I decide it’s ok to give a shit.

Do you get a weird source of inspiration from public transport? Like, I always feel like I’m at my peak of inspo wen I’m on a train, plane or bus. I’m not sure if this is a normal thing, but I always get my best thoughts out at the expense of a $3.65 metro ride…or $178 round trip flight.

I say this slightly intoxicated on my flight back to Boston. By slightly I mean 3 whiskey shots, 1 Sam Adams Summer and 2 vodka sodas deep. Sorry, mom.

I’ve had an interesting love life the past few months. Active, yet unactive. It’s strangely familiar. Guys have sorta sucked, but that’s nothing new. Again, it’s familiar.

I expressed my sentiments to my best friend, sober, “Why don’t guys wanna date me?” I felt desperate asking this question, yet I find myself genuinely curious. It sounds like plea from sad, single girl who is searching for love in all the wrong, yet seemingly right places. Yet, I don’t really give a shit. I’m just curious.

I see couples all of the time. Holding hands down 14th street or intensely making out at my bar, I replay my girlfriend qualifications.

-smart

-friendly

-attractive

-kind

-gets along with moms

-gets along with friends

-cool

-chill

-fun

etc.

I engage in an internal debate about casual sex. While I once was so confident in the fact that I, Beth Cormack, am SO ok with casually sleeping with men, recently I have began to question that notion. I feel like from a societal standpoint, my reaction towards casual sex should be, “This man’s penis entered me. We were safe and consensual. Welp, onto the next one! It’s cool!”

Am I allowed to feel there is something more to sex than just sex? Can I believe that I am able and willing to engage in “casual sex” yet still expect to feel some sort of way about it? Is there an in between on the sliding scale of a giving a fuck?

Names have been changed

***

Are you going to talk to me after we have sex? Drunk words slur from my dry mouth. He’s laying on top of me in my twin size bed. My phone lights up. “Want me to sleep at Kate’s and leave you two alone in there?” My roommate was good at casual sex. I told myself I didn’t like one night stands.

Because I didn’t.

Of course I’m going to talk to you. I just can’t really do girlfriends right now. Those words weren’t enough. In the moment, I pretended like they were. The next morning he was gone. I picked the red condom wrapper up from the floor and felt my eyes fill. I was ok with this. I can be cool. Days went by. A blank response to my “Hey how’s your week going text?” Crickets.

I saw him at the library the next week on campus. I smiled and looked his way. He burrowed his face in his book.

***

Hand jobs and blow jobs were fine. I let him touch my breasts and basically do everything but “go all of the way.” For a while anyway. When you have sex with a man right away, he’s going to view you as a slut and will therefore never date you.

I didn’t want to be a “slut.” Well, I didn’t want other men to label me as such.

It took a few weeks of drunken sleepovers before I let him enter me. I felt safe and comfortable. I didn’t feel like a slut. Nor did he make me feel like one.

We didn’t have “casual” sex for too long before I started to question where this was going. Late nights turned to longer mornings. Drunk sex turned into sober sex. Less casual sober sex.

I love you, he muttered. I love you too. Maybe casual sex wasn’t so bad. Maybe men would still acknowledge me and want to date me after all.

***

I was excited to start swiping left and right in my new city. I sat on my bed in night one and scouted out my prospects. Different from Boston. More attractive, yet more douchey, it seemed like.

Hey, how are you? David messaged. Jack Rose was our first date spot. I, in a black mini dress paired with gold sandals and a long necklace. He, a suit with a pink tie. A consultant at Deloitte. Attentive via text before and after our date. Did I hit the jackpot within my first few weeks in DC?

I felt an instant disconnect after the first night we spent together. A not-serious relationship hanging on by threads. We sleep together a few more times. Texts less frequent. Sorry super busy at work. Can’t hang this weekend. Eventually leading to nothingness.

A few months went by. I hardly remember his existence. My phone lights up. It’s David. “Hey, I hear you work at Hawthorne. Any chance my friends and I can cut the line?”

Crickets.

A year goes by. I’m his bartender. Can I have a Tanqueray and tonic? Oh, wait, your name’s Beth right? I pour him Bowman’s. Your Tanqueray is going to be $11.00. 

I wanted to say, yeah, it’s Beth. Your penis was inside me, remember? Same.

***

Harry. How do I explain Harry?  He’s a guy that I had been on and off hooking up with for the past 2 years. Very very on and off. I consider him more than a late-night text even though 95% of our texts took place after 2am. Definitely didn’t “date” although when we were together, I considered what that would look like.There was a connection we acknowledged, sober and drunk.

A connection defined on our first “real” date after 2 years of nothing but late-night texts. Coffee followed by laying in bed fully clothed, reading the depths of each other’s personal essays. Silent yet intense. “I don’t meet many women like you.” “I keep you at an arms-length because I don’t want to hurt you.” Divorced with two kids, I guess I kept him at arms length, too. “Casual” sex that I’d label as something a little more than casual. Emotions were felt on both ends. At least I think so.

Things came to an unexplainable halt the week after he drunk called me spilling his feelings. I don’t know what could be. I’d be lying if I still don’t think about it.

I wonder if he does too.

***

I was intrigued by Luke within the first few moments of catching his glance. The bar was crowded, full of intoxicated fools on Sunday evening. The music was loud, the shots were cheap. Who’s that? I asked my friend. That’s Luke, she introduced me. We hit it off instantaneously, chatting at the bar for quite some time. Tall and handsome, we continued to show interest in the coming weeks. I noticed hints of jealousy on his end when he saw me with other men. Interest from both ends intensifies.

I call him out for being a minor fuckboy. In a joking way. I recommend him to a friend for a job. Thank you so much, this is really going to help me out. I’m happy to do it.

Sleeping together was inevitable, although the sex was less than decent. The flame was short lived. He has a way with words to get women into bed with him, perhaps that’s all he wanted from me. I can’t be sure. I still run into Luke on occasion — we pretend like the other doesn’t exist.

He doesn’t even pet my dog. I can’t explain this. Have you seen my dog?

My half-joking preconceptions of his fuckboy tendencies were accurate. Maybe he expected me to get attached — to give him attention or fit into the “clingy” mold.

It’s a strange juxtaposition. I care but I don’t really care.

My interest in him was short-lived even though I continued to sleep with him. I never cared to date him. Our feelings were clearly defined the last time we slept with each other. Afterwards, we laid in bed and talked about how much we missed our White Buffalos. Yet, I still sort of give a shit.

white buffalo: a term for “the one that got away” or “first love” 

It was the initial spark that drew me in and the sudden disregard that keeps me engaged to some extent. This draws up a debate in my head. We had sex…a few times. Yet to him, I am no longer worth a hello. I am nothing. Is this worth mulling over? I don’t know.

***

I met up with John for coffee about 6 months ago. We both swiped right! He was in the midst of a 30-day alcohol detox, so he suggested Colada Shop. Coffee? Obviously I’m down. I had just re-downloaded Tinder and I was lucky to match with this attractive, down-to-earth, successful & super sweet guy.

The date was wonderful, so much so we made out a red light in his car. I felt like I was in high school again. Months went by and with our busy schedules it was hard to make something out of it although we occasionally kept in touch via text and Snapchat.

Our second date took place at the Kygo concert with his friends — an evening that I never wanted to end. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen with this guy, although I wasn’t really thinking about it. It was a fun, spontaneous date. What happens would happen.

A week goes by and neither of us reach out.

In a sweet and genuine (and very long) text about a week later he informed me has been hooking up with another girl and apologizes for not reaching out sooner.

Is now the right time to tell him that I hooked up with someone else the night before the concert? I didn’t feel the need to share my sex life with him. Is that wrong?

I showed the text to my guy friends. They read it as “he totally wants to see you again but he’s just informing you of the situation.” I don’t really know how to read it, but it was a sure sign that I have grown numb to disappointment in the dating world as my initial reaction to his text was, “wait, lol, is it bad that I don’t care?” It wasn’t an I don’t care that actually meant I do care but I’m trying to pretend like I don’t care because I’m ~chill~. It was truly and I don’t care.

Wait, so am I ok with casual sex? Again, this confuses me.

***

I decide it is ok to give a shit when a man’s penis enters you.

I decide it is ok to expect some sort of respect from the other party.

I decide you can still engage in casual sex while also giving a shit.

I decide to expect respect. I decide that this is OK to expect.

I decide I give a shit when there is a lack of respect.

I don’t think I’ll ever be the woman to not feel some sort of pit in my stomach when I don’t hear from someone after spending the night together. Even if the sex is shitty.

I believe sex is a natural, liberating experience that should be enjoyed in a safe and consensual setting. I used to fear the word “slut.” Years later, I realize the ignorance behind labeling others as such.

I look back on my sexual encounters and the men involved. The debate over casual sex continues. I don’t quite know how to define “casual sex” but I also believe there’s no, single universal definition to it.

Most of the time, the pit in my stomach feels unwarranted for. I don’t expect nor want a relationship from most of these men, but I still expect something from them after the fact.

I fear falling into the “clingy, psycho girl” mold. A mold constructed by (mostly) men — I decide to be ~cool~ and not care.

Maybe I shouldn’t expect anything. Maybe that’s where my disappointment lies.

Maybe respect is too much to ask.

Inspiring female artists to add to your playlist.

To call myself an “artist” would be a massive stretch. Creative? Yes. Artist? Ehh. If you count off-pitch sing-in-the-shower sessions and my innate ability to doodle the f*ck out of a new notebook, then, yes, maybe I am an artist.

I can’t sing. I simply can’t. I want a phenomenal voice, like really bad. But, I also want my college loans to disappear. We can’t always get what we want. My best voice is found behind the constraints of my laptop saturated beneath my QWERTY keyboard. I’ll leave the singing to the real talent.

This post isn’t about me though – shocker!

Lately, I’ve realized my Spotify has been packed with super amazingly talented women who sing with a purpose, not just to appeal to the masses. Women who are bad ass and deserve praise and recognition for their brilliance.

**I am not a music critic nor am I trying to be with this post. Just fangirling!**

Women who you NEED to add to your music playlist ASAP:

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Photo via Billboard

If you follow me on Snap, you probably hear some song off SZA’s new album Ctrl playing in the background. I’m literally obsessed. Her voice is raspy and distinct – but don’t we all secretly LOVE raspy voices? Like, ugh, lost my voice last night I sound like a man!! *but I secretly want my voice to sound like this all of the time*

“I’m talking a lot of grimy shit, but it’s truth,” she tells PitchforkPREACH GIRL. This “grimy shit” she speaks of has turned into an incredible set of R&B tracks that must be added to your queue.

My faves: Prom, Go Gina, Supermodel, Drew Barrymore (released on an earlier EP)

 

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Photo via unrtd.com

Referred to as a “dark pop” R&B artist, Jennifer Banks brings an interesting edge to the pop world with her latest, The Altar and previous breakthrough album, Goddess. Both album titles connote a “bow down to me” type of attitude, but I love every second of it. It’s not coming from an obnoxious place, it’s coming from a woman who has bared the shitty parts of life, overcame it, and looks to inspire other people by sharing her story.

She tells explains what it means to be a “wounded healer” to Time Magazine, “When you’ve gone through something and you’ve overcome it, you’re able to heal other people. A wounded healer, I think, is a lot more powerful than a healer that has not been wounded.”

Her lyrics promote self-affirmation with a sharp “no fucks given” undertone.  Amazing.

My faves: Fuck with MyselfSomeone New, Gemini Feed

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Photo via Philly.com

Half of the iconic duo Marian Hill, (s/o to Kat for introducing me), Samantha Gongol is possibly the best artist I’ve seen live. If you haven’t heard of them, you probably Shazamed them recently as you watched Apple’s recent iPhone commercial.

Dubbed as the “sexiest band of the year” in 2016, their music is absolute FIRE. I’ve also been told more than once that it’s a common artist to include on a sex playlist. People love to f*ck to this music. No joke.

In an interview with Soul Sisters Podcast, Gongol explained the empowering heat behind the music, “It’s really important that we always write from the perspective of a strong female character,” and noted that bandmate Jeremy Lloyd is “a champion of everything feminism.”

My faves: Down (obviously), I Want You, Got It

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Photo via Pigeons and Planes

This Australian-based “one woman band” plays the guitar, piano, trumpet, loops, sings, AND beat-boxes. Badass. Discovered from a viral YouTube video she recorded in her bedroom back in 2016, Sultana has been selling out shows worldwide ever since.

For this 22-year old woman, music has been her escape since her teenage years…literally. In an interview with Tone Deaf, she explains her nine-month drug induced psychosis from eating pizza laced with magic mushrooms. For these several months, Sultana was unable to pull herself from this psychotic state and lost all sense of reality.

She says music is what saved her. “I went into my room one day and I was just strumming and I realized that I achieved complete peace of mind while I was doing that,” she explains, “I had finally found some quiet so I literally played and played and played and played until I played the pain away, did every single open mic, snuck into every single place to go and play a show, busking, everything.”

My faves: Jungle & Notion

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Photo via Instagram

I knew from the first time I met this gal that she was something special. A strong and unapologetic feminist, Blackwell’s music has a distinct rawness with empowering and soulful undertones. In my recent relationship post I talked about the importance of being an advocate for other women, and she encompasses every aspect of that in her work. You da bomb.

At the ripe age of 21, she’s already killin’ the game with her most recent EP, New EraThe inspiration behind her music can be traced back to her upbringing in Detroit Michigan where she was introduced to the world of Motown Music and Hip Hop.

Blackwell explains that she “plans to use her career to make a difference in the way our society places limitations on girls and even young boys”. She believes that her voice can “move mountains and barriers for her daughters to come.” Keep an eye out for this one, she’s about to make some serious waves in the music industry.

Love you girl! Don’t forget about me when you make it big.

My faves: Commencement & Be Careful Master

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Photo via Into the Urban

I didn’t realize I had been listening to Baraz on repeat until a reader suggested her for this post. When I searched her, I was like AWWW shyt! I already love this gal! 

Baraz brings an captivating mix of electronic, pop, and R&B to the music scene. Falling in love with the sounds of Galiamatias, Baraz started uploading her own music over his electronic instrumentals and uploaded them to Soundcloud. No studio or producers involved. Just a gal who had a dream and wanted to be discovered.

Through Soundcloud, the duo released Baraz’s first EP, Urbana Flora without ever meeting in real life. Technology these days. You’ve probably heard Baraz on her recent hit, Electric featuring another of of my faves, Khalid (if he was a female he’d totally make this list). Her music has also been remixed by several artists including R3hab, Le Youth and Felix Jaehn and she’s currently touring with Coldplay.

My faves: Electric ft. Khalid, Make You Feel, Pretty Thoughts (FKJ Remix)


Thank you everyone for the suggestions! I wanted to include all of them, butttttt I think I might just make this an ongoing thing. Thx for being osm per usual.

Below you’ll find my Spotify playlist including all of the tracks I mentioned above. You’re welcome.

For Blair Blackwell’s music, check out her Soundcloud.

Words.

The blind in the middle window of my bedroom is broken. I should get it fixed, but I enjoy Mother Nature as an alarm clock.

You cannot hit snooze on the sun. I’ve tried. Mother Naure is relentless.

I am relentless.

Continue reading Words.

Walking to work.

I was wearing a loose black dress from Urban. I paired it with black combat boots and gold bangles. I had been a slob all day, so I figured I’d throw something cute on to run some errands before work.

I stepped on the elevator, a man stood next to me and stared at my naked legs and then looked at me and winked. 5, 4, 3, 2, L. I stepped out and could still feel his eyes staring behind me.

Continue reading Walking to work.

The power to both love and destroy

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There will be one person, or multiple people, in life who hold your heart. They are capable of holding it for months, years, and possibly forever. Life seems simple when you find your person, because you no longer have to battle through everything alone. The person who holds your heart holds a piece of you that is seemingly irreplaceable if you ever lost them. You hold on to them blindly, unaware that you are probably better off without them.

Your bond was seemingly unbreakable at one time, but when the bond breaks, you’re left with a sense of emptiness, a sense of confusion and vulnerability. They break you, but yet you find yourself continually going back to them. The tears that were once innocent become sharp pains down the side of your face, and you wonder why you’ve injected yourself with another dose of their toxic drug.

It’s often the people we least expect who destroy us the most.

We always forgive them, and it’s not always because we are still in love with them. It’s because we are weak for them. Because, how can you be in love with someone who is simultaneously destroying you?

Like small shards of glass scraping against your skin. It’s uncomfortable but seemingly painless until you’re left with an open wound. Every new sore stings with the burden of their empty promises, but it is the only way to avoid the infection of loneliness. The sore lies open and raw, but you continually let him scrape. You’ve somehow seemed to lost your ability to feel somewhere along the way.

Destroying you with one blow would be too easy. You’d probably never give them a second thought if you knew that’s what they were capable of. Instead, we give our hearts away to those who either hold it gently, or to those who take a small pieces away at a time.

They don’t shatter it into a million pieces instantaneously, like a fist to a mirror, rather, it’s like an artist chipping away at his ice sculpture with his ice pick. Tap, tap, tap. Carefully. Slowly. Painfully.

It’s like an application to your dream job that never gets a response. It’s a red light at 3am that won’t seem to turn green.  It’s everything in life that you believe is meant to happen, but never does. It’s everything in life that provides enough hope for you to keep holding on a bit longer, even if it’s slowly killing you inside.

So what do we do? We send a follow up email to the employer, we run the red light. We desperately take that leap of faith to avoid disappointment. We take action because it’s better than waiting for something that will never be.

We avoid disappointments because we don’t want to think life is meant to disappoint. We succumb to your let downs and tell ourselves, “He doesn’t mean to hurt me. We’re meant to be.” Are we attempting to convince others, or are we trying to convince ourselves?

You’ve become numb to the countless disappointments. You’ve become numb to allowing yourself to fall time and time again only for him to shamelessly remove his hands at the very last moment. You forgive and forgive, usually allowing yourself to develop some sort of friendship with this person because it seems better than losing them completely.

You “love” them. And because you love them, you justify. You justify the lost apologies, the empty promises. You spend more time justifying their behavior then actually loving them. So, is it love? What is it?

You’re afraid to completely release your grasp because you’re afraid you’ll lose a piece of yourself with them. Letting go is scary because at one point you felt like they completed you. At one point they loved you, and you loved them too.

They have the power to both love and destroy. However, we only believe the first one to be true because the latter is too difficult to deal with.

What’s even worse is that most of the time they have no idea they’re destroying you. They have no idea that they take are scraping you with small shards of glass to the point of an open wound. They think they love you too. They think that the “timing isn’t right,” but maybe one day it will be. So they hold on just as tightly, creating friction on the rope that you are both tugging.

And perhaps, you are destroying them too.

You’re both afraid to let go of your grasp because then what? You’re left with a blank slate. A blank slate of emptiness, of uncertainty. How do you fill the daily space that they once consumed? Who is supposed to understand you the way that they did? Letting them go tosses you out into the world of rejections and missed connections.

It forces you to start over.

Eventually, you take the first step of rebuilding. You realize that with each stride, with each scruff of your shoe against the sidewalk, that you’re in command of your own mind, your own soul. You become a woman walking into your own plans, your own dreams. The world is in your hands, and you become at peace with the blank slate, because the blank slate is what saved you; it’s what saved you from complete destruction.

“Did you intimidate him, Beth?”

“Did you intimidate him, Beth?” my friend asked in response to my recent grievances about a guy.

The question caught me off guard. Immediately my fingers violently tapped on the glass screen of my iPhone, firing back a response to defend myself. The question felt like a burning arrow aimed straight at my ego, roaring bright with intense red and orange flames.

“Wait, what? How is that a bad thing?” He asked, as if it was a shocker to him that I took it as such. I replied with something snarky, continuing to defend myself. “It’s not because you give him dirty looks. That isn’t intimidating,” he continued, “You’re very bubbly. Always have something to say. You’re witty and you’re driven. Not just looking to get laid. I don’t doubt you can be perceived as intimidating at a UMass bar.”

It took me a couple of minutes to decipher this statement, caught between avoiding the idea that maybe I am actually “intimidating,” and figuring out why guys may perceive me this way. I spend a large amount of time writing about the balance between showing interest and coming off as “crazy,” I have the “crazy” stigma down to a science. However, “intimidating” is something I have never been confronted with.

It reminds me of the word “feminist.” We support what it stands for, but too often we avoid labeling ourselves as such because of the stereotype that falls behind it. We focus our attention too often to the word itself rather than what it embodies. If you’re a feminist you hate men, if you’re a feminist you shave your head, if you’re a feminist you’re unapproachable. You don’t believe in equality, you believe in a woman-dominated society. Right?

If you’re intimidating, you’re a large, loud-mouthed, strong-opinionated, resting bitch-faced individual.

I’m 5 feet 6 six inches with a 4/6 figure. My eyes are various shades of greens and browns, only intense looking if you look at them in the right light. My fashion sense is anything but “edgy,” and I avoid trying to make a statement simply because I know I’d fail miserably if I tried. I don’t have any tattoos, and the most exciting my hair has ever been is when I ombre’d it using a $13 kit from Target. From the outside, nothing about me screams “intimidating.”

I haven’t always been confident in my abilities until I’ve more recently learned how to be. I don’t have quick temper, and I’ll probably run away if you try to start a fight with me. I don’t engage in intense political debates, or really any debates for that matter. I’m outgoing, but not confrontational. I’m friendly, but I wouldn’t consider myself outspoken. However, I’m confident in who I am and where I’d like to be. I’m driven, I have goals, and I’m probably not going to be your one night stand. Is that intimidating? I guess it depends on how you define it.

I have always tried to approach life with a positive outlook, I invest myself in relationships with people whom I care about and in conversations with people whom I find particularly enjoyable. I have experienced a lot in my short 21 years, which may contribute to my zest for life and my anticipation for an even better future. I’m open to conversations about pretty much anything with anyone, which might leave me vulnerable, but it also allows me to learn so much more about myself.

I vent about my various frustrations about guys on here, and tell me if I’m wrong (please), but I wouldn’t classify myself as “crazy.” I won’t continue to pursue you if you aren’t interested, I won’t follow you around like a puppy dog at the bar, and I won’t invest myself in any type of relationship with you if it leads me to question my sanity. Like I’ve said before, I have a long list of “Starbucks lovers,” some of whom disappointed me and some of whom changed my outlook on men all together. Maybe some did find me “intimidating,” I can’t be sure. Maybe I scare some people off when they click on my blog and read my posts. Or, maybe they know I won’t be used for sex within 3 minutes of conversation and that turns them away.

I’m at a pivotal, and perhaps the most thrilling, part of my life. The future doesn’t scare me, it excites me. Maybe my drive and certainty about who I am and what I want for myself is scary to some people, but perhaps I’ll just have to wait for someone who enjoys confidence rather than discrediting it.

Some people may read this post as pretentious, as a desperate attempt to place myself on a pedestal to give some tangible reasoning for why not everything works out the way I hope it will. “She’s just crazy,” you might be saying. However, we’re all some level of intimidating. We all know to some degree what we want and what we expect out of other people. We shouldn’t feel ashamed of the confidence and self-worth that we have worked so hard to attain. We should feel proud of our abilities, and proud to be called intimidating in a world full of male-dominance.

I’m not a large, loud-mouthed, strong-opinionated individual with a resting bitch face. In fact, I’m almost the complete opposite. And even if I was, so what? Stigmas create weakness, they strip the powerful meanings away from words and replace them with nothing more than something to look down upon. Intimidating doesn’t mean you’re a bitch. It doesn’t mean you’re a self-proclaimed know-it-all who has life all figured out. Intimidating is confidence. Intimidating is passion. Intimidating is knowing what you stand for and not wanting to settle for anything less.

…Or maybe I am just crazy. But people call Taylor Swift crazy, too, so I guess I’d be OK with sharing a characteristic with someone who gave meaning to my long list of Starbucks lovers.

A Break Up Letter to Pinterest

Here’s my theory on Pinterest: it’s the ex-boyfriend you hate to love. It’s the ex-boyfriend that tries to turn you into something you’re not but you simply can’t get enough of him. You keep going back to him because he’s addicting, he makes the time go by when you’re bored, he provides a temporary high. He SWEEPS you off of your feet only to let you CRASH when you fall. You like the idea of him, but you soon realize that you’ll never measure up to who he wants you to be. You’re chasing after something that just isn’t worth the chase.

As much as I love you, dear Pinterest, you are simply trying to force me into being someone that I am most certainly not. I’ll never measure up to the ridiculous standards you set. You force me to pin inspirational E.C Cummings quotes, adorable animal cupcakes, and creative nail art patterns that are way out of my league. You force me to escape into this dream that my life is in fact together. You force me to believe that my life is “Pinterest perfect,” when you and I both know that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I would love to CONTINUE our rocky relationship, Pinterest, because you sometimes know me better than I know myself. You not only know what hairstyles I like and provide the most creative Halloween costumes, you also bring my visions to reality. You make be believe in myself and strive to be greater. For that, I will be forever grateful. However, I think you need to lower your standards a bit, because you’re starting to make me feel like shit. Accept me for who I am, not who you want me to be.

1. I’m not a make up artist, nor do I intend to be. Unless you want to spot the bill at Sephora, stop trying to make me do ridiculous things to my face. Contouring? What does that even mean? Why are you trying to tell me that painting my face a totally different shade will make me look better? I don’t understand nor do I have the time or dedication. Sorry. Love me for who I am, not by my failed smoky eye attempts.

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2. Oh, you don’t like my cooking? MAKE YOUR OWN GODDAMN SANDWICH. As much as you’d like me to live up to my standards as a woman, I certainly do not belong in the kitchen, nor do you want me to be. So, please, eat the stupid grilled cheese and stop forcing fancy recipes down my throat. You’re setting me up for failure and I don’t appreciate it.

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3. My nails literally always look like shit, even when I paint them. Does that make me less of a girl? I’m not sure. Sorry if they make you cringe, but I won’t pretend to care about them. And I certainly won’t waste my time painting them with intricate designs when I have better things to do.

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4. I know that you want me to start putting more effort in my baked goods around the holidays, I get it. Why have plain chocolate chip cookies when you can have cute reindeer cupcakes? Everyone loves reindeer cupcakes! But, seriously, they all taste the same. Plus, you’re not the one who has to watch young children fail to appreciate your hours and hours of tedious efforts. They shove it down their throats like it’s nothing, and when they do, it makes me die a little inside. Those antlers took 4 f*ckin hours you brats.

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5. Sorry, but you aren’t a licensed therapist. That’s fine, but you put zero effort into making me feel better. Can you at least pretend to care? It’s like you search through Instagram for #quotestoliveby when I’m feeling sad and spit them back at me like I mean nothing to you. I’d rather drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine than hear you say “the best is yet to come,” one more time. I’m not supposed to be cracking open a fortune cookie open every time I come to you for advice.

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6. You are the LAST person who should be giving me fashion advice. You’re all over the place. One day you’re telling me to pair my chevron shirt with a chunky necklace and the next day you’re telling me to wear black lipstick and combat boots. Make up your damn mind. I can’t be preppy one day and edgy the next. I don’t have the funds nor fashion sense. Why would I want to continue a relationship with someone who tries to tell me what to wear anyways?

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7. Should I even get started with the wedding planning? Seriously, pump the breaks. You might think the cute DIY wedding crafts you throw at me are cute and inspirational, but it’s honestly making me want to throw up. I’m not ready for that type of commitment. You’re suffocating me. Relax.

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8. I made a New Years resolution dedicated to you. Essentially, my resolution was to be less of a slob. I planned to keep my room clean, make my bed every morning, stop throwing my clothes on the ground, etc. I know you hate how unorganized I can be, and I tried to take your advice, I really did. However, all of the organizational printables and cleaning checklists you were throwing at me at once just became so overwhelming. I can’t dedicate my life to someone who measures my self-worth based on color coordinated closets and deep-cleaning disinfectants.

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Pinterest, I love you. I really, really do. You have brought life to my empty wine bottles and inspiration to my rather crippling artistic side. You have gotten me through some of the worst of times. But, to tell you the truth, you are simply like a drug. I take a hit and feel good for a while, but the comedown makes me wonder if it’s all worth it.

It’s not you, it’s me. Wait, no, it actually it is you. You’re a bully. Stop trying to tell me what to wear, stop telling me how to dress up my cupcakes. Stop undermining my efforts by setting me up for failure and stop trying to force yourself back into my life. I don’t care if you have more pins to share with me, you’ve shown me enough, and it’s overwhelming. You’ve given me enough false hope. I’ll never measure up to your standards and to be honest I’ve stopped giving a shit the last time I failed at your stupid “Bunny Butt Cookie” idea on Easter (seriously, that suggestion was absurd). You’re trying to turn me into something I’m not, and frankly, you’re kind of an asshole.

Stop trying to make “Pinterest perfect” happen, It’s not going to happen!

Don’t Call Me Crazy And I Won’t Call You An Asshole.

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“She’s crazy,” says the indecisive ex-boyfriend who was sexting her the night before.

“Dude, she started acting all possessive and texted me non-stop,” remarks the ~*4 EvA*~ lifelong bro who refuses to commit yet introduced her to his family.

“She’s all of a sudden needy. I mean, like, we’re not dating or anything,” mumbled the dude who “doesn’t know what he wants” while he kisses her on the forehead and holds her hand.

Welcome to the 21st century. Where all girls are crazy and all guys are assholes. The way the world works as of late: boys tell each other that girls are insane, while we are simply blaming it on the fact that you suck.

As women, we spend our lives avoiding the label that is “crazy.” We overthink every letter of your text message, attempting to decode what you meant by a simple, “Hey.”  We have mastered the art of pretending to not care while possibly caring too much.  We blame our overthinking tendencies to mask our insecurities about the whatever relationship we have invested ourselves in with you. The question is, are we really overthinking the dinner dates you take us on, or are you just leading us on to believe in a relationship that will never be?

Don’t call me crazy because I question what we are after months of talking. Don’t call me crazy because I’m upset that you made out with that girl in front of me at the bar when we slept together the night before. I’m not going to apologize for getting attached if I have developed feelings, and I’m not going to apologize for wanting more than what you’re giving. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy for reading into the pillow talks and exclusive dates that you take me on. I’m not crazy for thinking that you see me more as just another girl because you ask me about my future plans. I may be naive, but I’m not crazy. And I’m certainly not going to waste my time on someone who labels me as such, so, please, just have the balls to tell me how you really feel.

You hate labels? Ok. Well sorry, sometimes, I need one. I need one because it gives me a peace of mind. It makes me feel like the words you spoke to me the other night were genuine and not an attempt to get laid. A label doesn’t mean I need your name plastered on my Facebook wall. I’m not going to constantly Instagram pictures of you and label you as my #MCM every week. You don’t want to call me your “girlfriend,” or your “babe?” Fine. Pet names make me cringe anyways. However, I’m not stick around to be at your convenience when you can’t even find it in yourself to tell me how you feel. I don’t care what our “label” is, just give me something tangible.

There comes a time when we need to reevaluate how we define “overthinking.” I’m tired of blaming my anxieties about you on the simple fact that girls are known to over-evaluate a situation when you have given us every sign to over-evaluate it. The last time I checked, a girl you just want to fuck isn’t worth the good morning texts during the week. If you’re looking for a friend with benefits, that’s cool. Tell us. You don’t want us to get attached? Be honest. Don’t string us along. If you want a strictly platonic relationship yet you wine and dine us, we are going to think that you see us more than someone you want to sleep with. That doesn’t make us clingy, that doesn’t mean that we are reading too much into it. It’s simply the message you are sending us. We aren’t crazy.

Are you shocked that we want something more? Maybe you haven’t noticed the countless Elite Daily articles about what women want. Or maybe you are an award winning actor for pretending that you actually gave a shit. The reactions that you elicit when we confess what we want or are expecting are as if we’re not worthy of something more, ever. We aren’t worthy of developing feelings for you even after months and months of investing our time in you.

I titled this post, “Don’t Call Me Crazy, And I Won’t Call You An Asshole.” So, who’s the asshole? The entire male species? No. I’m not even bitter to the men who only wanted one thing out of me. I understand the science behind the sexual desires of the human species and I certainly understand the science behind getting laid. I’m not bitter to the men who have made me feel used or who have led me on only to let me down. I’m bitter to the men who have expected me to justify my feelings of attachment when they are the ones who led me to become attached. I’m bitter towards the men who have called any girl “crazy” for expecting something more when they treated me like that was the case.

How to avoid being an asshole: don’t sweep me off of my feet only to let me crash when I fall. Be honest with me. If you sense attachment on my end, don’t string me along for the ride if you’re not feeling the same. Don’t call me crazy and I won’t call you an asshole.

8 Promises To Make Yourself Going Into the New Year

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Time. We define our lives by it, allowing it to consume our entire being, yet it’s something that is entirely humanly constructed. It’s not real. You can’t hold it or even accurately describe it to someone without fumbling over your own words. Yet, timing is everything. Time allows us to move on, it allows us to make meaning of things we can’t quite understand. It’s why we celebrate the New Year. The New Year is a symbol for a fresh start, a time when we can allow ourselves to reflect on the years prior, a time to flip the page and start over. Even when you know that starting over is impossible, you allow yourself to believe it is. It gives you a peace of mind, it gives you a chance to redefine yourself.

How would you define your time here in 2014? You may have found yourself, or maybe you lost sight of who you were. Maybe you thought you had life at your fingertips, only to find out that that’s impossible. I hope you fostered friendships, rekindled flames, and maybe even found the love of your life. I hope you realized that life is beautiful, even if it can’t be controlled. I hope that you found true happiness, but I would be naive to think that everyone did.

There are hundreds of things that I would love to promise myself going into the New Year, things that I think we should all promise ourselves. Things that I think if we follow, we’ll be able to prosper and hopefully continue or start down a road of progress and fulfillment.

1. Let them go.
Let him go. Let her go. Let anyone go who no longer serves you and no longer holds a fulfilling piece of your life. Moving on from past boyfriends, girlfriends, and even former best friends, is one of the hardest things you can do. By holding on, you’re simply holding yourself back. You’re holding onto your past, something that you shouldn’t define yourself by. Don’t text him anymore. He isn’t coming back. And even if he does, you’ll soon realize that you were never meant to be in the first place. Don’t allow anyone to come into the 2015 year with you who will only constantly remind you of the disappointments of the past. Focus on yourself and your happiness. Don’t need anyone who doesn’t need you. Letting go doesn’t mean you’re erasing your past, it means that you’ve realized that the future holds so much more.

2. Travel.
If I could, I would pack my bags tomorrow and buy the next one way ticket to anywhere. 2014 was a year that changed me. It changed me because I explored the unknown and allowed myself to stretch beyond my comfort zone. It changed me because I traveled. It’s incredible what you can learn about yourself when you aren’t surrounded by the familiar. Life is easy when you have a set routine in place. Having a routine is safe, it provides a feeling of content. Promise yourself to break that routine in 2015. You don’t have to spend thousands of dollars to travel. You can drive 3 hours out of your way and explore something you’ve never seen before. Allow yourself to be open to what else the world has to offer you and you’d be amazed at the people and places you will find along the way.

3. Recognize weakness isn’t always a bad thing.
In life, we are always told to be strong. We are told that with strength comes happiness, with strength comes a life that will never disappoint because you will be trained to handle anything that comes your way. However, with strength also comes weakness. Realize that sometimes it’s okay to not be okay. Allow yourself to admit defeat.

4. Allow yourself to be vulnerable.
Too often we hold ourselves back from taking a leap of faith because we’re afraid of what will happen if we fail. We’re afraid of leaving ourselves to be vulnerable to certain people and opportunities because the fear of rejection is always on our minds. Setting your expectations high for something allows more room for disappointment, but some things in life don’t always have to be disappointing. Don’t define opportunities by what they could be, define them by what you make of them.

5. Realize you are more than your physical appearance. 
Stop letting a double tap make you feel beautiful. Stop basing your self perception on the amount of “likes,” “retweets.” and “swipe rights,” you get. Defining yourself based on things so superficial will do nothing for you but lead you down road of self-destruction. Beauty has no fixed meaning, so don’t let society tell you otherwise.

6. Don’t allow yourself to stay in a relationship you aren’t happy with.
Too often we settle for people because it’s convenient and easy. It’s easy to be content with the familiar. The thought of cutting someone out and beginning the painful process of moving on makes us cringe. Don’t justify their actions, don’t  convince yourself that things will get better, and certainly don’t settle for anyone who makes you question your self-worth. You can do better and you will do better, just give it time.

7. Realize you aren’t crazy for wanting something more than he is giving.
Life is all about avoiding the label that is, “crazy.” We allow ourselves to believe we are “over thinking,” certain situations as an excuse to justify someone’s actions even if it actually makes us feel like shit. If having sex with him makes you feel used, then don’t let him make you feel used. Just because you want more than fuck buddy doesn’t make you crazy. Society defines “chill girls,” as women who don’t rush attachment and who “go with the flow.” Well, guess what? You don’t have to fall into the label of the “chill girl,” if you don’t want to. Do what makes you happy and don’t do things that make you feel like shit. If he isn’t giving you what you need, then go find someone who will. Don’t let society tell you how you’re supposed to feel. Stop settling for something mediocre when you could have something so much more.

8. Be the one worth chasing after, not the one who chases.
Strive to be the best version of yourself. Be the person who leaves a lasting impact, the person who people fight to keep around. Be the one worth chasing after. That being said, don’t fight to keep people in your life who wouldn’t do the same in return. There are people who take more than they give. They expect you to make them feel important, yet they don’t do the same for you. They won’t chase you, so don’t chase them. Instead, chase yourself. Chase your dreams. Chase after the person you strive to be. Allow yourself to thrive with the best of them. Allow yourself to thrive with the people who encourage you to flourish, not the people who continually drain you. Give to people who give back. In turn, you’ll make people realize what a stupid mistake they made by letting you go so easily. Be awesome. Make yourself worth fighting for.

Happy New Year people. Cheers to 2015, and cheers to you. Go out and make a difference somewhere.

I was intoxicated.

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I woke up in the passenger seat and his hand was down my shirt, cupping my breast. He moved his hand around the inside of my shirt, repeatedly feeling me up for several seconds at a time. I asked him to stop, politely. He asked me for money that I didn’t have. I apologized, then asked him to please stop touching me. He slowly put his hand on my leg, moving it toward my inner thigh. He asked me for money again, this time with more anger in his voice.

“Please stop touching me. I just want to go home.”

“Look, I have to pick up other people, if you don’t have money or any form of payment to give me, then get out.”

The vehicle came to a forceful halt. The door slammed shut as he got out and took my arm and vigorously pulled me out of the cab. My arms scraped against the pavement and I could feel blood on my right elbow drip down my forearm. He sped away, the tires forming a smoke cloud in front of my face.

I reached over and grabbed a dirty Dunkin’ Donuts straw wrapper off of the sidewalk to suppress the blood from the superficial wound. The blood soaked the wrapper quickly, so I sat there, unsure of what to do with myself. The streetlamp above me flickered, and I feared it would soon shut itself off. The street was eerily quiet for a Saturday night in Boston. I looked around me and there didn’t appear to be anyone in sight. I was confused and I was helpless. I heard car alarms and voices in the distance, but I couldn’t find the strength to stand. My eyes felt heavy, and my head started to spin. I could feel tears forming from my eyes, but I wasn’t sure why. Everything had happened so fast and processing it was too much of a feat for me at the time. Maybe because it was all just a sick dream, or maybe it was just because I was intoxicated. I was simply too drunk to prevent something like this happening.

If you’re expecting a post about the dangers of alcohol, you’re looking in the wrong place.

Alcohol makes us dance on tables, it makes us drunk text our ex-boyfriends and sleep around with guys who make us feel like shit. Alcohol gives us the courage get behind the wheel and drive our friends home, simply because we’re the “least drunk.” It aids us in finding the words to say when we have been struggling to find them ourselves. Alcohol makes it acceptable to go home with a random guy who we hardly know and allow our friends to do the same, because he seemed half decent at the bar we drunkenly met him at. Alcohol also makes it OK to get in a cab by yourself in the middle of the night, in my case at least.

Alcohol makes it worth the risk. It makes the risk one that we are willing to take.

I know how you are labeling me. I was “that drunk girl who put herself in a stupid situation.” But, I have to ask, does being alcohol-induced make me less of a victim? Less of a human?

We can sleep with whomever we please, stumble all over the place, and make that short walk home alone all while intoxicated. How many times have you asked your friends, “Should I got back to his place?” or how about “How did I get this huge gash on my leg last night?” Alcohol acts as a permission slip for our careless decisions. Decisions that are usually laughed about the next day, as long as you weren’t “too” drunk to fuck up. As long as you weren’t “too” drunk to have one moment of weakness that could lead to a consequence that was never expected. A consequence that we all risk happening to ourselves when we take a single sip of alcohol.

However, nothing bad could ever happen to you, right? You know how to control your liquor.

We’d all like to think we are immune to our drunken decisions turning into a horror story. Yeah, I thought that too. My horror story has been something that has been brushed to the side because I was “too drunk.” Brushed to the side because I had that one moment of weakness, one thought that made it OK for me to say “yes” to the registered cab driver who offered me a ride and made it known to me he just wanted me to “get home safe.” My bad.

This incident happened fairly recently. It’s difficult for me to admit that I feel judgement from my friends, family, and the law enforcement involved. I have been asked, “How?” and “Why?” and even “What were you thinking?” My question to you is, how exactly would you like me to answer this? Would you like me to try and explain what was going through my head? Would you like me to blame it on the fact I was drunk?

If it gives you some sort of tangible answer for why the cab driver thought it was OK to slip his hand down my shirt and toss me on the sidewalk, then OK, I’ll tell you it was because I was drunk. Somehow my drunken state makes me less of a priority and more of “just another drunk girl” case that has gotten lost in the mix of other instances similar to mine.

I was questioned about the badge number on his cab, his name and appearance, what kind of accent he had. Where and when exactly these bruises got on my arm. I was asked where he touched me and for how long. I was asked if any part of him was penetrated inside of me.

All questions that I struggled to answer at the time. My slurred words and tears rolling down my face made it difficult for them to understand me. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t want to sleep away the pain, though, I wanted to sleep away the alcohol. The alcohol that had been making it so difficult for me to piece together the incident that had just occurred.

Sexual assault is one of the most under reported crimes, with 60% still being left unreported. 

I can’t change the law. I can’t change how you view this situation, or maybe you believe I completely made it up. You might believe I embellished the situation for a good blog post, or simply for attention. I can’t change what you think, or even begin to explain the cab driver’s fucked up decision he made that night.

That extra tequila shot made me comfortable getting into a cab alone. Just like it made you going home with that random guy, alone. Just like it made you comfortable walking home with random strangers from a bar because you all lived in the same area, alone. Just like it allowed you to justify getting into a car with someone who was just a little bit drunker than you were because you live just down the road.

My story is no different from yours. My story just had a different ending, simply because luck wasn’t on my side that night.

Alcohol acts a permission slip for all of these things to happen. I am not asking for you to feel sorry for me, and I’m not even asking to change your opinion on the situation. Sexual assault occurs more frequently than we’d like to admit.

It doesn’t matter if you said “no,” at first. Alcohol makes it easy to be persuaded, making whatever happened OK, right? It doesn’t matter if you were totally uncomfortable with sleeping with him, that feeling seems to be unwarranted for because you were drunk and “didn’t make it clear enough.”

If that’s the case, maybe I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the cab. My closed eyes made me vulnerable to getting assaulted by this man. I was basically asking for it. I was simply “too” drunk and stupid to realize the consequence of my actions.

But, I have to ask, what makes your stupid drunken decisions any less severe than mine? What makes your “I don’t remember how I got home,” or “What the fuck did I do last night,” stories any different from mine? Is it because you got away with it?

If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for everyone else who have put themselves in a situation similar to mine, where luck didn’t fall on their side. Stop blaming it on the alcohol, and start blaming it on the perpetrator involved.

I’m sure some of you reading this has had a similar situation to mine. Maybe it was OK for him to slip it inside you even if you didn’t feel comfortable with it, but you were drunk, so it made it acceptable because you didn’t make it clear enough. Or maybe you got harassed that one time you walked home from the bars, but you were asking for it because vodka said so. There are so many things we let slide because our explanations seem to be clouded by the fact that we were intoxicated.

I don’t blame anyone for what happened, and I would go as far to say that I don’t even blame myself. Sure, my judgement may have been clouded by a couple of extra shots I shouldn’t have taken, but I’d like to ask you to divert your attention away from the alcohol. This post sounds like an attack, like an in-your-face “shut the f*ck up.” But, it’s not meant to be. I’m guilty of letting my friends go home with complete strangers, and not being as careful as I should be when it comes to making decisions while under the influence of alcohol. But, we all are. We’re all guilty of it. We all go out and trust the fact that nothing bad could ever happen to us despite the horror stories we hear all of the time. We’re untouchable. We’re immune to danger. That is, until we are proven wrong.

My About page tells you that my life is nothing short of entertaining. But I think all of our lives are. We all have a story to tell, we all have a secret to hide. The only difference with me is that I have decided to make my stories and secrets public. I make things public because I know some of my posts give some people a voice who feel uncomfortable talking about it themselves. Like I said, maybe some of you think I embellish stories for a decent post, but for those of you who relate to this story, I hope it can give you some peace of mind that you’re not alone.