You Should Talk About Going To Therapy
You see a therapist? You must be Woody Allen. You must be a navel-gazing lunatic. You must be an unbearable human being.
You see a therapist? You must be Woody Allen. You must be a navel-gazing lunatic. You must be an unbearable human being.
The only good reason to go into debt is for traveling. Not Isabel Marant boots or expensive groceries.
The aloof noble guy you always lust after from a distance. Like Prince Harry — only animated.
“Hey Mom, I freaking love you, Mom. Mom, mom, mom, I wish you were here right now so you could rub my back and massage my scalp. No, I’m not drunk! Why would I call you if I was drunk? I’m legit so insulted right now. Wow. You think that little of me. Good to know. I’m hanging up.”
Look at all these names in your phone. You are so popular. You know people. Why are you coming up short? Why is there such a gap between the people you know and the people you can rely on?
What the hell am I supposed to say to a story about someone I don’t know? “Ooh, Karen is moving to Chicago? That’s so… Karen of her!”
Say goodbye by turning your cheek in bed. Say goodbye when you accidentally tell someone you’re single. Say goodbye when you start to think of your grocery list during sex.
When we’re in public and we spot a fit dude with chiseled abs, a pec-tacular chest and no shirt, it’s easy to say, “What a tool/douche/showoff/shmuck, etc.” But what if that man isn’t built like a Greek god? When a pudgy, doughy-bodied dude goes shirtless, we don’t say a word.
One of you may have been the turtle — adding two or three to the bed post every year for the past 10 and the other the hare — wilding out freshmen year in what many describe as a “sexplosion.”
So inaccessible. So dark. So…guitar-playing. Break my heart, Trent Lane. Break all our hearts.
If I had the answers I’d be writing self help books and giving motivational speeches across the world. I wouldn’t be an utterly clueless 20-something. I would be someone else, somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t a classroom.
At some point, best friendships just become a giant amalgam of inside jokes, moments that have passed between the two of you and have flowered into their own language, a sort of code that allows you to experience life through a shared perspective.
A pretty song is one that you play in your kitchen, stirring onions that are just starting to crack in the heat of bubbling oil, the sun setting through the western window of your apartment.
Why this person, why right now? Don’t get married because there’s a child on the way or because it makes sense financially or because all of your friends are wifed up and you’re the last man standing — it sounds stupid and obvious, but people hastily marry for the wrong reasons ALL. THE. TIME.
Getting burned by the person you’re dating sucks, but your consolation prize is free license to OD on angry chick music for the next 6-8… years.
I’ve learned that the reason why going out to eat tastes so much more delicious than anything I’ve ever made in a kitchen is because they cover everything in butter. Why does my prize tuna steak gleam in the sunlight? Because Mrs. Butterworth stuck it between her butt cheeks before it was served to me.
Throughout my life, I’ve been friends with straight dudes who have treated me like a novelty. It’s clear that I’m there to be the gay friend who makes them feel better about themselves for being so open-minded. “See? I hang out with gay dudes because I think they’re cool. I’m very progressive!”