In order to avoid everything Adele-related though, we have to realize that happiness is not a given. We can’t be living la vida rom-com every second, so when we DO wake up happy for no particular reason, you gotta grab it and hold on for dear life. Keep the momentum going. I feel like when people are in a good mood, they are always expecting some sort of crash.
I had just spent at least an hour watching her soul disintegrate before my eyes and couldn’t bear to witness the final nuclear meltdown. It made me feel bad and stuff. Like ew, gross, feelings are gross.
Realize that your ex-boyfriend is about to turn 40. Think about what it would be like to still be together, in a purely “Wow, I would be a 25-year-old dating someone who’s forty” kind of way.
I live way out in the suburbs, perhaps not in my mother’s basement, but she is very close by. My favorite shirt is from the Hard Rock Cafe. I’m desperately afraid to try new things, in life, at work, and in bed.
[FIRST NAME] began practicing yoga in this lifetime in 2008. She began teaching in 2010, concurrently with her expulsion for [NAME OF DRUG] use at [UNIVERSITY NAME], a small liberal arts college located in New England.
The year is 1914. The location, outer space. Tensions are running high between Mars-tria and Germoony. The United Asteroid Belt of America tries to remain neutral, but the murder of Spaceduke Franz Ferdinand touches off an intergalactic conflict that involves all corners of the galaxy.
On this seemingly endless string of first dates, I’ve picked up a few ideas about dating (only to forget them 48 hours later). So, without further ado, I offer you the Quarter-Lifer Who’s Never Really Done Much Dating but Now Finds Himself Thrown into the Romantic Deep-End’s Guide to Dating, for the Neurotic Self-Saboteur in All of Us.
You can set an alarm, mark it on a calendar, tattoo it on your skin and still the last time doesn’t need your permission. What you count on is that you have the power to end things, to label people ‘never again,’ to say farewell forever and mean it.
Vodka has been my go-to Valentine for as long as we’ve known each other, but I make sure to treat it properly every day of the year, not just when it suits me. I don’t know if I’d be as romantic or idealistic as to say it was love at first swig, but we’ve definitely built a solid relationship throughout the years.
If you are the kind of man who, on his way out for a night on the town or an afternoon with friends, decides to finish his otherwise respectable outfit of decent jeans and a well-cut shirt with a pair of scuffed New Balances, ugh.
Inside the tree-house, we were outside the reach of parents and siblings, school and schedules. Inside, we created worlds of make-believe: grocery stores and restaurants, witches’ covens and fairy empires.
I woke up the next morning on a couch in the laundry room, three floors down from where I lived. I was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
I feel sorry for ugly people. Actually, that’s not true, but it’s a thought I deliberately generate sometimes in order to feel like I’m a good and caring person.
My condominium is spinning. I may have vomited a little bit inside my mouth, which I intuitively swallowed like some money shot in the ongoing auto-erotic porn of my life.
This got me wondering just what it is that makes musicians cool. I’m not talking about Prince, Al Green, or Debbie Harry here — I mean awkward white guys like myself.
Received a text message, “Will you bring the scratch tickets.” Responded with non-sequitur, “He hasn’t called yet but I’m blogging about it.”
No one is ‘shouting.’ No one is ‘being ironic,’ and those who comment on the tonal choices people make in the use of text just kind of seem really inhibited or legislative.
Paige Michalchuk — You’ve been prescribed what people would deem “fun” pills but refuse to share them with friends because you “actually need them.”
For a long time, we discussed the improbable vitriol that people level against each other online. Personal attacks from people who don’t know each other. Vicious professional critiques from folks with no background in the field they’re commenting on.
Let me start by saying that I like coffee. Not love, because I don’t equate my feelings for it with things that are truly important, like my family, friends, or Sour Cream and Onion Pringles…
“No” is a simple two letter word but when we’re delivering it, it often sounds like we’re attempting to say onomatopoeia or “Susie sells seashells down by the seashore.” Difficult and long, our tongue trips up on the letters before we finally give up and push it aside. Why is it so hard to say something simple though?
She will tell you that raising a baby as a vegetarian is child abuse in the same breath as confessing she used to lock her own children in the closet.
A photo of some acquaintance’s irrelevant child on Santa’s lap? Insert two kittens swatting each other with their tiny paws. In fact, paste them directly over the little boy’s dumb face. Enlarge them to cover Santa’s face too, to cover the sister standing nearby, to consume the entire photo — yessssss.
When she came back in, I immediately made two things clear to her: 1. I’m gay and 2. I’m stoned on Vicodin. When she had heard that I took some painkillers in preparation for my wax, she started to laugh hysterically and talk about how much she loved Vicodin and what a good idea it was to take it. “NOW YOU WON’T FEEL A THING!” Thank God. She gets me!
In my mind, I ooze charm and coolness — there is never an occasion in which I’m not a wink and a subtle nod away from going home with seven European male models. In my mind.
It is odd yet existentially endearing, perhaps even beautiful, to think of how a group of strangers who would otherwise never share a silent minute or two in a metal box now have this moment together, and to dismiss this moment as either a modern inconvenience or banal imperative throughout their day, into the week.
It makes me ask, it makes everyone ask what is “Jägermeister” really? Physically we know, but what is the image of Jägermeister and what does it bring out of the text? What is the enigma of “plastered,” and how can we bring it back to our framing of personal reluctance? Try to avoid discussing intent.
I woke up this morning wanting to go home. I want to see wide open skies, and rolling hills, and bathe in the scent of freshly cut grass streaming in through my open car windows, one of the sweetest smells there is…
Admittedly, the roofie analogy may be a bit hyperbolic. After all, patients of sedation dentistry — unlike college freshman — are well aware of the pharmacological agents they’re taking, and the intended effects. But you get the picture.
Stop checking your email because you know it will just be your friends asking you if you’re okay, and you don’t want to admit that you really aren’t but know they won’t believe you if you lie and say you are.
People have very clear ideas on what abuse is. Abuse is physical, or abuse is between man and woman, or abuse is between parent and child; abuse is verbal, mental; abuse happens in romantic relationships and marriages and in between the walls of a house where no one can see in. But abuse is not just that.
You want to be “stable” and see yourself make real progress. You would love to find the key to adulthood (Um, I think I saw it at Crate & Barrel next to the colanders) and not want to get drunk at happy hour anymore. It’s quickly turning into unhappy hour for you and you’re trying hard to not become a casualty of your age.
And no, not Beyonce or Lady Gaga or whatever other pitiful facsimile of a Diva our generation has managed to scrounge up, I’m talking about real ones. Tina, Whitney, Barbra, Cher, and — in my opinion, most importantly, Celine.
“…You are a panhandler, begging for anything, and I am the man walking briskly by, tossing a quarter or so into your paper cup. I can afford to give you this. This does not break me. I give you virtually everything I have. I give you all of the best things I have, and while these things are things that I like, memories that I treasure, good or bad, like the pictures of my family on my walls I can show them to you without diminishing them. I can afford to give you everything.”
Okay, guy. Sure. But who’s trying to give you kids? Is this happening? You’re not married or in a relationship. Where is this pressure coming from? Are there people on the street just pawning their children off on you?
Things will be even weirder when I see you at that next party, whether it is tomorrow, next week, or next month. We will give each other a nod from across the room, maybe a little smile, and go about our business. I am not going to let you hold me because I do not need one more stranger who knows every crevice of my body. Or who thinks they know a thing or two about me.
This is a letter of apology for the terrible sexual intercourse we’re about to have. I just wanted to take a moment to accept full responsibility and provide several philosophical justifications for a night that you and your friends will undoubtedly laugh about for years to come.
This phenomenon is one that the eating-disordered are all too familiar with. Only in our case, of course, the fear is broader and more all-encompassing: we fear we are imposters at life; that in some generalized galactic sense, we don’t really belong.
You used to have all of me and now you have nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even a pinky toe. You could touch my neck/ my butt/ my ear/ my bellybutton whenever you wanted. You could’ve cried to me in bed and I would’ve been like, “OMG BEB! What’s wrong? Tell me more!” You could’ve gotten me to move somewhere like Montana with six roommates and I would’ve been like, “Um, okay…”
A vacation period as defined by therapists and couples counselors is a time frame that generally occurs at the onset of a romance. It is thought that its actual length is dependent on the two individuals involved — one couple’s may last a week while another’s lasts for a year…
And if you’re asking, “Am I eating that?” as in ‘the rest of that,’ I have to wonder if you’re inquiring because you think I’ve had enough already, or because I’m eating too slowly for your liking, or because you want what’s left of my dish.
Fantastic freaking freedom! The lights flooded back on. Good or bad days, they were all mine. I was the only driver of this party bus.
Be active on Twitter. Let people know that you’re a person who does things. Cool things! Make sure to tweet about the amazing dinner you had with your best friends. It was a potluck in Brooklyn and you brought the kale! Neglect to mention/ tweet what you did afterwards, which was cry three solitary tears while watching Felicity on Netflix and eating an entire sleeve of Joe-O’s.
It is as though they are less a person and more an amalgam of everything they have done, everything they mean to you. And when you look at them, across a table or while they’re still asleep, there is so very much there to see.
The woman squirted a warm, blue gel onto my boob, and proceeded to rub one of those x-ray sticks they use to tell pregnant women if they’re having a boy or a girl all around my chest. I did not laugh even though it tickled like crazy. She then lingered around several areas of the boob and took what I believe were photos based on a camera-like clicking sound.
The first and only time I voted was in the 1988 presidential election. I clearly remember walking in that little private wank booth and looking at this strange paper on which I was to mark my selection for this or that candidate. I remember feeling so small, so irrelevant, the process so dehumanizing.
Andrew WK is more than just the sum of his parts. His energy, attitude and fierce positivity have all participated in solidifying his status as a hard-partying rock star, but it’s been his unwavering loyalty to his fans and his overall mission that have brought him success in the worlds of music and business…
Billy Crystal’s monologue will contain satanic messages if played backwards.
My overwhelming thought when I saw Walk the Line, the story of Johnny Cash’s career, his self-destructive lifestyle, and how the love of a good woman saved him, was Women like me do not need to see stories like this.
You’ll learn skills you never wanted to have, and the time you used to spend making art will now be swallowed up by the endless task of marketing yourself in a world of seven billion voices, all shouting at once.