I have a chewed piece of gum on my desk.

The past few months I’ve received a lot of emails, Insta DMs and in-person Qs about my blog. I’ve sorta ~blogged about it~ before, but that was, like, almost a year ago. So, here’s a refresher.

Some of the Qs I’ve been asked are as follows:

  • Why and when did you start it?
  • How can I start a blog? I have so many things I want to write about but I’m nervous to publish them.
  • Where does your inspiration come from?
  • Are you worried about employers reading your blog?
  • LOL remember that time we briefly dated — you should blog about it. 
  • How did you get your following? What are some SEO techniques?

And here’s my favorite one that I get all of the time.

  • Do your parents read your blog? 

I’m going to attempt to answer these questions, but I’m sorta against a typical Q&A format because tbh, it’s not ~on brand~ with the rest of my stuff. So, per usssuual, I’m going to write about this how I write my all of my blog posts: a personal essay about yours truly.

If you’re here for SEO tips, this isn’t the place for you. Sry.


Let’s start off with what my desk usually looks like.

IMG_8312.JPG.jpeg You’ll see the WordPress screen, a cup of coffee (well, 3rd cup of coffee), water, a chewed piece of gum, a pen, and a To-Do list. This is what my “desk” usually looks like (minus the chewed gum — I have manners).

I’m at my dad’s house, but the setting where I choose to write always changes. Coffee shops, my couch, the bathroom at a bar five vodka sodas deep. It depends.

What you can’t see (or hear, I guess), is the SSOTWTIHLTORFTPFD (Spotify song of the week that I have listened to on repeat for the past five days). Can anyone relate? It’s Sinking by Jeremy Zucker, in case you were wondering.

I have gotten in the habit of taking my make up off religiously every single night (only took me 24 years), except I haven’t quite mastered the art of getting ALL of my eye liner off. Here’s me in real time — my typical ~blogging look~.


Pro tip: The most successful bloggers are always guzzling coffee. This blog isn’t sponsored by Keurig, but tbh, it should be.

So now that you’ve gotten a quick peak into what my life looks like when I blog. Now to the how and why.

I don’t have any real “pro tips” for you about blogging. Truly, I don’t. There are thousands of blog posts out there that tell you about the keys to creating a a high-traffic blog and for those blogs, that’s they’re goal. More traffic.

When I write, I don’t really write for traffic. Yeah, my topics are relatable and when WordPress sends a “You’re stats are booming!” notification, I’m low-key stoked, but you’ll also notice the titles of my blog are never something like, “10 Things Why Everybody Should Drink At Least 4 Cups of Coffee A Day. I’ve Done It And You Should Too.” Lol, #trustory, but you know what I mean.

Basically, I don’t write click-bait.

There is nothing wrong with click-bait. I’m not currently sitting on a blogger high horse scoffing at other bloggers who produce this type of content. I mean, clearly.  There’s currently a chewed piece of gum in my peripheral, who am I to judge?

I’m just saying, that’s not my writing, or I guess “blog” style. So like I said, if you clicked this article looking for tips on SEO or how to go viral, this isn’t the place for you.

Words are a beautiful thing and through this blog, I’m able to experiment with them in a way that is both therapeutic to me and my readers. As much as I write for you, I write for me. It keeps me sane.

I write in an emotional, provocative, stream of consciousness kind of way — as you have probably picked up on. I don’t want to get all sappy and say I ~speak from the heart~ because sometimes I don’t. I let my fingers do the talking — and sometimes it comes out shit. Hence why I have over 450 drafts.

I don’t go into blogs planning what I’m going to write. I don’t believe that inspiration can be pre-determined. For me, it just happens. I experience severe writer’s block like the rest of us and then find myself staring at cappuccino suddenly immersed in an infinite amount of topics and the words flow from my brain to my fingers effortlessly.

The most successful (and profitable) blogs usually have editorial calendars and scheduled posts. They are consistent, reliable and write in a way is “shareable.” I mean, that’s the key to going viral, right?

Not always.

I didn’t build my audience from developing an editorial calendar or sticking to a certain schedule. I built it by sticking to my style — sticking to the style that I know best. My personal “brand” if you will. People come here knowing what to expect – and usually they like it. 

In a way, this website is less of a blog and more of collection of short stories. It wasn’t always that way, though.

Let’s dive into the beginning.

I started this blog when I was a mere single 20-something. Titled Another Chapter in the Book, I didn’t really know what I was doing, and the stuff I wrote about is honestly laughable. Check this out. My very first blog post EVER is titled “Trying to Never Figure Out Life” published April 5, 2013. Holy wow.

I tweet way too much, use Facebook for strictly photo sharing and creeping, and Instagram pointless shit while crossing my fingers that the “likes” will get in the double digits. My iPhone battery sucks, and I also hate myself for complaining about first world problems on a daily basis. I like to take chances, make spontaneous decisions, and am always reaching for something more.

I mean, still sorta true except Twitter is dying and if I ever post a picture that doesn’t get into the double digits I’m straight up deleting my Insta out of pure embarrassment. Kidding but not really. 

Then there was this point titled, “Sunshine, you ROCK.” Ugh, Beth.

Shout out to Mother Nature for rocking my socks this week. ‘Tis the season for sundresses, Sperry’s, and sunglasses. I mean, this doesn’t compare to last year, when it was 75 degrees in the middle of March, but hey, take what you can get.

Am I real?????? Can’t be. Also like, #tbt to when I would wear Sperry’s.

Anyways, like I said before, in the early stages, this blog was purely snippets of my every day thoughts. A kewl and new way to write that wasn’t in the depths of a journal page. It didn’t take much effort and I never really put much thought into what I wrote.

Oh, how times have changed. 

So, how did I get here? Couldn’t tell ya. It wasn’t a revelation I had one morning where I was like haaaayyy I’m gunna tell y’all about all of my personal shit. It was like I developed a strange yet invigorating & intoxicating relationship with this thing and then got more comfortable with the types of things I shared.

This “thing” being my blog.

Behind my marble-skinned MacBook and black plastic keyboard I find peace. It gives me a high I can’t really explain. Things that don’t make sense suddenly can turn into a story that I didn’t even know was there.

For all of you that have asked, how do I start?

Watch a 2 minutes WordPress tutorial on YouTube and then write your first blog post. That’s it. 

Not everything you write has to be novel-worthy. It doesn’t have to change the world. It just has to be you. Like any art form, writing takes practice. What you learn through practicing is two-fold. In one instance, you learn more about how to formulate a more compelling sentence, but in the other, you learn how be more comfortable with your mistakes.

It’s like sitting in front of an easel with nothing but a blank canvas, a paintbrush and a plethora of the finest paint and you’re like LOL, I can hardly draw a stick figure thooo???? You don’t wanna fuck up the canvas so you approach it with caution, afraid of messing up the entire thing with one stroke. The more blank canvasses you fuck up, the more comfortable you get with fucking up and then you realize that your new fuck ups aren’t as bad as your old fuck ups. Make sense?

Then suddenly, you wake up and your art is plastered all over the internet! It’s crazy!

All I’m saying is just write. Write for yourself. Develop your own style. The rest will come. Don’t be too concerned with your audience at first, because again you’re writing for yourself, remember?

I know for a fact that there are some people (hopefully not toooo many) who read what I post and roll their eyes and prob screenshot it and send it to their group chat and laugh.

Or, maybe not at all because I’m not that important lolz. 

You guys also ask a lot about my “subjects.” If you don’t know what this means, basically my “subjects” is my ~long list of ex-lovers who hopefully don’t call me insane~.

I actually had one person ask me, “Do you date people so you can blog about them?”

LOL. No. Good Q though.

Like I said, I don’t go into things being like OOMMGGG THIS IS GUNNA BE A GR8 STORY. It just so happens that relationships make really good blog posts. So, then I write about it and you read them. Simple as that. Honestly, I hope one day that I find myself in a relationship that is too boring to write about because it’s so perfect.

But also not really because that’s no fun either. 

I don’t usually ask people if I can write about them because then they ask questions and I don’t want them to ask questions because then it makes me nervous to write about and then story gets all censored and un-fun and I accidentally talk in a bunch of run-on sentences. Know what I mean? I never share revealing details about them, but besides a couple of guys, people actually like being the subject of my blog. Dead serious!

My last ex was angry about the blog post about him. Like, extremely angry. Pretty sure he consulted a lawyer about it too. I mean, there was not really a case there because the truth is always your biggest defense when it comes to writing but trust me, I’ve done my legal research. You should too.

Like I’ve said in the past, I don’t write with the intent to defame or publicly shame anybody — nobody should. I write stories. My stories. My truth. Are there other characters involved? Of course. That’s life, man.

At first I was so timid, so afraid of what people would think. Like, omg what if people think I’m a total psycho?! 

I eventually just stopped caring. I learned to stop apologizing for what I wrote and learned that if my stories are something that turn certain people away, those people were never meant to be in my life in the first place.

Pro tip: If you want to write about dating/exes, gr8. It’s fun. But don’t make it about the other person. Don’t write for them, write for you. Speak on behalf of your feelings and your experiences. The other parties are just characters in your story. You don’t want to create a “bash your ex blog.” Nobody wins and it usually isn’t as compelling of a read as you want it to be. 

I find inspiration in every day occurrences of my life; dude-induced or not. It doesn’t take a monumental experience for my brain to extrapolate a story. I can literally stare at a blank wall and turn it into a string of sentences on a page. Some call it talent, I call it overthinking — something I’m quite good at.

Does my family read my blog? Yes. Believe it or not, my blog posts are actually on my dad’s fridge. My mom’s always the first to compliment them and this Christmas, my cousin’s wife bought me a unicorn mug because of my last blog post. Check the featured image.

So, yeah, they read it — and they support it!

For a while I tried to hide it from future employers, but at this point I consider it an accomplishment. Yeah, maybe the stuff I write about isn’t super profesh but, it’s me.

And I like me.

My posts don’t follow the rules of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style. In fact, I’m quite sure that if either one of them awoke from the dead and read one blog post, they would re-pass away due to grammar deficiencies. Pretty sure “lolz” and “fuckboy” aren’t in the Webster Dictionary.

They’re not meant to be grammatically perfect nor attract the most traffic. I used to care more about that stuff but then I realized if I wrote in that way, I’d lose the edge that have been developing since the early days of blogging nearly six years ago.

Pro tip: Develop your edge.

What’s an edge? Honestly, I don’t really know. My professor told me that my writing had an “edge” so I’m holding onto that compliment in the hopes that it some day makes more sense to me.

Not everybody is going to love what you write. Not everybody is going to love the character you create out of them. Some people turn into a whole chapter while some only make it out with a line or two. The beauty of personal writing is that you have complete control over what gets put on the page.

If you want to start a blog, then start a blog. Who’s stopping you?

Don’t write for others, write for yourself. You’d be surprised how many stories you can create out of a seemingly monotonous life. When you master that, your life actually starts to feel much more interesting.

Rainbow unicorn toast.

Nose to the sky, we fly through the crisp December air splitting the clouds into millions of pieces.

This setting is familiar.

My legs sit on the plastic leather seat. Iced coffee to my right. The sky is painted with city lights that glimmer along the black horizon. A man made Milky Way.

Where are you off to?

I take the large headphones off my head and rest them around my neck.

Well, duh, But I mean after we land. Boston, Boston, or like Worcester Boston? He inquires.
Haha, well, right outside. I’m on the red line. Does that count?
I guess so.

He asks me where my accent is.

I tell him I left it at Logan airport in September. I’m going to pick it up at Terminal A when we land.

He’s amused.

I snap a picture of the sunrise.

Have you ever seen one of those before?
A sunrise.

He’s sarcastic, but so am I. I understand the language.

No, I haven’t. I’m hoping to share this phenomenon with my Instagram followers. Maybe make it on National Geographic or something.

He smirks.

It’s a smooth trip so far.

I tell him about the time I was shot 6 feet in the air on my way back from Ann Arbor due to severe turbulence.

6 feet, huh? And you lived to tell the tale?
I’m here, aren’t I?

He rolls up the sleeves of his black and red checkered flannel and scratches his 5 o’clock shadow.

The clouds remind me of unicorn toast. The rainbow clouds, like butter, are lightly spread across the soft blue sky.

I tell him about this comparison.

He tells me that the unicorn trend is dumb.

I nod in agreement. He doesn’t need to know that I follow a unicorn toast account on Instagram.

The ice in my coffee is melting. I tell him to stop distracting me so I don’t waste my $3.42 that I spent on this beverage.

Iced coffee in the winter, huh? You’re a true Massachusetts gal I guess.

We talk about our confusion with Wawa. Why do people love gas station food so much? It puzzles us. I tell him that I went to the new Dupont location and was overwhelmed and grabbed a Greek salad from across the street instead.

It’s refreshing to chat New England things with a fellow New Englander. I tell him this.

You flatter me.

I roll my eyes.

Haha, you’re right though. DC chat can be sort of exhausting sometimes, right? Like, I’m just trying to enjoy my beer why you gotta bring up tax reform?

I laugh. I can empathize.

We start to descend. 20 minutes until we land, the pilot tells us.

The clouds begin to break. I can see the ocean beneath us. I don’t fear flying, but my stomach turns ever so slightly when we are above water.

I close my eyes.

You can’t nap now. We’re about to land and you need to keep me distracted because I get nervous when I fly over water.

I smile and look at him. For a moment, I forget my fear of crashing into the deep depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

Me too.

The ice in my coffee is melted. I take a sip anyways.

Ugh, this tastes like pond water now, I complain.
Sorry, I think I have $3 in my wallet, but you’re gunna have to come up with the 42 cents.

How about you just buy me a coffee in DC?

It was like word vomit.

Did I just ask this guy out? What the actual fuck Beth. Here we are, two strangers casually chatting on a plane, nervous AF flying over the Atlantic Ocean and you just made it weird. Gr8. Awesome. Well done.

Suddenly, crashing into the deep depths of the Atlantic Ocean doesn’t sound half bad.

Coffees are more expensive in DC, he responds, that doesn’t seem fair.

I turn red and my stomach is still twisting — and it’s not because of the water. I snort out a laugh as a nervous reaction. I don’t use “snort” for literary effect. I use it to describe the actual sound that came out of my mouth.

How about this, he suggests, I’ll buy you a $5 cappuccino from some trendy coffee shop, but then you gotta pick up the $1.58 and get me a scone or something.

A scone? I scoff at him. How about a bagel? My stomach starts to feel normal again.

Fine. Just make sure they don’t overdo it on the cream cheese.

The wheels hit the runway and the plane shakes. I hold onto what’s left of my pond water. Coffee, I mean. At this point they are one in the same.

Which one is your bag?
The purple one. 
He points, this one? No way. Is this vintage L.L. Bean?
You bet it is.

We exit the airplane and he hands me back my phone. 603. A New Hampshire zip code.

My names Ben*, by the way, I don’t think I ever told you. Pencil me in for after the holidays. I hope Santa brings you a new duffle bag. You’re overdue. Merry Christmas, Beth.

Merry Christmas, Ben.

12 anti-Trump things to do today if you just tryna chill~

“What are your Inauguration plans?” Living in DC, the new home of our president-elect, this question is harder to avoid than most things.

Continue reading 12 anti-Trump things to do today if you just tryna chill~

Here’s what I want my funeral to look like


Inspired by Mindy Kaling’s book-because she’s just the sh*t.

Death. A morbid subject, yet inevitable to all. I have been to countless wakes and funeral in my lifetime, sadly. Distant cousins, grandmothers, an uncle to a friend of a friend who my dad knew on the board of directors for our youth basketball league. I mourned the loss of my friend’s goldfish one time in the 2nd grade. We cried as it swirled down the toilet bowl.

As I’m perpetually overwhelmed with sadness during these “mourning ceremonies,” if you will, my mind does doze off occasionally to completely selfish thoughts.

Continue reading Here’s what I want my funeral to look like

Pain is inevitable, but so is happiness.

Too often we define our lives by our disappointments. Our failed attempts to control things that simply can’t be controlled. Our emotions, our heartbreaks, our “you’re not good enough” stories. Too often we place the world on our shoulders, attempting to solve problems that simply can’t be solved in the moment, or ever. We feel, and we feel deeply.

Our emotions are both a blessing and a curse. We love with every ounce of our fragile hearts, expecting the best outcomes, only to have our expectations fall short.  We want to change people. We want to change how they feel, how they act. We want to feel like we are worth it. We want to feel wanted.

To my readers: I have felt the way you feel, I have cried the tears you cry. I have defined myself based on the thoughts of others, based on the people who have seemed to take more than they give. I lose a little bit of myself each time. Each time I take that leap of faith, each time I allow my heart and my mind to fall vulnerable to the glimmer of hope I see in others. I tell myself, “Never again.”  I promise myself that this will be the last time I define myself based on how you see me. I promise myself that I’m worth it, even if I’m not worth it to you.

I came to a point in my life where I started asking “Why is the world out to get me?” Bad luck seemed to be embedded into the shadows I crossed, and I was slowly loosening grip on the things that I held onto so firmly. It was like my sensitivity was something to be ashamed of, it was something that only led to tears and let downs.

The world wasn’t out to get me, I was out to get myself.

People are always going to disappoint you. Life is always going to tell you that “you’re not good enough.” Don’t lose hope. Don’t stop taking that leap of faith. Some people say that feeling so deeply is simply a curse, but I’d have to disagree. I feel deeper than most, and maybe I have more failed relationships than you do, but I’ve come to realize that my life is so much more than that.Whit’s Wisdom: He’s Just Not That Into You

My life is more than drunk texts and missed connections. It’s more than shitty people and failed expectations.I’ve learned how to feel with every ounce of my body. With every inch of my skin. And it’s led me to perhaps some of the most rewarding experiences and friendships that wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t put myself out there.

My sensitivity is something that I’ve always tried to hide. I have constantly tried to hide my emotions so far down in the basement of my heart, but I realized doing that only makes me forget who I am. It sends me into an abyss of nothingness, with no set destination. I may allow myself to get hurt, but I’d rather get hurt than feel absolutely nothing. I’d rather cry a thousand times than miss out on a single day true happiness.

Feel deeply, keep taking that leap of faith. Keep putting yourself out there and accept that you will probably get hurt a few more times. You can store your emotions in a black box in the basement of your heart, or you can let yourself be vulnerable. It’s how you fall in love. It’s how you feel. It’s how you understand yourself.  It’s how you’re supposed to live.

You’re not “stupid” for expecting the best out of people. You’re not “naive” for having a hopeless romantic heart.  You’re not “pathetic” for expecting something to come out of what was nothing to him. You feel, and that is perhaps the greatest and most powerful gift life could give you. Embrace it.

Pain is inevitable, but so is happiness.

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!

11 Reasons Why Tom Brady Should Be Everyone’s #MCM

Happy Man Crush Monday my fellow #TB12 lovers. Aside from his face that has #blessed written all over it, this man has done it all, and I feel like I owe it to everyone to dedicate a blog post to the Zeus of the NFL.

Here’s a short list of the real reasons why Brady should be your #MCM every single Monday (or just every single day).

1. I guess I should get this one out of the way. His face was carefully crafted by the highest of supreme beings to represent the “Ultimate Man,” and we should all take time out of our day to appreciate it.

Are you real?

2. He’s the epitome of every Elite Daily article we’ve read on what women really want in a guy. Seriously, read this article and tell me it doesn’t have Tom Brady written all over it. Honesty, understanding, caring, strength, compassion, security, blind loyalty. Boom.

                           I can’t.

3. He single handedly redefined what it means to be an Ugg-wearing male. Gone are the days of struggling to find what to buy for your boyfriend on Christmas. You can never go wrong with a pair of man Uggs, all thanks to the King himself.

Now we just need Beyonce to redefine the Ugg movement for     women…

4. He’s dorky and awkward in all the right ways. Kind of like Seth Cohen, but way hotter.

5. He kind of resembles Taylor Kitsch and if you ever want to resemble someone you want it to be Taylor Kitsch.

6. He’s not in it for the money, he’s in it for the football. He gives away his brand-new cars and million dollar endorsements, because, well, he’s Tom Brady. His nine digit paychecks aren’t a secret to anyone, and he doesn’t try to make it one. He just wants to play the game, and trust me, we love watching you do it.

7. He does random sh*t but looks absolutely adorable doing it.

Bleached tip faux hawk? Alright…
I guess when you’re Tom Brady you can decide what days you want to be a hipster.

8. Brady was kind of a dork, and it kind of makes me love him so much more. He gives hope to middle schoolers and pre-pubescent teens everywhere. The awkward stage doesn’t last forever, and Brady is a perfect example.

Exhibit A: 


9. His relationship with Bill Belichick makes us happier than a new season of Orange Is The New Black on Netflix. Imagine being able to put “Has the ability to make Bill Belichick laugh,” on your resume?

10. His marriage explains what we want in a relationship way better than any #relationshipgoals tweet we’ll ever read.

11. And his family, like, are you kidding? Your life is more picture perfect than my Pinterest page.

Thank you, Brady. For not only your flawless face and chiseled six pack abs, but also for being perfect in every humanly way possible. I would envy you, but I enjoy swooning over you way more. Much love.

Why I Never Answered Your Text

“Why didn’t you write me? Why? It wasn’t over for me, I waited for you for seven years. But now it’s too late.”

“I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you everyday for a year.”

“You wrote me?”

“Yes… it wasn’t over, it still isn’t over”

Sorry, ladies and gents. It is over. And it’s not because your over-bearing parents intercepted his/her messages. It’s just over, but I’ll tell you why.

It’s a classic 20th century love story:

Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy and girl exchange numbers and talk. Then, somewhere along the way it just doesn’t work out. You stopped answering their texts. Boy now awkwardly sees girl on campus and boy/girl wonders why the other one never responded.

This post I decided to reach out to my amazing readers for some input about why you weren’t worth the text back. The responses I got were unreal. You guys are awesome. So, if you have ever been ignored, here is the ultimate guide for why this particular boy or girl just didn’t think you were worth their time anymore. However, these people don’t seem to be too sorry about it. I wish I could include all of the responses, but many of them were too similar (not surprising by any means).

For all of you lost souls, including myself, this is why they never answered your text:

Your last text was confusing, weird, and/or annoying:

I tend to not answer when I have no idea the meaning behind the text–if something can be construed as flirty or serious, how the hell do you respond without looking like an idiot if you’re wrong?

I never answered your text because you made a weird comment about doing something together like a year in the future. Too much commitment, too fast! Ask me on a date first.
Found something (probably something stupid) that is wrong with them and that’s all you can focus on
We had a fun night together, but I can’t stand texting you. You spell EVERYTHING wrong. I can’t even understand what you’re saying. I tried to be patient, but every time your name pops up in my messages, I get aggravating trying to decipher the pig latin you sent me.

Because he asked for nudes.

Not answering his text because he is too overly aggressive. Like seriously with a double text? and then a triple? why doesnt he get the hint? its awkward. embarassing. and just so sad. I dont answer him because he doesn’t make my heart beat faster, or you just know theres no point, or because your beer (or in my case tequila goggles REALLY misled me). But what if hes so nice it hurts? So you respond once for every four of his texts. how does one build up the courage to friend zone the F out of the nuisance who not only triple but quadruple texts you?! The heart wants what the heart wants and its not you. IM JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU, IF I DONT RESPOND. obvy.

Because “hey baby” from a number I don’t even recognize is seriously creepy.

There’s no point in trying to have a conversation with someone when all their responses are one-worded and mostly LOLs. Plus, your dick pic was unwanted…and not impressive.

You aren’t what we thought you were:

Number 1 reason for me would be beer goggles making the decision to take that number. Then you wake up to a text from him like oh shit I hit on a guy that looks like voldemort last night….. Fucking tequila. ABORT. Next reason would be personality wise; they either turn out boring, creepy as fuck, or clearly not all there in the head. Toodles to that idiot he didn’t even make it to be my flavor of the month.
i never answered your text because i don’t remember meeting you and your name was saved in my phone as “kevin (tori says he’s not cute)” so my best friend definitely did this and if she doesn’t think you’re cute, i probably don’t either
The beer goggles came off and I realized he actually doesn’t look like Ryan Gosling…..
Make up did wonders for you. Tone it down a bit.
I thought you were cool and then you asked me my ex girlfriends name so you can “stalk her on Facebook”………that is indeed a red flag if I’ve ever seen one

You’re taken and we don’t want to get murdered:

You clearly have a girlfriend (that I CLEARLY stalked on your Facebook the day after we met)

I got in a fight with your boyfriend at a bar last year who I just realized is your boyfriend. He broke my nose because I accidentally spilt a beer on him. I can only imagine what he would do if he knew we slept together. I’m a small dude. -Greg, 24.
You saw that I saw you with your girlfriend on campus. Then you had the balls to text me after “Wanna come over tonight?” No???? What do i look like to you?

We aren’t your booty call:

I never texted you back because you only text me at 2am
You make me feel like shit and I know you only want one thing from me. I’m all set thanks.
We had sex once and it honestly sucked. Texting me at 1am not only brings me back to the awful sex we had together but it just makes me feel sleazy. –Katie, 21.

You’re too eager:

personally, when a guy is all about it after we meet and actively gets my number and texts me, i get over it real quick. Make yourself a little hard to get because who wants a guy thats easy and any basic girl can get. Please wait a while to text me or don’t text me so i wonder why you have my number and aren’t hitting me up!! But another reason i won’t answer is because the alcohol had you looking hot and your Facebook reminded me the next day you are not….

…Or maybe not eager enough:

I was trying to play his game…you play hard to get? Then so do I.
You have gone weeks without responding to me and then drop a casual “hey whats up” on a random Tuesday night…. like what?-Laura, 23.
I can’t tell if you like talking to me or not. You text me first but then you seem uninterested in the conversation.

Your hygiene isn’t up to par:

Cause you had a smelly vagina… Doesn’t matter, had sex anyways. –Brian L., 21.
Your bedroom was DISGUSTING. Trust me, I’m not a neat freak. But there was legitimately cooked spaghetti all over the place….. Like what? -Julie, 22.
Your morning breath was something to remember. Not in a good way. –Luke, 20.

Thanks to everyone who submitted responses! Love you weirdos.

Tinder Conversations: NY Edition

Happy Thanksgiving you filthy animals.

I’m spending my Thanksgiving in Brooklyn with family, so to fight the FOMO about missing out on Thanksgiving Eve festivities with friends, I decided to do a bit of “social experiment,” if that’s what you’d like to call it. I only expected to do it to one or two guys, but then it just spread like wildfire. I couldn’t help myself.

Everyone reading this very familiar with Tinder, the glorified hook up app.  So, since I know zero people in this area, I decided to strike up some interesting conversations with complete strangers. Inspired by How To Lose A Guy In One Tinder, I hope I can provide you with some comic relief on this glorious holiday. Apologies to those victimized, but I am certainly #thankful and #blessed for you providing me with entertaining conversations and endless laughs.

What did I learn? I can act as crazy as I’d like to, it doesn’t matter. The thirst is real.

Kindly read the conversations from left to right.

Meet Victim #1. He poses with girls in his Tinder pictures. And, his nose is growing, “like pinokio.”




How kind of you to have a romantic dinner planned for me when I come knocking on your door looking for your non-existent girlfriend like a complete psychopath.

Meet Victim #2. His grammar is immaculate and he’s charming as hell 🙂 Every girl’s dream. 



I guess that makes two of us who are constipated with our “faces stuck in one position.” Also, since you’ve slept with 7 and a HALF women, do you consider me half or whole of a woman? Jw lmao lmk thx.

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Wait, so does this mean take back the comment about me getting chewed up by the tigers in my Tinder picture (which are actually lions) because you still want to hook up? I’m confused. Lmk, thx.

Meet Victim #3: He’ll tell you that you look like Angelina Jolie and mean it ❤

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“naaaaaaaa lmao” 


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So, first you said I don’t look Angelina Jolie at all. Maybe just slightly. Well, no, I look similar, but maybe just in person. Actually, no, just in my second picture we look alike. Ok. Good to know.


I’m off to bigger and better things. You gave me all of the confidence I need. All I need to find is my Brad Pitt and a few adorable orphans to adopt. Hollywood, here I come! 

Victim #4 is willing to help a stranger in need…as long as he can talk to me on the phone first.

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Have you asked your parents if its OK yet? I’m cool, I swear.

This guy’s cool. He has pumpkin and apple pie. And his friend’s parents love to salsa. What’s better than that?

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Well, so do you want me to leave the savory pumpkin pie that I made at home? That’s kind of rude. And, what if I don’t know how to salsa? Will I feel left out? Do you think we could split the Uber taxi?

Hey Victim #6 thank you for understanding my butterfly obsession.

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I was hoping we could paint our future kitchen red, but beige with oak cabinets sounds good too. We can compromise I suppose. 

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“I don’t think there’s a need for pills.” The WebMD of Tinder. Thanks for backing me up cutie pie 🙂

And here’s my Angelina Jolie friend again.


Ok bye, friend. I’ll miss you.

If you ‘d like to participate in this Tinder game with me, it’s fun. Email me at anotherchapterinthebook@gmail.com or message me on Facebook. I’ll feature your sicko conversations in my next post!

Much luv,
Xoxo Beth


St. Patrick’s Day Collins

Age is just a number…right?

March 17, 2013.

It was St. Patrick’s Day in Boston, the day after my 20th birthday. A few friends and I trekked into the city to catch the parade, although the parade was hardly the center of our focus. We filled our styrofoam Dunkie’s cups with strange concoctions, probably some combination of cheap vodka and a soft drink. The bathroom lines were insane, filled with a bunch of underage drinkers dressed in tacky t-shirts attempting to get away with taking a few shots in the public bathrooms. We had no plan, no destination, or really no idea what we were doing. We were just a bunch of 20 year olds trying to get drunk in Boston on the day where it was easy to.

Hardly knowing what the term “breaking the seal,” actually meant, we refused to do it when we actually had the chance. We gulped down our questionable drinks in the public bathrooms and continuously told ourselves to “not break the seal” so early in the day, even though our bladders were about to explode (TMI?) We treated it as though it was one of the ten commandments. “Thou shalt not break thy seal even if thou body is basically demanding thou to.”

Eventually we were five drunk and underage teenagers all in desperate need for a bathroom. Somehow, we decided the best option was knocking on the door of some random house party. A man dressed like a giant leprechaun stepped out, his breath reeking of booze. He held out a tray of cupcakes as we asked if we could quickly use his bathroom.

This “quick” bathroom trip turned into 7 solid hours of partying with complete strangers…all over the age of 25.

We hung out for a bit and then I met eyes with this one guy. I knew I had met him before, but I couldn’t remember when. Our eyes awkwardly locked a few times throughout the course of an hour when he eventually came up to me introducing himself then followed by, “Do I know you?”

After several minutes of trying to figure out how we knew each other it was eventually determined that he was in fact a common customer at the hockey store I worked at throughout high school. We talked, made out, talked some more, which led to exchanging each other’s numbers.

“So,” I asked, “How old are you?”
“Errr, umm, I just turned 27 a few days ago.”
“Haha, oh, I just turned 20 yesterday.”

7 years. Woof.

How do we determine who is “dateable?” It usually starts out with a physical attraction, which then has to be supplemented with a good personality. It might not start out with a best “how we met” story, but it usually evolves into your own version of a fairytale. Dateable people are the people we can see a real future with, even if the relationship only lasts a few months.

I never really took this guy as someone I could seriously see myself dating. I mean, despite our age gap, his phone number was saved in my phone as “St. Patrick’s Day Collins.” I had totally forgotten what his first name was. He texted me the very next day and we had an enjoyable conversation, all while I was still trying to figure out his first name. He didn’t seemed bothered by the fact that I was a young 20 year old, and I assumed that it was because he thought I was vulnerable.

The next thing I knew he asked me out on a lunch date.

It worked out nicely, I had an interview in downtown Boston which happened to be right down the street from his office. So, I agreed to a date. If it went horribly, at least I got a free meal out of it. He told me where to meet him, and I stood there waiting, feeling my face get more red by the second. My heart started beating a little faster and I thought to myself, “What the hell was I thinking?”

Then, suddenly, he appeared from around the corner. He wore a blue striped button up, with his tie loosely undone from his neck. His light brown hair was swept back, paired with crystal blue eyes that I spotted from 20 feet away. He approached me with a smile that was way more perfect than I had remembered and a defined jaw line that made it even better. He was confident and he was hot.

“Hey Beth, how are you? You look great.”

We awkwardly hugged, and then he took me this nice restaurant right in Government Center. The place was relatively small, but felt cozy. It was filled with women and men in suits enjoying a cold one during their lunch breaks. I instantly regretted changing out of my interview attire. I sat there with my fake Longchamp bag, decently expensive leather boots and American Eagle jeans while he was in full business suit. Awesome.

The waitress approached us and I instantly felt judged. Paranoia took over, and I found myself hoping she just thought I was his little sister rather than his date. The age gap was recognizable, and even more so when she asked what we wanted to drink.

“Can I get you two a beer?”
“Yeah sure, do you want–oh wait, err, yeah I’ll just have one.”
“Yeah, just water is fine with me.”

Off to a great start.

I ordered a salad and he ordered a burger with french fries. In between long, drawn out mouthfuls of food, we talked about our lives. I found myself taking more and more time to swallow my food because the more we talked, the more I felt the age gap widen. He spoke about his career and other adult-like things where I sat there and continuously contemplated what I could say that wouldn’t totally come off as an immature 20 year old. I talked about school, made up what I wanted to do with my degree, and pretended like our lives were anywhere near the same.

But, they were hardly the same. We were at two totally different places. He was attractive, respectful, easy to talk to, athletic, and an all around great guy…but he was also seven years older than I was.

That day was only about a year and a half ago, but I find myself thinking about that date a lot. He tried to keep in contact with me after the date, always asking to see me again, but I’d always make up some excuse to reject him. I wonder what it would be like if I went out with him again now in this stage of my life. A stage where I’m a little less focused on frat parties and more focused on my future and career. So, was it his age that intimidated me? Or was it simply the fact that I knew our lives were on two opposite ends of the spectrum?

My friends and I have recently made this a regular topic of our conversations. How old is too old? Most of us are at least 21 at this point, which means the only thing we aren’t legally allowed to do is rent a car. Society views us as adults, although some of us have hardly reached the maturity point of a 13 year old. So, the thought of dating someone 25+ isn’t as unreasonable or crazy as people make it out to be.

I have always been attracted to older men (when I say older I mean 2-3 years). Older is supposed to mean more mature, when that is hardly the case. We stress so much on a simple number that we allow ourselves to be limited to who we are attracted to. It certainly makes sense; I dated a guy who is only two years older than I am and as soon as he graduated college I felt as though we were on two totally different pages. A 2 year gap suddenly felt like a 6 year gap. His priorities changed, as did mine. However, it wasn’t the age gap that changed, as much as it felt like it did.

So, yeah, I’d agree. Age is simply just a number. Age doesn’t necessarily define where you’re at in your life.

St. Patrick’s Day Collins: Would you like to go on a date where we can both legally order booze? I promise I won’t be as weird I was the first date we went on. I was more worried about the fact that I had just turned 20 and there was still a water bottle of cheap vodka in my fake Longchamp bag from the night before.