a little thing called “sleep through everything.” These are usually problems I can’t really control or stop from happening like ‘bills, dating, the crushing weight of responsibility’ but it’s a way to cope. This makes people around me particularly concerned when I get out of my ‘just payed my 300 dollar college loan’ slump by waking up Saturday at 2pm smelling like gin and flannel sheets. Hide from the sun!  I’m an independent woman in a sweatshirt that she’s had since the fifth grade! Let’s watch in wonder as she eats an egg sandwich at 4:45pm! However, if you spend the small amount of bus fare to leave your place for a bit, you can wander around and go places and see things and not be such a weirdo. AND you can’t really THINK about your problems because you are not in the state that they reside in! Poof! It’s like they don’t even exist. It’s like a whole weekend under the covers but with booze and friends and a whole life out of bed! 

2. USE YOUR FRIENDS WISELY: Having the luck of getting to see two of my loveliest friend soulmates this weekend, I also had the luxury of describing certain situations and people in my life that they weren’t aware of. What I thought was functional behavior, bitches be shocked and appalled! And then I realized I had only talked about these things with a) people that were sick of hearing about it and b) my own psychotic ass. Nothing is more useful than having to summarize your life to people briefly who don’t know what’s going on in it. It puts things into massive perspective. HEED IT. THEY ARE WISE: Think you’re digging somebody? Describe them to your friend. “Yeah he’s a LADY murrrdderrrer but he’s so cute! Really, he’s cute!” Career change? “I want to be an evil bitch swan because of Mila Kunis now!” Weekend plans?! “I’m going to respect and admire Guy Fieri all Saturday!” If their eyes widen in terror, perhaps it is time to retreat, rethink, run away. They know you! Listen!

3. Nothing like a new booze/cheese discovery: Guys, vodka is not my favorite. More importantly, flavored vodka was cool when I was 19 and still excited about the world and being a lady but not anymore. Most importantly, Coconut flavored things taste like suntan lotion or Malibu(yah) and should be avoided. So, when somebody offered me Ciroc Coconut, I said “free booze, sure” but was prepared to wash it down with gin mouthwash. NOT SO, delicious, STRONG FUCKER. Vodka on the rocks? Now possible because of P. Diddy! And it is..fantastic. The kind of stuff you get effed up on but kind of in the fun giggly way. The best! Now, I finally like a flavored vodka without feeling like I needed to wear heels to the doctor’s office! This was as happy a moment for me when I finally tried FONTINA cheese for the first time. I ate like half a block in ten seconds. Seriously. Probably even the wax, I ate the wax.

4. You will never be a mysterious traveler: Or tourist, like in that shitbox of a crapfest The Tourist. Which has to be good because ANGELINA has a FAKE ACCENT in it so it’s ACTING and it’s ANGELINA. Well, yeah, I tried to pull the whole ‘I’m wearing mostly black and being mysterious’ visitor when I was in the city. My mental angle was ‘CIA hitwoman who likes eating bagels.” So I would go to places where all these fine pieces were up in the place who I assumed would be wondering ‘who is this girl who eats veggie cream cheese by herself with her legs crossed?! I bet she’s from Paris she’s so full of intrigue!’ and instead I just got cheese all over my cheek and my book. And that was it. Nobody noticed. You’re still the same everywhere. And I killed them all.

5. If you’re not sleeping in somebody else’s bed, sleeping anywhere else is the worst: It’s never comfortable. And no crotch touching makes it even less fun. It’ll never get better, those neck cramps.

6. You can really gauge a person by how they react to Intervention: If they are disturbed by your love of the show, they are normal person though you will not get along too well. If they feel bad for the people on the show, they are nice people that you should like. If they do not like the heroin scenes, you can leave your cat with them for a long weekend because they are not heroin addicts. If they love it and pour a drink, cherish them forever. 

7. Holiday SHOPPING is a form of torture: When I have money, I can’t really find anything that I want to buy for myself. When I don’t have money, every store is filled with amazing boots and cool hats and all the dresses that I love and want. The “Hey Alida’s broke let’s now break her heart now” collection. Yet when it’s holiday season, I have a decent amount of money to spend..on other people. But I just want to buy these things for myself! And then there’s the HOLIDAY MUSIC. ALIENATE THE JEWS! LETS HEAR GEORGE MICHAEL AGAIN! Why would you want it to fucking SNOW all the time?! I want to leave my house! Whatever, let me think about this while I wait on line with 35 kids screaming with snow on their boots.

8. Holiday PARTIES are the best parties: Why? Because holiday parties have another requirement besides booze. And that is COOKIES. So you’re taking care of both your drunk munchies and your drunk drinking at the same time! Nobody craves sugar cookies, but when they are on a big plate that is REQUIRED to be there because it is a holiday party, you bet your ass I’m going to skip the burrito on the way home and nosh on some crumbly pieces of baked butter for an hour. I will side eye that table till the cows come home! I wish every party required food! On occasion, you come across the rogue bowl of hummus every asshole sticks their hands in, but only at the holidays do you HAVE to have food. If kids parties, with their plastic bowls of Cheetos and Lays and Carvel Cakes also had booze, I would be happy forever. Or at least go to more parties.

9. Fuck Gloves: Gloves do shit. I can’t use my Ipod, I can’t scratch my nose, I can’t check my phone, and my fingers are still cold. They are like little strait jackets for both your hands and the things you need to do with your hands. They are worthless! They are only useful for losing one and then you have to spent ten minutes trying to find the one you lost. 

10. BARS SUCK EVERYWHERE: Listen, on the rare occasion that you meet some cool people at a bar, I say ‘hell hasn’t frozen over it’s just a couple of degrees colder there. Light jacket weather.’ Possible but not likely. So going to a bar no matter where your at, it is going to be a draining experience where the most fun is going to be when you’re getting ready. I love getting ready! I always wish I had a staircase to walk down in like a teen movie, but I only have a shot glass and some skanky skirt, so it’s not a transformation. Anyway, when deciding to go to a bar, assess your needs: want to meet douchebags who like sports? Go to a sports bar! Want to meet douchebags who like tattoos? Go to a cool dive bar! The possibilities are endless and endlessly terrible. It’s always best to just go home, hang out with good friends and chips and gin and watch GAMER with Gerard Butler. Although, you need to go to bars to meet people so you don’t fuck your friends. It’s a rock and a hard place, but if you hate sex you might just want to skip the bar. And if you want to hate sex, go to a bar. TOTAL LOSE LOSE! 

Tonight, I’m watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and thinking to myself a) These rich-ass skanks can’t even begin to handle their booze/bitch face the same way I can handle it and b) why don’t these fuckers eat anything?! They ‘nibble’ like bleached deer with botox. And then they topple over starving onto their pile of money...AND in this episode they’re complaining about the size of the drinks. Seriously, I almost had a ‘last straw moment’ with this franchise when one of the ladies turned down cheese dip with the kind of ferociousness that I say fuck yeah to cheese dip. They are like aliens to me.

The point is, I love eating, and I don’t REALLY understand people who don’t love it at least a little bit and don’t accept things that are mouth-delicious when they are offered to them. And this made me remember that in all of my rantings about cheese and booze, I’ve never really talked about one of the best foods known to man and that is sandwiches. SANDWICHES! Give me one person who doesn’t like a sandwich and that’s not even possible. It’s a lie and they are a lie, too. I’ve compiled a list of why I love them because I like talking about food after I’ve drank Jameson in the movie theaters during Harry Potter: SLICE THIS BOOK IN HALF: 

1. You can hold it to your heart: Not many delicious foods that I love are able to be held right up to me as if I am hugging it without it spilling everywhere. I hug my sandwiches because I am grateful that they are here with me.

2. Grilled Cheese: The only acceptable way to live a life of “i’m going to eat a pile of cheese now”. A TOWER. A CARB TOWER OF CHEESE.’ And the great thing about grilled cheese is it can class me up or class me down, either in the trashy drunken delight of Kraft Singles sandwich or the stick-up-my-ass gourmet brie and pesto brioche sammich. Although truthfully I always get boughetto with ma’ Yellow American but spreading dijon on the bread. OH! PLUS I get to pan fry that cheese and bread in butter first. My hips will thank me later. That’s not sarcasm they love and respect my dairy.

3. HANDS: I love eating with my hands almost as much as I hate cleaning forks. Sometimes I eat pasta or salad with them.  My hands are like little lobster pincers that are sad for me. This does not make me look ladylike. However, sandwiches I can happily eat with my ONE hand and type on my computer or hold a beer or give the thumbs down to anybody not enjoying a delicious food. And unlike pizza, which you should technically be able to eat with one hand until hot grease is on your lap, this utensil-free-plate-optional meal will not betray you.

4. You can be creative: Whenever I want to eat something for lunch, I open my fridge and pray I have two slices of bread. Then I just shove shit into it and call it munch time. It’s like the garbage disposal of cooking, it don’t matter what goes IN THERE it’s okay! Chips, roasted red pepper and muenster cheese? Fine! Leftover chicken, the last three spinach leaves, fourteen different kinds of mustard and marinara sauce? DO IT. The only correct recipe for sandwich is: two pieces of bread and some other shit.

5. Best meal for every meal: For breakfast, everybody knows a solid egg sandwich with cheese makes your day begin with sunshine and happy rainbows. OR a BAGEL sandwich with cream cheese and cukes or tomatoes. For lunch, don’t you worry, little lady on the go, this here cold cut sandwich has got your Chicos wearing back. Put that gogurt down! And finally, end your sandwich feast with a night of veggie burger, regular burger or parm sub. Isn’t it a rule that dinner is supposed to be hot?! You know..hot *wink*. Ugh, this is why I have sex like 3 times a year. But who cares about that when I can have sandwiches! 3x a day 365 days a year, and you never have to eat the same thing twice?! Take that, missionary position!

6. FUCK wraps: if it’s not a burrito, I don’t get why you’re rolling it up. I hate you, wraps. Wraps are like evil step-sandwiches that have the outer coating of spackle or thick cementy paper. Gross! Furthermore, Ceasar salad wraps kind of weird me out because it’s like why add the gluten roll-up? Why not just eat the salad? I never think this about real-ass bread sandwiches. Bread is always good.

7. Makes soup a feast: I really don’t like lunch that much. It’s like, okay I can’t really drink during it and I can’t enjoy everything that is all delicious breakfast food. So when I get to eat way too much during lunch, I get happy that I am tricking my brain into enjoying the middle part of the day since I hate daylight. And I occasionally like overeating, which you don’t usually get to do that during lunch. Anyway, when I get to eat a sandwich with some warm creamy soup, I feel like I can feel bloated and happy that I enjoyed the sun for a while. I really enjoy BISQUE because it’s like a hot vegetable milkshake. I love soup, but it never makes me full. I love sandwiches, but I also love gorging on lots of food. SUCCESS. SHAME?! SUCCESS!