Stupid Inspirational Quotes

Despite the fact that I’m a writer and lover of books, music, poetry, etc. I’ve always kind of hated quotes, especially inspirational ones. I’m not just talking about the terrible quotes people put on repurposed wood in their home like “Live, Laugh, Love” but just any kind of seemingly helpful phrase folks will throw around whenever you’re in a time of crisis. The only quote I kind of like is: “it is what it is”, because like, it is…what it is.

Anyway, recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about the notion that “time heals all wounds”. As a person who has been mentally and emotionally wounded quite a bit, this thought is something that I often return to, as I’m always curious if it’s true, and in what way. After all, if people are going to keep saying the same stupid thing to you over and over, shouldn’t there be a nugget of reality in there somewhere?

It occurred to me, quite randomly the other day, that I no longer remembered the name of the girl my husband had an affair with. It was interesting to me that this name, a name I had previously hated, a name that circled my mind over and over like a rusty old record, had suddenly slipped out of my brain. Truth be told, I even strained my mind to recall it, but I couldn’t. Not even the first letter. While I’ve done a pretty good job of cutting myself off from things that may remind me of my ex, and the pain associated with him (not an easy feat in the age of technology), it only made sense me to that the simple passing of time had removed this person’s name from my memory. I don’t know if I am healing yet, but slowly and surely, I am forgetting.

What I haven’t forgotten, though, is exactly how many glasses we had in our cupboards when we shared a home. I remember the way his shirts smelled, and which ones were his favorite. I remember exactly the way his palms felt when we held hands, or when he touched my face. I remember everything about us, and I think about it almost every single fucking day.

Whether it’s a bad romance, a death, a pet, or a friendship that ran it’s course, you do eventually stop crying. You do pick yourself up off the floor, you talk it out, you return to your life. No one tells you exactly how long it will take before your routine continues, before your bones stop aching, but they do. They just do. It’s the waiting part that sucks.

Having depression follow me around like a needy cat for most of my life has caused me to seek out various solutions to sadness, and the most common practice I utilize is distraction. I just throw myself into a variety of jobs, extracurriculars, or creative projects until I don’t have the energy or time to acknowledge my sadness. I would hardly call this a path to healing, but it works in its own way.

And isn’t that what we’re all kind of doing with our pain? Pushing it to the back of our mind, hoping we forget about it eventually? What this shitty little quote fails to mention is that though we may not outwardly be a mess after a few weeks or months or years, the person you become after trauma is not the same. I don’t look at men the way I used to. I don’t see a young, smiling, open, potential partner anymore (if I can even muster a crush these days). I see someone who will lie, who will cheat, who will cause me pain. Even more so, I see this changed me: someone who is covered in thorns, who doesn’t want to be touched, that is ready with a brick wall of sarcasm and nasty comments to prevent anyone from getting in.

I’ve seen too much now, and I’ve felt too much now, to ever be able to hug someone of the opposite sex without internally shuddering at the thought of what they might do to me and my heart.

Yes, it’s going to take more time. It always takes more time. And maybe there will be that super special guy that just makes all of those terrible feelings disappear like the name of the person who, not so long ago, contributed to making my then-life so terrible.

Time doesn’t heal you, it distracts you from the pain until you forget about it, and you eventually feel brave enough to let another version of that pain come for you again. I guess that quote is just too big to put on a throw pillow.


What a Baby

I’ve been complaining a lot lately. Not so much complaining, per se, but voicing my annoyances with my life out loud. Being sad is an emotion I understand internally, but have always expressed in a really weird way externally. I have tried really hard on multiple occasions to cry from sadness because I felt like I was supposed to. Of course I was devastated when my childhood dog was blindly running into walls and we finally made the call to put him down. However, I sat there on the floor, holding his paw, my eyes as dry as they’d ever been. The other day I finally went through my phone and started to clear out all of the photos of me and my ex husband. I didn’t shed a tear. Even when I made the decision to walk away from my marriage, to pack all my things and move in with friends, they’d linger in my doorway, awkwardly anticipating an emotional breakdown of some kind from me. But I never had one.

Oddly enough, I cry about all kinds of other things. I cried when the guy I liked made fun of my pancakes. I cried when I got lost on the way to a job interview. I cried when my Mary Kate and Ashley doll’s sweater didn’t button correctly.

I spent most of last week laying in my room with the blinds drawn, drinking wine from the bottle, waiting to cry. I was upset that I had lost my job, that my plans for the future were drawing closer than I had planned, that I was car-less, money-less, and just a general loser.

At this point, anyone who knows me has lost complete interest in this list of grievances because they are lame (the grievances, not the people). I’m aware that they are lame. I’m aware that they are fixable. I could easily still be celebrating my grad school success and not watching reruns of Will and Grace trying to cry like a normal sad person.

For whatever reason, my own body and mind won’t even allow me to victimize myself. I tried to express my concerns to a friend and I quickly began to grow irritated by the sound of my own voice. I didn’t even feel bad for myself anymore.

When you become so highly self aware, it’s nearly impossible to be a victim, because even you know WHY things are happening the way they are, and more importantly, WHAT to do about it. In terms of self care, I’ve done nothing. In terms of financial planning, less than nothing. I’m fortunate that I still have some friends and family that will tolerate me when I’m down, but trust me guys, I know…I need to get ahold of myself.

The truth is, I am sad. I will experience a deep, crushing sadness that takes over my frame multiple times a year- sometimes multiple times a day. I’d venture to guess that a lot of people who struggle with mental illness feel irritated by their own emotions, and that only makes said negative feelings stronger. Not knowing the root cause of pain, anxiety, exhaustion, stress is a personal hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But this time it’s different because I understand that my sadness- today- is simply caused by a lack of control. Things didn’t go my way.

As I continue to venture through this weird life, I must consistently remind myself of where my worth comes from. It comes from me. Not a car, not a job, not a bank account, not a boyfriend  or husband (or lack thereof).

My tear ducts may be totally disfunctional, but the rest of me isn’t…yet. Of course I’d love it if everyone babied me and told me how unfair life is, but I think we all know (myself included) that that is not the way to success. I want to be held, I want all the answers given to me in a gentle way, I want my toy’s accessories to work properly. Better yet, someone just fix everything for me!!!!!

For whatever reason- random chance or the universe in motion- this is the hand I was dealt this time. It’s tricky and it isn’t fun, but I’m capable. I always have been, and I always will be.


I Am Not Nice

It’s my sincerest belief that I was born into this world irritated. Later in my life, I was told by my parents that I didn’t cry when I arrived; I looked around, wide-eyed and uncertain, probably thinking in my tiny baby brain: this is what I have to deal with for the next few decades?

I’ve since attributed a lot of my less-than-pleasant behavior to my ugly duckling syndrome- a feeble attempt to explain my discomfort and lack of patience around others, to which most people say, “awe”, as if they understand. And maybe they do. However, I wasn’t nice even when I was cute. My uglier years didn’t kick in until around 2nd grade, so I had plenty of non-hideous times where I could have been sweet, shy, and understanding, but alas I was not.

I dumped my preschool boyfriend Tony due to a black eye he received from his older brother right before our big holiday musical number. I didn’t want to be seen in pictures with him, and I felt like I was ready to move on.

I often corrected my parents’ reading skills when they attempted to skip over a few pages during nighttime story sessions. I would loudly groan when my fellow first graders couldn’t properly spell “stomach” and I once sat in the back of class rolling my eyes after smacking a few male classmates with my heavy lunchbox. My only excuse for my actions was that “they deserved it”.

Though I made a concerted effort to fit in junior high and high school, it was evident that they could all see right through my contact lenses, the highlights, and Hollister tops. I just didn’t care to be there. Everyone was bothering me, I already had everything figured out, I didn’t give a shit.

It would be easy to say that I was bullied because I wasn’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or any of those things, but that just wouldn’t be true. The fact of the matter was, I was mean. I remember attending a party thrown by one of my high school classmates during college winter break, and a girl who I never got along with stated that I was “acting like I was better than everyone”. My response? “I am better than everyone”.

Now that I’m older and arguably not hideous, it’s been much harder to make sense of my rude behavior, my disinterest in children or the holidays. It’s hard to go on a Bumble date or meet someone at a gathering and say, “Hello there! I don’t get along with most people!” or, “I’m not smiling because not only am I not happy, but I want to portray to you that I don’t want to engage in conversation!”.

If you’ve grown up in Southern California like I have, you’re probably aware of the standard residential expectations: be fit, be healthy, be happy, be kind. Despite my 27 years of life, I haven’t particularly managed to succumb to any of these pressures. I like to eat burritos and sleep, I’m rarely in a super good mood, and I don’t want to be nice to people that are walking slow or can’t figure out the difference between their, there, and they’re.

I’ve been fortunate enough to find friends that understand my humor, who know that when I tell them they have split ends or that their shirt isn’t flattering is done out of care, but in general, people associate the name Kalee Madruga with the world “bitch”.

I’ve heard all the quotes; I know that guys prefer happier, smilier girls. I know an Instagram picture in front of a field of flowers is more appealing than a self deprecating meme, but this is who I am. I’ve been criticized for being a downer, for not getting jacked up about putting up Christmas lights, and for going through 3 rounds of Botox at the age of 25 because my frown lines are so pronounced.

A part of me juggles with the idea of what my life would be like if I just forced it- if I just tried to smile more, if I feigned interest in surface level conversation, or if I pretended not to be irritated by unjust social issues. Truth be told, I found much more comradery in the city of San Francisco, where people were frequently complaining about the weather or how crowded the bus was or why rent was so fucking high. Misery loves company, am I right?

I understand that on the sunny beaches of San Diego, there should be little to be angry or bothered by. I understand that life, in general, is a gift and should be met with happy, toothy grins and lots of hugs. I even understand that my parents spent a lot of money on my orthodonture and even for their sake I could smile a little more.

It’s hard to find people that will like you for who you are, who will accept you for your little quirks and stand offish behavior. But it’s even harder to change, especially if you don’t want to.

Sorry everyone, I’m mean.

What the Fuck is Happening

Sometime ago, a person that will remain nameless went through the world’s worst ghosting experience. I’ll briefly try to tell you their story. This super compatible duo dated for roughly 2 years, maybe more, and while his schedule caused him to be gone pretty frequently, when he was back, they spent 99.9% of their time with each other. Eventually he was basically living at her place, keeping his shit there, sleeping there all the time, and even mailing his stuff there. All signs were pointing to the fact that these guys were going to get married, which honestly would have been great. I don’t remember the exact exchange that took place since this was awhile ago, but it was something along the lines of him saying “I’m going to do this thing, and I’ll be right back”. But the thing is, he never came back. And he never said why. In fact, he never said anything…ever again.

If you’re one of those people who always tries to defend shitty male behavior, he didn’t die, I already checked. In fact, he eventually started posting pictures of himself on Facebook to prove that he was very much alive, and he even accidentally mailed some shit to the girl’s house again. Feel however you want to feel about this fucked up story, but I personally took it really hard. After I witnessed such an insane display of selfishness and ghosting, I knew that I would NEVER want anything even close to that to happen to me.

Well, joke’s on me because I’m a millennial and we are the ghosting champions of the fucking world. I have literally been ghosted so many times I can’t even be bothered to remember each scenario. I’m not going to sit here and act like I’ve never ghosted anyone, but I definitely have never done it to the caliber described above or the way it’s happened to me. Ok there was this one time I told a guy on a date that I had to go to the bathroom and I actually ordered an Uber instead BUT THAT’S IT!

Since men have been particularly cruel to me lately, I’ve decided to compile a list of potential reasons for the aggressive ghosting that has taken place:

  1. I’m ugly. This one is subjective, but I know I’m not that hideous. On the flip side of the coin, maybe I’m just so stunning that men can’t even handle being in my presence.
  2. I said something weird. This one is super possible. The bummer part of ghosting is that I can’t figure out what I said that was the trigger. I’ve actually been really good about stopping myself from talking about my cats OR politics on dates, though!
  3. I’m scary. This one seems like a front runner. I’ve been best friends with the same person since I was 6 and she once avoided me for 3 months because she said I’m really scary when I get mad. I’d argue that disappearing of the face of the earth is only going to make me more mad and thus more scary, but to each his own.
  4. I don’t put out (fast enough). Sorry to my parents and other relatives who read this blog but I definitely used to get busy on like, the first date. As of late I’ve been trying to…not do that and actually get to know the person. The ghosting ratio has stayed the same so it’s tough to say if this is a real factor.
  5. They’re just “too into me”. This one came from my dad so I’m just going to allow it, even though I don’t agree. Yesterday my dad said that sometimes guys bail out because they’re afraid you’re going to bail on them first. My dad also told me I was a “great looking kid” even though I had braces, glasses that were held together with hot glue, and a bowl cut that he performed in our kitchen, so he might not be the best person to take advice from.
  6. This blog. Another front runner. I do have a link to this site on my Instagram page, so a potential dude could easily have access to it. Normally my self esteem is so low that I would never assume that a guy would even want to read my work, but there is some revealing, juicy, depressing, and alarming shit in here. TBH I wouldn’t want to date a guy who doesn’t support my writing in all forms, but could you at least tell me which piece was your favorite before leaving?
  7. Karma. Maybe in my past life I was a Hitler-esque person and this is just the only way for all of my victims to have justice.
  8. I’m too mean, too loud, too fond of cats, too tattooed, too confident, too insecure, too smart, too stupid, I paid the tab, I didn’t pay the tab, I split the tab, I’m too friendly to male bartenders, I have too many gay friends, I watch the Kardashians (and like it), I’m really good at a British accent, I know a lot about music, I don’t like sports, I don’t know how to cook, I don’t have a car, I think I’m better than everyone, I’m in debt, I really like frogs, or I put the toilet paper on the wrong way.

Be it all, some, or none of these reasons, I’d just like to share a quick PSA to all of the men (and sure, some women) out there: STOP GHOSTING PEOPLE. IT’S FUCKING MEAN. I get that it’s awkward to tell someone that you’re not feeling them or whatever but just use one of the go-to lines like “work is really stressful” or that you “want to focus on yourself” or, God forbid, you could just tell them the truth. If it really makes you sleep better at night to be a complete phantom moron, I know I can’t really stop you, but I promise you- those of us who didn’t put out fast enough will be telling everyone that you ghosted us because you were ashamed of your small penis.


Unforgivable Adult Facebook Behavior

Congratulations baby boomers, you did it- you successfully managed to absolutely ruin what used to be one of the trendiest, coolest, and Academy Award Winning storylines of all social media platforms. Yes, that’s correct, you fucking annihilated Facebook.

And yes, here I am, a millennial, complaining to the internet about how our creativity and individuality is -yet again- being stifled by the previous generations. Guess what? I don’t give a single shit, because I’m actually super mad at you for this one. Say what you want about gay people, and healthcare, and sure, ASK ME TO CALL A CAB FOR YOU WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, because I will never forgive you for what you’ve done to Mark Zuckerberg’s baby.

Do you think that while Zuckerberg was nerding out in his dorm trying to make “The Facebook” happen that he was imagining people’s parents sharing stupid pictures of pie recipes and pictures of Jesus that say “one like= one prayer”? Guess what, one like doesn’t equal one prayer. They are not mutually exclusive things!!!!

Do you think any of us hip college kids could have foreseen that just a few short years later we would see comments on our photos NOT from our friends, but in fact from our aunts who would write: “Love, Auntie!” despite the fact that their NAME AND PHOTO accompany the text, so we know exactly who it is?!?!?!

This social media platform was NOT designed for you to post pictures of the Minions with weird quotes that aren’t even from the movie! Like, “I need coffee to function!” The Minions don’t even speak English! THAT QUOTE NEVER HAPPENED!!!!

Despite the fact that the majority of you just decided to throw basic grammatical skills out the window, still somehow think “poking” is relevant, and have NO CLUE how to appropriately tag someone or even share a link, your presence on the internet is just downright intrusive. Why on earth why I ever want to argue with someone’s great-aunt about vaccinating children? If you don’t know that my status is a quote from Mean Girls, than for the love of God, don’t comment on it! And please, please, if I take a slamming selfie, don’t write: “Wow! All grown up! How cute! xo- Mom” because then I just have to delete it.

I’m glad you all saved the trouble of paying for that pricey flight to the Midwest for your high school reunion, but now it’s all over my news feed.

And no, Susan, I didn’t like the video you shared on my wall, I didn’t even watch it. I understand that you love to adopt dogs. It doesn’t mean our relationship is tarnished, I just wish you get the fuck away from the internet.

If I didn’t have to use Facebook for my job I would literally be happy to fall of the face of the earth and never see some stupid status about what happened on The Voice last night ever again.


10 Sure-Fire Ways To Make A Hostess Hate You


After a pretty sweet promotion, I found myself saying (yet again) “this is the last time I’ll be working in the service industry!”. If you’ve ever worked at a restaurant you know how much of a bullshit statement this is. If you’ve never worked in a restaurant then you probably think 15% is an acceptable tip amount and I can’t stand you as a person.

Since I’m a millennial that’s in debt and everyone I know is a millennial that’s in debt, we all know it’s nearly impossible to actually get out of the service industry. Once you realize you can make cash that fast without taking your clothes off, it’s tough to walk away forever.

While I enjoy my restaurant-free life for the next unforeseeable months, I thought I’d share some of my hard-earned employee wisdom with you so you can avoid the wrath of the evil hostess (me). Yeah I know, you’ve probably seen tons of hilarious server memes and likely follow the bitchywaiter on Instagram, but hostesses are the real ball-busters of the dining world, so I’m just going to go ahead and speak for all of them.

Try to avoid the following at all costs:

  1. Telling me you want “the nicest table in the house”. Just in case you’re curious, there is no part of any training (at least that I’m aware of) where the manager says, “oh just so you know, that table right there is the nicest table in the house”. As far as I’m concerned, all the tables are the same, except for the one that’s directly behind the host stand where you can hear us all talking about whether or not we like anal. Unless you’re into that, then that’s the best table in the house.
  2. Telling me you know the owner/asking if the owner is there. First of all, knowing the owner of a restaurant isn’t even a remotely cool connection, and I KNOW THEM TOO SO IT’S REALLY NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL. Furthermore, if you actually do know the owner so well then you’d know that they aren’t putzing around their establishment on a Friday night hoping you’d stop by without a reservation. Get real. Name dropping has never been and will never be cool.
  3. Showing up late to your reservation and getting butt hurt when I give your table away. We’re busy and we have tables to fill. If you can’t figure out how to call and say you’re on your way, you don’t deserve to dine out. I’m not allowed to show up 15 minutes late for my job, why are you allowed to show up late? Girl, bye.
  4. Asking me to call a cab for you. It’s 2016 are you fucking serious.
  5. Asking if we have a children’s menu. I understand that this one is subject to location but I’ve never worked at TGIFriday’s and don’t think children should be allowed in restaurants so just, don’t.
  6. Asking to move tables. CAN YOU NOT CAN YOU JUST PLEASE NOT.
  7. Touching me in any way, shape, or form. Don’t gently put your hand on my back and ask me where the restroom is. Don’t touch my arm and tell me which table you want. Don’t pull my wrist to drag me somewhere quiet and tell me you’re paying for the whole table. I’m not impressed.
  8. Asking me to turn the lights up/turn the music down. Do you think I have a fucking all-access panel in the host stand? It’s called ambiance, for one, and I would never change the entire lighting and musical theme of an entire restaurant so you can read the menu better.
  9. Telling me that you have to pee (or similar). You are a grown ass adult. Under what circumstance would it ever be acceptable to tell a complete stranger at work: “I really have to pee. Where are the bathrooms?” Ew. Put this phrase in your back pocket, and remember it forever: “Excuse me, where are the restrooms?”. NO OTHER INFO NECESSARY.
  10. Completely ignoring me when I great you. Hi there, welcome! *silence* Thanks, I’ll just go fuck myself.

Happy dining! I hope I never have to walk any of you to “the best table in the house” ever again.

An Open Letter To The Try Hard Who Has No Respect For My Marriage

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Hi there,

We haven’t met yet, and there’s a decent amount of reasons for that. Probably one of the biggest reasons, though, may be when you told my husband you “didn’t want to meet me”. That’s interesting.

Another reason is that you’re a wannabe actress, which means I probably won’t find you interesting, relatable, or smart. But I’ve been wrong before.

I’m not surprised that you’re attracted to my husband. Lots of women are. I’m not petty or small enough to get upset over every woman that thinks my husband is hot or embarrassingly slips their number to him at the bar. I’m too busy.

But you, you’re a special breed of shitty. You know that my husband is a taken man. You’ve seen the ring that I BOUGHT for him, you’ve heard him talk about me, you’ve been present while he spoke to me on the phone and told me he loved me. All the while you were trying to weasel your way into my life because you think you two share something together.

You’re not entirely incorrect. Acting is a huge part of my husband’s life, a passion of his that I don’t truly understand. While I support him 110%, that connection is something I can’t give to him. Make no mistake though, the part of his life that you two share does not make you important. It does not mean that I don’t exist. It does not give you the right to text, call, or otherwise communicate with a married man.

If you don’t understand your very, very small supporting role in my husband’s life, I’d be happy to break it down for you. You are a prop. You are not an actress- you’re just a girl who wants to be one. Your entire job in relation to my spouse is to make him look good. It’s to make agents and casting directors and audience members fall in love with him and pay him money. Your talents, your ambitions, and your feelings are not important and hold no value.

I am the person who will be there for him when he gets rejected, when he messes up, and when he falls short. I am also the person who will be there when he succeeds, when he shines, and when he celebrates. The part you play is irrelevant, and has no merit outside of the space you read lines in.

I love that my husband has female friends. I’ve met and spent time with many of them. But you are not a friend. You are not special. You are the kind of woman that disrespects good, happy, honest women. You are the kind of person that uses personal emotional stress to get close to and manipulate people- married people- instead of taking responsibility for your own behavior. It really is unfortunate that all of your exes were so unstable and mean to you, but they all had one thing in common, didn’t they?

It’s truly unfortunate that you don’t want to meet me, because you could see the tribe of amazing, intelligent, and honest women I surround myself with daily. My assumption is that you don’t have inspiring, strong women in your life, and that is a damn shame.

I feel sorry for you. I am irritated that precious time with my husband was wasted because we were too busy figuring out how to deal with your unprofessional behavior. I’m disappointed that the attention of an attractive man is more important to you than someone’s marriage. But truth be told, I’m okay with all you’ve tried to do, because this won’t be the last time some try hard actress thinks they mean something to my husband. You actually brought us closer together. You reminded me of how strong of a team we are. You helped us see again how much we support each other. You helped us communicate openly and honestly.

So congratulations. You are still a struggling “actress” and we’re still happily married. I hope you find a way to be happy, and I hope some stranger doesn’t try to take a shit all over that.

Best of luck, professional waitress.

-Kalee d’Avignon

Calm Down


It’s fair to say there’s a lot of shitty stuff happening in the world right now. I could sit here and rant about how I feel about gun policies in America but -surprisingly- that’s never been my thing. I am grateful for the internet in that it’s allowed me to share my writing with the world so quickly and efficiently. At the same time, I hate the internet because I have access to EVERYONE’s opinions that are basically redundant and boring.

I’ve been told a fair amount of times to be quiet, clean myself up, relax, pipe down, and the like for a lot of my life. After I received my degree and gained some “real world” experience the comments grew. I have a deeper-than-normal voice for a female and I tend to talk with my hands. I come on pretty strong and I have never had a problem speaking my mind. While all these things are no doubt obnoxious, I definitely think I’ve been told to be quiet because I’m smart.

For the first time in my life, I sat alone and cried for our country. I cried for the state of our people, for the sadness we’re enduring, for the unfair circumstances…but above all, I cried for the lack of change. I believe in evolution. I believe in people. I think growth and change is part of human nature, and it’s what makes us exceptional. It broke my heart so see that the senate voted to de-fund Planned Parenthood. I am aware that Obama will veto this horse shit for as long as he can, and that’s cool.

What troubles me, is that there are people in the world that I currently live in, that feel like it is acceptable to take things from me. Not just me, but my friends, my husband, my future children. There are people that don’t know me, don’t understand the body of woman, don’t care about the general public, don’t care about science, don’t care about anything but their own personal agenda.

I am twenty-five, I’m a wife, I’m a daughter, I’ll probably be a mother someday. I cannot sit idle by and watch stupid old men say that I don’t deserve a cancer screening, or birth control, or equal pay. I cannot watch someone with a legally purchased weapon walk into a place I see as safe and murder innocent people.

I honestly don’t care if my hurt, and my fear, and my beliefs are unattractive. I don’t care if “more guys would sleep with me” if I talked less. I don’t even really care that it seems like I come off like I think I’m better than everyone because I read and write and give a shit about my life.

I know that my opinions are a tiny drop in the biggest body of water. I know that I’m just a little voice. But I am a woman in 2015 with a pretty damn good head on my shoulders, and I’m so proud of it. I will not let the voices of insecure men take that away from me.

Keep making noise bitches, you are so beyond worthy of it.

Frump Town, USA


I have a decent amount of fears. Heights, birds, large bugs, alligator attacks…reasonable causes for concern. However, there is absolutely nothing I fear more than “letting myself go”. I don’t know if it’s because I’m American, or have taken too many trips to Disneyland, but the alarming amount of overweight, poorly dressed adults that I come in contact with in my lifetime have left me thoroughly fear stricken. How does this happen? WHY does this happen? Did something go wrong? Is it marriage? A mid-life crisis? Kids? Have you always been a big frumpy slob or did this happen overnight?! I gotta know.

What if I wake up one day, 4 years into my marriage, and I’m just like, you know what, fuck it- I’m gonna buy this shirt with howling wolves on it! I’d better get it two sizes bigger for comfort. I’ll pair it with some stretchy pants and granny panties. I want everyone to see the lines of my underwear through the pants. WHO CARES ABOUT MY GENERAL APPEARANCE?! Hey! Now that I think about it, I’ll cut all my hair off so I look completely asexual. Will my husband ever be physically attracted to me again? NOT MY PROBLEM! I’M COMFORTABLE!

It’s terrifying. I was in Vegas this past weekend and I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. These big humongous people could not give two fucks about what they were wearing or that they closely resembled beached whales. YOU’RE NOT EVEN GOING TO TRY?!

When I used to work at Morton’s Steakhouse, a gentleman came in with his family wearing – I KID YOU NOT- a plaid shirt with plaid shorts. Two completely different kinds of plaid. I don’t know what’s more horrifying: the fact that he made that wardrobe choice or that his wife was ok being seen in public with him in it. The amount of dads that would waddle into this five star steakhouse feeling perfectly content in khaki shorts and huge white Nikes literally made me sick to my stomach.

Look, I’m not an overachiever in the fashion department by any means. Yoga pants and a top bun are my go-to look. BUT COME ON. These people woke up, got out of bed, threw on a shirt with a map of Yosemite on it, put some sandals on OVER their socks, glanced in the mirror (presumably) and thought, I can totally wear this in public! I will encounter giant women throughout my day that resemble an old pillow and I am 98% certain they’ve never owned a hairbrush. HOW CAN YOU JUST GIVE UP ON YOURSELF LIKE THAT?!

My hairdresser is a beautiful, put together woman. She always has her hair styled, nails done, flawless eyeliner. I expressed my fears to her one time and she shook her head aggressively and assured me that the way I am now is the way I will always be. i.e., I will transition from a comfortably chic young adult to a trendy, yet low maintenance (in the fashion department, anyway) woman. My metabolism will surely slow down, but if I care now, I’ll continue to care. I could totally picture my pretty stylist as a young 20-something with equally impeccable eyeliner and perfectly ironed Guess? jeans. That’s who she is.

I guess all of these giant, badly dressed frumps were once fugly little kids that eventually turned into dweeby teens who slowly became out-of-touch young adults, and viola. Circle of life if you will. No one took the time to pull them aside and suggest an upper lip wax or tell them that you don’t really need a bright neon strap around your sunglasses.

So I guess I feel a little better, but not completely off the hook.  My dude suggested that we move to Europe where people are much more trendy and thin, but I care too much about quality dental work to make that kind of commitment.

Why I Don’t Care About Football Anymore


If you’ve ever been around my father, met my roommate, or creeped back on my Facebook a few years, you’re probably aware that I’ve experienced my fair share of football watching. I don’t know if it’s because I enjoy watching people get knocked down or if I was grasping at straws for some attempt to bond with my dad, but for a decent amount of time I found myself actually giving a shit about the sport.

Football is pretty cool actually, the guys who participate in it are pretty attractive sometimes, sports bars have the potential to be a good time, and I really enjoy a decent Super Bowl party. Being a San Diegan, born and bred, I naturally gravitated to the Bolts, despite the fact that we NEVER win. It was fun to wear jerseys on game days on talk shit to Oakland fans.

In the past year or so, however, I literally just stopped caring. I’ll eat chips and dip and cheer for touchdowns like any honest American, but I just don’t take kindly to threats. As soon as the rumors regarding the Chargers moving to L.A. started swirling around, my powder blue jersey started collecting dust in my closet. Something about a multi-millionaire reprimanding the city that has done nothing but show support because they can’t afford overpriced tickets doesn’t sit right with me. Granted, the Q is a dump and we’re due for a face lift, but I’d recommend winning a game or two before you start making demands. That’s none of my business though.

Carson City is a pretty gross town, so if you really want to go there, go. Seriously, go to India. The Chargers have become a less attractive high school boyfriend to me. If you want to go sit at a different lunch table, go ahead. Really. You’re not doing me any favors.

Besides the fact that our owner is a rich, whiny asshole- let’s just take a look at the fact that the NFL (a not-for-profit organization. THINK ABOUT THAT) is basically run by a bunch of rich, whiny assholes. They literally don’t give a shit about you, your kids, your dedication to the sport, or anything of that nature. Not only do they not care about you- they don’t care about the players. If the loss of Junior Seau and the countless amount of other suicides from the sport that no one will acknowledge isn’t a glaring reminder, I promise you I can come up with more.

Say or feel however you want, but as far as I’m concerned, if you continue to pay someone, let them represent your city/team, and place them as an icon for the world to see- that means you condone their behavior, both on and off the field. So in case you live under a rock, that means that the NFL condones cheating, murdering dogs, murdering people, sexually assaulting college students, and beating up women (God forbid you roll up a joint though). Am I leaving out any other crimes?

I know you think you’re watching a bunch of dudes battle for glory, but all you’re really doing is watching corporations fight for attention. Say “us” and “we” as much as you want, but you deep-throating Ruffles from you Lay-Z-Boy really isn’t contributing to this shit show.

So keep painting your faces, keep crying about “last season”, do whatever you want. I just posted a throwback on Instagram of me in a Chargers dress holding a blue and yellow football. Am I going to take it down? No, because I look adorable. Will I get drunk at your Super Bowl party? Probably. But I’m over it, I really don’t care. Have a great season everyone.