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I’m going to preface this by saying that I know it is my second (indirectly, third) post about hating on weddings and if that bothers you, you can suck it and go back to Pinterest browsing, because it’s HAPPENING.

The other night I was hanging out in bed eating Sees chocolates and for some reason the news was on. My TV is rarely on any other station besides Bravo but I couldn’t find the remote (it was under my ass) so I let it slide while I polished off another delicious chocolate morsel.

I was distracted by this segment, which featured these awful couples who use the site gofundme.com to attempt to convince random strangers to donate money for their wedding ceremony. Did that get in the first time? THEIR MOTHER HUMPING WEDDING. Not their sick dog, or their failing liver, or the School for Kids Who Can’t Read Good…their stupid wedding.

Yeah, that’s totally where we should be donating our money. Screw cancer research! Well done, you self-absorbed pricks. The fact that the news put some positive spin on this shit is just a shining reminder of why I don’t watch it. God forbid you go to the court house or get married on your front lawn like regular poor people- just ask US to pay for it! Better yet, since you are so broke and basic, how about you just don’t get married at all?! You obviously can’t afford shit, so what, you get people who do have money to finance your big “pay attention to me” ceremony and then go register at Bed, Bath, and Beyond? Fuck these people, seriously.

Then this little wiener of a white guy comes on screen and says some crap like “I really think people want to see us happy”. You know what, no, we don’t. You know what people want to see? They want to see iPhone 6s, hover crafts, and for their friends and loved ones to stop suffering from bullshit diseases. I guarantee these stupid couples are the same ones who boo hoo about Obamacare and have no idea that the cost of college tuition has gone up 1000%.

Christian kids from my school use gofundme.com to send their biblical asses to 3rd world countries to build houses. I went on the home page yesterday just for shits and it was all about sick cancer kids and people who lost their houses to natural disasters. You know, shit that matters. THAT is what the website is for.

Little douche on the news, I just want you to know that you and your soon to be wife are an absolute waste of space for using that site for your own personal satisfaction. Are you going to make a new donation page when you need our help to afford your divorce lawyers too?

Mazel Tov, just so you know, YOU SUCK. And I’m done.

*drops mic*

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Bitch Tactics Volume II

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Bitches are really good at telling you how to dress, even if, like me, they dress like a total slob. It’s because bitches have your best interest at heart. We don’t want to tell you how fugly you are, but it’s our duty as bitches to help you out.

One rarely explored territory is the male bitch, aka my brother Ryder.

For months and months I’ve listened to my younger brother complain about how ugly girls my age dress. Since Summer is the riskiest time for hideous outfits, I asked him to help me out and tell me what ensemble choices my female readers should avoid this season.

We (ok, this is all him) have compiled a list to help keep you ahead of the curve on what’s just simply not acceptable attire. Take notes, ladies.

Ryder is really passionate about footwear:

“Boots just make you look like you want to be different. Those cowboy boots that come up to almost your knee are a huge NO. Like you’re trying too hard, you know they aren’t comfy and they make you look like a dyke.”

“Ugg boots make you look like you don’t shower or care about life.”

“Gladiator sandals just make you look like you have weird feet and you’re trying to hard again.”

“Slip on shoes with pointy toes gotta go.”

“Those dumbass socks that like leave the whole top of your foot open, what is the point? It literally grosses me out.”

“Socks that are bright colors, bitch that ain’t cute.”

…and outerwear:

“Any type of top with weird like loose straps. They make you look poor or like a drug addict.”

“Bathing suit tops that twist in the middle: ugly as shit.”

“Any shorts that aren’t tight. Are you serious…nobody wants to see you looking like a saggy booty.”

“Anything pink sucks. Pink is just an ugly color, it makes you look 5.”

Everything else that looks bad that he didn’t feel like explaining:

High-waisted shorts

Combat boots

Slip-ons

Hats

Turtle necks

Vests

One piece bathing suits

Stupid leggings that look like jeans

Wedges (“they are embarrassing”)

White shorts

Flip flops that aren’t Rainbows

 

Apparently bitchiness runs in the family. I always recommend taking advice from young teen boys- they totally understand the bigger picture.

Balls, Balls, Balls

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So I guess there’s this big soccer thing going on in Brazil right now and we’re all supposed to give a shit. I literally cannot find one ounce of space in my body that genuinely cares about who wins this thing, but I will be watching. Do you want to know why? Because soccer players are hot.

Soccer players are, without question, the best looking professional athletes around. They are shining examples of the human body in all its perfection; no other athletic activity today presents you with the glorious rugged, sexual energy emanating from the field of sports.

Basketball players are obviously too tall (and yes that is a thing), golfers are old, baseball players look like your dad’s friends, half of all football players are totally obese or will get fat after they retire, and hockey players have jacked up teeth. Rugby players ARE hot, but a little too bulky and most likely gay.

There are exceptions to all of these, of course, but there are no exceptions in the soccer world! Yeah there may be a butter face or two, but come on ladies- soccer players LOOK like athletes! They keep up with the latest hair trends! They have stamina! Their asses are rock solid!!!

The soccer player only has one downside: the drama. Anyone who has perfected the art of rolling around on the ground in fake pain and literally sobbing over a ball getting kicked into a net is going to pull some shit. Being the most dramatic creatures around, I feel like women can handle it, but it is an issue.

I actually had the privilege of dating a semi professional soccer player and let me tell you…it’s great.

In general, something about a naked man just makes me laugh and don’t even try to fight me on that because I know I’m not the only one. Once you date a soccer player though, (which you probably never will) you will find yourself requesting- nay, begging- that he walks around in the buff. Especially if he is from Europe where people actually give a shit about soccer because he’ll wear those tight little underwear…do you know what I’m talking about? Ah, memories.

Anyhoo, I highly recommend watching the World Cup this year, but definitely watch it from the comfort of your home so you can flip to something else during commercials and not be surrounded by soccer fans who, honest to God, are some of the most horrible people ever.

Since I am a Portuguese girl I’d like to give a shout out to the best looking (and most dramatic) team- go Portugal! Cristiano Ronaldo, please start scoring some goals so we can all enjoy you ripping your shirt off and sharing your perfect areolas with the world. Yay sports!

DILF, Please!

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I first realized the power of DILFs when I was about 19. I was working at the world’s worst tourist trap of a restaurant that was way too kid-friendly. There I was, standing at the host stand, pretending to work, when the most gorgeous piece of man meat walks in: perfectly dressed, dazzling smile, and big, sculpted arms holding a little curly haired blonde. He was so handsome, happy, and put together I almost didn’t realize the two additional whining children and the miserable looking woman behind him.

It’s not that my dad is a bad looking guy, I just always thought your sex appeal basically vanished when you became a father.  You know, like when khaki shorts and those hideous Adidas sandals (socks optional) are considered appropriate attire. Attractive older men are so much more enticing than women because when they look good they REALLY look good. They don’t have weaves and make up and botox keeping everything in place.

This guy would have been smoking hot in any situation, but the kids really took the temperature to a new level. The children were like a bio: ‘hey ladies- not only am I patient, gentle and kind, but my hardware is doing its job too.’ I spend the entirety of this man’s dinner watching him calmly order entrees for his family, clean up messes, and somehow not take his own life while his wife nagged him all the way through dessert.

Whether we realize it or not, men and women will make choices based off of our primitive needs. You make think you like a girl’s big ass because it looks good in well, everything, but in fact you are attracted to her child bearing hips. It doesn’t matter what your true intentions are- human beings procreate. It’s literally the only thing we’re good at. If natural selection would actually work with humans, this man would be a prime candidate for survival. So even though I have no desire whatsoever to have a baby, all my inner lady juices could focus on was that this foxy dad knows how to plant a seed. AND I LIKED IT.

For whatever reason (Dad issues?), I really like guys with emotional problems- family trouble, a dark past of some sort, crazy exes, whatever- bring it on. I don’t want to engage in the drama, I just really want to hear about it and see its effects. I will sit wide-eyed in bed for hours listening to some gorgeous man tell me about how he wishes his drunk dad would just say that he’s proud of him or that he gets serious social anxiety at parties.

As soon as his eyes gaze off into that black lagoon of internal struggle I turn into a cat in heat. That’s why the ex-wife factor doesn’t really bother me. And let’s be real, if you like DILFs, exes are the fun little cherry on top of your sexy dad sundae. You want an ex-wife if you want a DILF. Ex-wives give you a chance to shine. Plus they make it possible for you to enjoy your DILF without his minions. You want the ex-wife to be a good enough mom that she spends way more time with the kids, but not so good that your DILF praises her frequently.

I can’t speak for my fellow DILF lovers, but my adoration is strictly superficial. Your children are basically a prop to enhance your character. Obviously I want you to care about your kids, but I don’t want to like, get to know them. The real, literal baggage is where I struggle. I don’t talk in a baby voice, I don’t give motherly advice, I don’t know how to cook, and I don’t even know how to hold a child. And what if they’re teenage kids? They’re just going to be like hey, dad, nice whore. But the baggage is necessary! After all, how do you experience the hot dad without all the luggage that made him the DILF he is today??

DILFs are just plain great. They’ve seen it all and done it all; they’ve somehow managed to keep their good looks and vitality despite the exhaustive nature of children. They are providers, and they are care givers. They actually listen to you when you speak. Sure, from time to time a DILF may kiss you gently on your forehead and you’ll wonder if he was being affectionate or just mistook you for his kid for a second, but that’s alright.

So, are DILFs a tangible goal? For me, no. Realistically, I will probably never make major moves with a DILF. I am too young, too naïve, and no matter how much I bring to the table, (which really isn’t much) I will never understand the DILF. I don’t know what it feels like to raise a human, to be responsible for someone’s well-being, and I can’t even pretend like I do. The DILF and I will always be separated by an ocean of experience, which of course makes him that much sexier.

Some of my routine readers are probably thinking “Kaley, you wrote a post about how gross old guys are like a few months ago. And now you’re all into DILFs?”

Yeah, I know that, and my answer is that I don’t care. DILFs are a very special category of men, one that for many years, I’ve only admired from afar. And if I didn’t sample all the flavors, what the fuck do you think I’d write about each week? So just get off my back!!!

I realize that at my age, I should be concerned with really important things like vitamins or opening up a savings account, not enjoying DILFs. But hey, someone’s gotta do it. Truth be told, this past year has been a rough one for me. I’ve learned a lot, and mostly I’ve found that I’m just not girlfriend material- DILF or no DILF. I want to have the grown up fun without the grown-up priorities. I want sex to be the determining factor in my “relationship” but still have a fully clothed conversation over sushi from time to time.  Guys my age always think you’re trying to lock them down and “change them”, no matter what you say or do.

I realize and appreciate that my blogs will get supremely less entertaining if I turn into someone’s significant other, and I’m not ready to be just yet. So for now, I will continue to gather material the best way I know how and practice that F in DILF. (: Happy Father’s Day!

Great Expectations

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A friend and fellow blogger Courtney Jones recently posted a list of 25 things you need to buy when you’re 25. Luckily, I have one more year until the quarter life crisis, but as I read her list I realized that even though most of the things on there were common essentials, I was struggling with them. And the things on the list that I actually had purchased before (like toilet paper) were the very, very cheap versions. How did Courtney gain all of this extensive adult knowledge?  I feel like Justin Long in pretty much every movie he’s ever been in…I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Turning 21 was obviously one of my favorite times. I was surrounded by Australian strippers and alcohol; it could not have been better. After the big bash passes, however, you get so sick of the way your voice sounds when you say “I’m 21.” All I could hear was a stupid girl yelling “I CAN DRINK NOW. BUY ME A SHOT”.

My 22nd birthday was awesome because I got belligerently drunk in my favorite city with my favorite people. I spent the entire day and night alternately barfing, singing, and crying and no one judged me. When I said “I’m 22”, I could feel the sigh of relief from those around me, thinking: Ok, this bitch is going to be annoying, but at least slightly less annoying than a 21 year old.

Having sowed many of my wild oats in college, 23 was a very mellow year for me. I was so delusional that I actually thought I had met “the one” and had a romantic birthday. Do you have any idea how retarded it is to be in love at 23? Oh wait, that’s all of you. What a waste of a year.

As I encroach on the big 2-4 I realize that my “early 20’s” are falling behind me.  Now that I am in my “mid 20’s”, I can feel the unspoken expectations what it means to be a sort-of grown up, and I am absolutely, completely failing.

Friends, family, and co-workers expect me to have:

  • A career
  • A career with benefits
  • Knowledge of what benefits are
  • An IRA
  • Knowledge of what an IRA is
  • A savings account
  • Some type of talent, i.e. cooking, cleaning, knowing how to separate laundry
  • Enough maturity to not call a Starbucks barista a bitch
  • A boyfriend
  • Things to do on Saturday nights
  • A working knowledge of North, East, South, and West
  • Cash on me…all the time.

They also think that I should have an interest in

  • Children- other peoples’ or my own in the future
  • Wine that costs more than $4 dollars
  • Being engaged, wanting to be engaged, or caring about other people who are engaged
  • Interior decorating
  • Holidays
  • Phone apps
  • Guys my own age
  • Anything technology related
  • Calendars and plannners
  • Spirituality/My inner goddess

By now, I should be moving away from:

  • One night stands
  • Chewing gum all the time
  • Disney Pixar movies
  • Marathon watching YouTube cat videos
  • Keeping Up With The Kardashians
  • Stroller hatred
  • Sex buddies
  • The idea that one hour at the gym is enough
  • Going on boring dates because “at least it’s free food”

 

SOMEONE HELP.

Another One Bites The Dust

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Growing up, I had a tendency to argue. The words “firecracker” and “pistol” were often used to describe me. I had an opinion on everything and I always felt like everyone needed to hear it- and agree, of course. Growing up in a predominately right-wing conservative area was hard, but it also fueled my fire. It only made sense that I would end up in San Francisco, the liberal city of free love, gay love, and protest love. I definitely felt more at ease around all the free thinking hippies and proud rainbow flags; but an interesting thing happened: I stopped arguing. I stopped getting fired up. Perhaps this came with age, or maybe you just start to care a little less after the twelfth protest in a month, I don’t know.

My values never changed, mind you, I just no longer felt the need to shout them from the rooftops, to battle people. Opinions, whether you agree with them or not, are valid, and I learned to let everyone have theirs without judgment. It felt nice.  So I chilled out.

Just last night I was on a date with the most gorgeous man. It was our fourth or fifth time out together and I had been looking forward to our date all day.

When you like someone, and things are clicking, naturally you begin to talk about your passions and your opinions. When you take it beyond the superficial, it can become a really enjoyable part of the human experience. This guy is bright, sharp, and funny, so I figured we could have a pretty great conversation.

However, this particular evening I just wasn’t super interested in talking about anything heavy. It was taco Tuesday, he was rocking the man bun, and I was too interested in what was going to happen after dinner to dive into his topic of choice- the military.

Those of you know me know that I can get worked up if I’m pushed. I do still have that voice, and a lot of sass. Hello, you’ve read this blog I’m assuming. I have a tendency to speak without a filter, and I’ve gotten myself in trouble from time to time. But for the most part, these rants and raves don’t come without provocation.

San Diego is a military town. This beautiful hunk of a man has a military background. I have plenty of friends and acquaintances that have served and I have nothing but kind things to say about them and their line of work. Am I fan of war/violence? No. Do I like guns? Not at all. Do I appreciate their selflessness, hard work, and dedication? Without a doubt. That’s pretty much as far as I’ll ever choose to comment on this subject.

For whatever reason, my delicious man candy wanted to discuss it, so I did my best to tread lightly. When asked if I had ever dated a guy in the military, I gave a half-hearted “kinda…” (a one night stand with a Navy SEAL with huge pecs doesn’t count in my book, but you never know), and proceeded to say, “I didn’t think I’d ever have that much in common with one (BECAUSE: I don’t like violence/war/guns).”

HERE is the point where I should have changed the subject, gone to the bathroom, choked on my gum…anything. But because I was questioned further, I somehow ended up saying something along the lines of: “I was always just kind of bothered by the military recruiters on my college campus because I felt like they were targeting the brainless and it’s not really fair”. UGH. KALEY.

What happened after this statement is similar to what I’d imagine being sucked into a black hole is like.

Everything changed. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough, he was aggressive, and he looked at me with a blazing fire of hatred I had never seen.

I should NOT have said brainless, I know this. This was the trigger that ruined an otherwise good night. What I meant or should have said was vulnerable. Or maybe even naïve. Because I believe that you are, in that point of your life, very vulnerable, and very naïve, and recruiters have to know that. I felt that way when I started college! You’re figuring life out, you’re making choices, and you don’t know what you want.  I, in no way, shape or form, think that people in the military are unintelligent. Far from it! I’ve called myself brainless on numerous accounts and I definitely do not mean it the way he took it.

Unfortunately, when you say something that hurts someone, they don’t care what you meant, they care about what you said. And I said brainless. And I regret it.

Jonah Hill does not hate gay people, and Justin Bieber does not want to be part of the KKK (I hope). Much like Jonah Hill on Jimmy Fallon the other week, my eyes filled with tears and I apologized profusely. My intention was never, ever to offend ANYONE. There was nothing I could say to change his mind, though, and he icily cut the date short, probably never to be seen again.

I am not Justin Bieber, I am not a celebrity, I do not feel immensely responsible for everything that I say because I do not live under a microscope. To quote the handsome man who now hates me, “You’re a writer, you should know better.”

I was asked a question and I answered it, plain and simple. I said a really stupid word that I did not mean. I apologized, and I meant it. But, as a writer who should “know better”, at what point do I stop speaking my truth? When do I sacrifice the opinions and words and thoughts that make up the parts of me? How far do I go before I realize I’ve offended everyone? Should I apologize for the words that I say, or should I apologize for the way you perceive them?

I don’t have a Delorean, so an honest apology is all I can do. If people want to make websites about how much they hate me, or end a date before the tacos even arrive, that’s fine. You have that right.  But I woke up this morning with a pit in my stomach and I know it’s not because I didn’t get to finish my margarita.

I don’t ever want to hurt someone’s feelings with the things I say or write. I appreciate being called out, and I take everyone’s opinions into consideration. That being said, I think that someone who wants to date me will probably have to have a thick skin. They’ll need to handle my lack of filter better. That doesn’t mean they have to love it, by any means. They can challenge me, educate me, debate me- I encourage it. I just don’t want to lose a good person over a mistake.

My honesty is what makes me, me. My poor word choice assists in defining me too. These could be my biggest virtues or my biggest faults, I don’t know.

I’ve sabotaged a lot of good things in my short life, but this was the biggest and most surprising thus far. I’m never going to stop writing, and if anything, I will probably say less stupid things, but I can’t guarantee the elimination of poor word choices altogether. All I can do is apologize and try to be better.

Thank you to everyone who has put up with my mistakes and shortcomings, and stuck with me through them. If anyone has any future dating advice for me I’d be happy to hear it.

The Gym Is Horrible

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Finally settling in to the eight month mark of my break-up, I decided I should probably do something besides watch Vanderpump Rules all day while binging on Cheez-Its and white wine.

Normally this behavior wouldn’t have carried on this long, but all of my friends are consumed with their functional relationships so I had to pull myself out of the trenches solo.

Getting a gym membership was the only thing I could think of to get me out of my slump. Ok, that’s a lie, the first thing I thought of was: “the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else”. But then I looked in the mirror and decided I should probably go to the gym first.

My endless amounts of pent up anger and slowly-but-surely shrinking thunder thighs has made the gym a pretty positive experience for me overall.  However, even though I am now a gym regular, a few annoying thoughts always find their way into my little blonde head.

My semi-gay tendencies: I’m pretty sure that I’m not gay, but I do get really distracted by females at the gym. They’re all either so smoking hot or so disturbingly fat that I end up zoning out on the treadmill staring at them…wondering…does my ass look like that? Is she wearing underwear? Should I be wearing underwear? Are those Lulu Lemon pants? They look good. I can’t afford those. But would my ass look better if I had them? She’s not even sweating. I probably have so much ass sweat right now. Dear God please don’t let anyone take a picture of my ass sweat. How long have I been on this stupid fucking Stairmaster? 7 MINUTES?!

My heterosexual fears: I don’t care how desperate my love life gets, I will never associate with guys at the gym if I can help it. You’d think that a makeup- less face covered in sweat with headphones in would deter douche bags the other way but NO. The gym is full of old dudes in short shorts, top heavy guys with show muscles and chicken legs that are grunting WAY too much, and packs of Philippino guys in neon tank tops with stupid sayings that I always accidentally make eye contact with.

Latin Fire: I’ve watched enough episodes of Dancing With The Stars to know that dancing can really trim your waistline, so I have no shame in taking a weekly Zumba class or two. However, the territorial Latina women have a claim on the front row, and accidentally bumping into them turns a Tuesday evening fiesta into a terrifying experience. WHITE PEOPLE: HANG IN THE BACK.

Speaking of Zumba…This is my own fault for having such high expectations of entertainment value from the gay community, I just don’t like gay male instructors. All they do is check themselves out in the mirror and give you a half-hearted “good job ladies” after four back-to-back Enrique songs.

Being Uncomfortable:  The other day I was on the dreaded Stairmaster when I happened to gaze behind me, only to see a fifty something year old staring up at my ass, smiling. HOW LONG HAD HE BEEN STANDING THERE? I was hanging by the class room holding my yoga mat when a douche with a cut-off tank top felt it appropriate to ask me if I was going to yoga class. He spent the next three horrible minutes calling me Haley and looked genuinely surprised when I sprinted to the opposite side of the room to put my mat down.

Wondering if I’ll Really Go Back: After experiencing a legitimate fear of public puking and whip-lash from my first kickboxing class, I really needed to re-evaluate my life when I felt pure joy hearing the huge black instructor yell “good job white girl” when I hit the punching bag with the strength of a fetus.

Ok sure, these problems may be specific to me, but as far as I can tell, the gym is a just a bunch of unanswered questions:

Why is that guy wearing a beanie?

How do I use this machine?

Is my crotch supposed to feel like that?

Why is that girl wearing so much make-up?

Do I really have to walk all the way to the bathroom to adjust my thong?

How see-through are my pants when I squat like this?

Did someone seriously just fart during the nap time part of yoga?

Why do I have to wipe down the treadmill? I barely touched it.

REALLY?! THE FOOD NETWORK?!

Does anyone have all the answers? If you do, I’m sure you use hashtags like #fitlife and I don’t want to talk to you anyway.