As Featured on News Cult: The Biggest Turn-Ons

Men, here are the quickest ways to moisten a girl’s panties:


A sense of humor

If you can’t laugh when, for example, you’re black and we ask you if chocolate animal crackers offend you, we don’t need you inside of us.

Being not a dick

That’s really all we ask. Because you’re all so terrible, our expectations are so low that the only thing we would really like to have is a guy who isn’t making the world worse with his douchiness. You don’t even have to be actively improving the world–just don’t be ruining it.

Having an appreciation for staring into people’s windows at night

It’s not creepy, ok?! It’s natural to look into a window that’s lit with no curtains when it’s dark out, and to assess the inhabitant’s interior decorating choices and wonder what their life is like and if anybody loves them and if they so happen to be having sex then sure we’ll maybe watch that too, if it’s visually appealing enough, but we’re not voyeurs–that’s some aggressive word choice, and, frankly, we’re offended.

Being a good cook

We will not be fulfilling stereotypical gender expectations and cooking for you–we’re strong, independent, 21st century women who need men to cook for us. Plus, food is our reason for living, so if you can make it good, we’ll be less likely to give you the boot when you inevitably display your inability to think rationally, narcissistic tendencies, and crippling emotional ineptitude.

Being considerate

It’s not that hard to express empathy, or concern, or sincere interest in someone other than yourself. Like, I get it, you think you’re God’s gift to man, and your dick is king, but guess what, there are literally billions of other males on the planet who are more hung than you, so swallow your pride (how’s it feel to swallow? The ultimate act of empathy) and express some sincere consideration for us every once in a while.

Hiding your obsession with sex

We know you’re motivated by sex and sex only, but just try to pretend you care about other things–anything else. You could express interest in our desk chair, or a brick wall–hell, any wall–it doesn’t even have to be a prominent wall, like the Great Wall, or the Berlin wall–it could be the wall next to the dumpster, or the wall outside the gas station that everyone pees on when they’re drunk, and we’d jump for joy. We’d simply like to be thought of as something other than a receptacle once in a while.

Being philanthropic

Hearing about how you saved the children, or bought a homeless man a sandwich, or helped an old lady who dropped her cane in the adult diaper aisle at the grocery store is the best kind of foreplay. Talk charity to me.

Being a good dancer

You don’t have to be Michael Jackson good, and in fact, don’t be, because that will just remind us of child molestation (another thing that’s a turn on–being not a child molester)–but if you can bust somewhat of a move, there’s something so sexy about that. And it’s not even really being good at dancing so much as putting an effort in, and having fun while doing it, that is attractive. And, most importantly, don’t get in the fucking way of our dancing–we’re free spirits, we need to express ourselves through bodily movement, and we’re beautiful gazelles, so GTFO of our ways, because we will TWIRL right through you.

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As Featured on News Cult: Engagement & Wedding Rings: Let’s Discuss

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Engagement rings and wedding rings fascinate me. They seem like such a small, insignificant topic in the grand scheme of things, and, don’t get me wrong, they are–because the only meaning and worth they have is that which we’ve imparted on them, so they’re inherently valueless, plus like diamonds are soooo not rare anymore, most of them are manufactured at this point, though let’s not sweep a little something called BLOOD DIAMONDS under the rug, and regardless of all of that what does it matter in the end anyway because we’re all tiny little specks in a vast universe that couldn’t give less shits about any of us. But I think they actually carry a lot of significance, if only sociocultural in its nature. You can probably guess where I land on the subject, but I still think it’s worth discussing engagement and wedding rings and looking at them from all angles.

Ok just kidding not all angles because that sounds like a lot of work and we don’t do work. But let’s start with their origin: I really wonder who first came up with the concept of engagement and wedding rings. I could Google it to find out, but of course will not be doing that because that would require effort, so instead I will just conjecture. I imagine that someone, some time, decided that marriage needed an accompanying material symbol. And in theory, love lasts forever (LOL) and is infinite (LOLOL), so it makes sense for the symbol that represents it to be a circle. Enter: the ring. But how where when and why did we go from a simple circular ring to GIANT rocks on fingers to show that we’re not quite married, but will be just as soon as our prenups are finalized, and then on top of that, another ring once the deal is sealed just in case there was any confusion about whether or not the woman with the geode on her finger was taken?

I just. don’t. get. it. And, backing up a bit, frankly I don’t understand the need to exhibit marriage or engagement in the form of a material object in the first place. Isn’t marriage supposed to be about love? And isn’t love supposed to be about a genuine passion and connection between two souls? (No, really, I’m asking–I wouldn’t know). But assume that’s correct, why then the need to show love off via some object? Isn’t the love enough for the marriage, and isn’t the marriage enough for the marriage? This leads me to believe that people don’t use engagement and wedding rings as genuinely meaningful symbols–rather, I think we’re all just a bunch of materialistic, greedy hogs who want a lot of stuff that costs a lot of money because money somehow equals power, relevance, and happiness, which we all know isn’t true but are too delusional to accept.

Furthermore, breaking it down, why the need for an engagement ring and a wedding ring? And why does only the woman have to wear the engagement ring? Why not the man, too? What kind of sexist patriarchal bullshit is that? CLEARLY these rings signify ownership, which last I checked was called SLAVERY and turned out to be not the most evolved human practice. We don’t ever own another human–I don’t care what your marriage license says, Bob can leave you at any time, Linda, even if not by way of formal divorce–he can fuck your daughter’s cheer leading coach ALL day long. It’s really kind of sad, when you think about it–we’re so desperate for companionship that we think by literally branding our partner, they’re bound to us for life.

But if we insist on doing that, why not do it equally? If I have to wear a garish diamond ring on my finger prior to marriage, so should my fiancé. Why does he get to put his stamp of ownership on me before I get to put mine on him? There’s no logical explanation. Which leads me back, again, to the conclusion that people don’t wear engagement and wedding rings because it’s rational and makes a lot of sense–they wear them, buy them, give them, accept them because they are valuable. And anything that has a dollar sign attached to it is apparently God–to be worshiped, sought after, and idolized.  So, congratulations, humanity–we’re one giant piece of materialistic shit.

As predicted, my conviction regarding the ridiculousness of engagement and wedding rings has only strengthened in writing this. I hate them more now than ever. I vote we focus on authentic human connection instead of who has the biggest ring, or what ring anyone has at all. I know we don’t believe authentic human connection is a thing either, but I have to believe it’s way better than concerning ourselves with jewelry and assessing people based on their left ring finger. The only thing I’m interested in about your finger is does it have a Ring Pop, because any ring that involves food is more than welcome.

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As Featured on News Cult: Good Activities to do Solo

So we’re alone–this is nothing new. We know this. Let’s stop being in denial and embrace the fact that we’re dying on our own. Like, we’re already dying–we are in process of dying. Alone. It’s happening. Get on board. Here are some things that are good to do alone. I mean you’ll have to do everything by yourself, but these are just activities that will be slightly less depressing to do alone. But still pretty depressing.

Mini golf

Or regular golf, but who actually knows how to make contact with the ball when they swing? Hardest thing I’ve ever attempted.


Food: our life partner.


You can actually take the pace you’re comfortable with, and you don’t have to pretend to care about anyone else’s mundane observations about the art. Attn, people who think they “get” art: really, you bore us.

Browse the bookstore

You can literally sit for hours in the aisles, reading books and magazines for free. Except don’t be a dick–pay for them to support the written word, which is rapidly going extinct thanks to every child little shit who’s still in diapers but now has a tablet, because apparently they’re too good for REAL BOOKS, and instead of interacting with the world and learning things, they just play Candy Crush while being wheeled around in their stroller, all smug like they’re royalty, meanwhile developing a lethal narcissism that’s going to be responsible for the devolution of humanity but NBD BECAUSE THE IMPORTANT THING IS THEY SAW ALL OF THEIR SNAPCHAT NOTIFICATIONS BEFORE THEIR IPHONE DIED GUYS.


Alcohol: this is where we choose polygamy, because we would like a second life partner, please–in the form of ethanol.

Go for a hike

Um how are we supposed to make chit chat with fellow hikers while we’re moving our bodies? We do not have the lung capacity for that. You should just be thankful that we’re engaging in any physical activity at all.


GET OUT OF OUR BEDS, OTHER PEOPLE. Is this a fifth grade girl’s birthday party? Why are you attempting to have a sleepover? Like get away from us we need our space please remove your disgusting bodies from our vicinity.

Go to the movies

The things we love most: dark, quiet, spaces where we’re not expected or obligated to talk to anyone–in fact we’re expected NOT to–and we get to immerse ourselves in fantasy and escape our sad, pathetic realities for two hours. And eat candy and popcorn and hot dogs and nachos and drink slurpees. And no one can see us cry.

Get a massage

We don’t understand people who get couples massages. PSA to those: You are the thieves of all that is good.


LOL. We don’t do that. But IF we did, we would do it alone. We don’t need anyone seeing us at our worst–the sight of our own reflection in the wall-length mirrors at the gym is traumatic enough. Us exercising, is like Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton rubbing their naked bodies against each other while bathing in a pot of their collective corruption and excessive wealth —not pretty.


No one can keep up with your moves, anyway–one word to describe how you tear up the dance floor: sexual.

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As Featured on News Cult: How to Talk to Children

Children are simultaneously the best and the worst. They’re the best because: they don’t GAF about your feelings, they say what’s on their mind, they haven’t had their souls crushed by life yet, they’re unintentionally funny, they enjoy food without guilt, they lack self-consciousness, and they can pull off the cutest clothes, even if they’re chubby. They’re the worst because: they’re obnoxious, they whine, they cry, they can kind of be dicks, they need hand holding, they enjoy food without guilt, they lack self-consciousness, and they can pull off the cutest clothes, even if they’re chubby.  So here are some tips I have for how to navigate the roller coaster ride that is interaction with children.

1. Talk to them like they’re adults

It’s a cliché, but it works. “Carlos, if you’re going to be rude to me, I’m not going to give you more animal crackers. Please lower your voice–you’re getting a little hostile. Do unto others, Carlos–do unto others. Did you take nothing away from Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea? Grace under pressure. The Sea is a character, Carlos. 3 years old is not too young to learn that lesson. Be reasonable, Carlos.”

2. Offer them treats

I’m not saying it’s good to be a pedophile, but they do know what they’re doing. The way to a child’s heart? Candy and unhealthy food.

3. Don’t

Sometimes the easiest way to talk to children is to not.

4. Nod and smile

Most of the time when kids talk, they’re spewing nonsense. So just smile and nod along–they’re really only looking for a captive audience. They could be saying, “I killed a squirrel in my backyard and ate it raw,” and we wouldn’t really care–the objective is to survive the conversation so we can make it out the other side, where there is COFFEE AND/OR ALCOHOL.

5. Go over their head

Sometimes, because children have infinite babbling capabilities, it’s best to nip those in the bud–otherwise, you could find yourself in a marathon conversation about Dora the Explorer’s backpack, and you’ll have to bite your tongue about how retarded her bowl cut looks so many times. One of the easiest ways to do this is to start discussing things that will go right over kids’ heads–whether that’s astrophysics, heteronormativity, the ethics of big game hunting, Hillary Clinton’s stance on the middle east, the overwhelming narrative of patriarchy that dominates contemporary American culture, or the existence of carcinogens in virtually every man-made material, just make it so they can’t really respond, and instead will just revel in awe of your brilliant glory.

6. Relate

Kids may be tiny, breakable humans, but they’re still human–which means on some level, we can all relate to them. Even though we’re adults, and frankly have it a lot harder than kids so what are they even complaining about half the time–like, ohhhh, boo hoo, poor you, you spilled your macaroni–CRY ME A RIVER I HAVE A MORTGAGE TO PAY AND I BLEED FOR A WEEK EVERY MONTH–we can still empathize with them in some capacities. Kids love feeling like they’re on your level. They trip and fall? Tell them that’s what you do every moment of every day of your life, metaphorically speaking–you FAIL. They have their feelings hurt? Tell them that’s what every guy you’ve ever dated in your life has done to you–“I GET IT, KAYLA–MEN ARE SCUM–(Oh, it was Carly who told you you’re ugly? Still, most of the world’s problems can be blamed on men).” They love to wear pink, sparkly clothing? UM HELLO–YOU’RE BASICALLY TWINS. Just find a way to relate to them, no matter how small–because that will make them feel special, and they’re too young and dumb to realize that being like you is actually not a good thing, and you’re the last person who should be idolized, and having anything in common with you is basically the equivalent of having herpes–(yet ANOTHER thing kids don’t have to worry about… ugh lucky bastards).

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As Featured on News Cult: What Do You Wear to an Abortion?

You’re either pregnant or you’re not—there’s no “maybe,” despite how light the positive sign is on those four tests you took. But even your doctor seems hopeful. She says the urine test is “weakly positive.” She says she’ll do a blood test to get concrete results, and not to panic. But while you wait for your final truth, telling yourself that maybe, just maybe, those tests were “weakly positive” enough that they were actually negative, you’re pretty sure that you’re just fine tuning your skill at the delicate art of denial.

Afterwards, you remember back to seeing that first, faint plus sign, and feeling that it signified a sense of hope, despite all the dread. And now you’ve lost that hope—you’re without it. You are emptier. You will lie awake after and feel that something is missing. Your life is quieter, and while you keep standing still, the world keeps moving without you. You feel robbed, but you robbed yourself.

You wonder how long you can milk this “eating-for-two” thing. You think how thankful you are that you aren’t carrying this to term because of how much weight you’d gain. And you think how awful it is to think that. “What do you wear to an abortion?” you ask your boss. “Sweatpants?” you say, before he has a chance to answer, but also in the awkward pause left by your awkward question. “Probably,” he nods confidently. “And a giant pad. And they’ll give you pads to take home. And some to put in the freezer. Or, no, that’s for childbirth. I’m getting them all mixed up.” You think, what would I do without him. He’s far better equipped to deal with this than I am.

You’ve never wanted kids. You’ve always been afraid to have them. You actually kind of despise them. But, having life inside of you is, you think, weird. You’re embarrassed you can’t come up with a more sophisticated word to describe the feeling. But it’s just weird. You want to call it a baby, but that makes you sad. You feel weird calling it “a life,” because that sounds so new-agey, but you also hate the word “fetus.” Whatever you end up calling it, which varies each time, you feel that you should shield it. Protect it. Love it and nourish it. And instead, you’re killing it. You feel like it’s disrespectful to call it “it.”

You wonder if it’s a boy or a girl—and what it would look like. You feel bad drinking alcohol and coffee, and pushing on your stomach too hard, but you still do. You only have three days left with it. You want to talk to it, but wonder if it can hear you. You want to show it the world. But then you tell yourself, “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not even really close to a person yet. It can’t feel anything.” You tell yourself not to get attached. No one else seems to be getting attached. They tell you, “only a few more days,” and, “it will be over soon.” They say, “We know what we have to do,” and “we have a game plan.” They tell you, “Get it taken care of ASAP.” “It’s really just a nothing thing.”

Someone you’re very close to will state, rhetorically, “I assume no one wants this pregnancy to proceed.” She’ll tell you, “Well you could have a miscarriage, which would be convenient.” She’ll mean well, or maybe she won’t, but it all comes out wrong. She won’t tell you that she, too, once went through the same thing, because she and her partner, people you trust, decide they don’t want that information to go public. She’ll tell you that withholding that information didn’t cause you any harm and it was born of an effort to not influence your decision. But it does harm you—because knowing it would’ve meant you weren’t alone. And knowledge is power. Especially when you’re going into a terrible mess blind. She insists that you “take care of this as soon as possible,” and that she is so relieved she doesn’t have to convince you how big a mistake it would be to have a baby. You wonder what twisted logic led to the conclusion that those statements weren’t influential, but telling you something relatable, and that would’ve lightened your burden, would’ve been. You feel betrayed.

You walk out of your room the day of, dressed in baggy sweatpants and a Red Sox shirt. You’ve really been trying to work on your underwear line lately, so you’re disappointed that even though the pants are loose, it’s still there. You consider changing into tighter spandex, but then you think, “It would be weird to wear a thong to an abortion, right? I could wear regular underwear, but the underwear line would be even worse then. They would judge me for wearing a thong. Plus, you can’t really wear pads with a thong. And I would just get it bloody and ruin it anyways. Thongs are meant for special occasions. For impressing people. Wear your worst underwear. It doesn’t matter if that gets wrecked.” You decide that he, and everyone else, yourself included, can deal with your underwear line today. He looks at you, sees your shirt, and smiles, but seriously, as he says, “don’t wear that.” He bleeds Dodger blue. And purple and gold. You laugh and say, “Are you serious? If anything, it’s symbolic to get this done in this shirt.” He asks, “Do you like the Red Sox?” You answer, “I don’t care, I just like Boston.” “Don’t wear that,” he laughs, but means it. You go to pick out a new shirt. You choose a forest green one. He says, semi-jokingly, “That is kind of Boston Celtics green.” You feign aggravation and say, “fine,” and then go back to your room to start over. He follows you as you start rummaging around your shirts, pulling them out onto the floor in a messy pile. You hold up one you got for free that says “Hooray for Boobies” on it: “Should I wear this one?” He laughs, “It would be really funny if you wore that.” You say, “Yeah, but I’m not sure I want to deal with the judgment or questions I’ll get.” “Yeah,” he says, “you probably shouldn’t wear that one.” You then move on to a plain white Hanes t-shirt that you once wore to a highlighter party—a party where everyone draws on each other’s white shirts in highlighter, and you’re all standing in black light so the highlighter looks neon. You hold that one up and say, laughing, “Maybe I should wear this one. It says, ‘You’re on my vagenda’ and ‘Born again virgin.’” He laughs and says, “Just wear the green one.” You look down at your dark blue toenails and, grasping at straws to please him, half-jokingly, say, “My toenails are Dodger blue, right?” He looks at them, smiles triumphantly, and says, “Yeah.” Crisis averted.

No one wants this baby. Except you. Kind of. But you know you can’t have it. You ask him how he feels about it and you tell him you’re sad, but you see in his eyes that he doesn’t feel the same. You’ll hear him say, “It’s the right decision” over and over again. He’s trying to feel what you feel, but it isn’t there. He won’t touch your stomach. Until one night he does. You ask him if you’re supposed to say bye. Are you supposed to say sorry? You want to ask him if he wants to spend time with it, but they’d think you’re crazy. You want it over with so your attachment doesn’t have time to keep growing. But you also don’t want to let go.

It only takes less than 10 minutes. You wish there was a heartbeat that you could hear. And then think you’re cruel for wishing that. You wonder if there is a heartbeat, but the doctor doesn’t offer any information. You don’t get to know your baby. She assumes you don’t want to. When you see the ultrasound after, you see the image that always has a baby in it. But yours doesn’t have a baby. Afterwards, you have a dream that there’s a baby in the picture. You wake up hopeful, but it’s too late.

You’re surrounded by signs. Multiple times every day, you see pregnant women, or babies, or something pops up on TV that’s about your situation. Before, you dismissed these as silly superstitions. After, you wonder about them. You’ll have a conference call with a writer and he will bring up a book about abortions. Your stomach will sink. He’ll ask you if you’ve had any personal experience with abortions. He’ll spend 10 minutes talking about them. He’ll tell you about a documentary he worked on that included footage of a real abortion. He’ll say, “After they suck the baby out, it goes into a vacuum chamber, and then they sort through the baby parts. So in the documentary, you see a close-up of a fetus hand while they sort through it.” You sit there, listening, shocked. You are speechless. You gulp and force yourself to play along—you say, “Wow, that’s really interesting.” You feel sick. You were already wondering about your baby—when they took it out, did it die right away? Did it feel any pain? But now, the image of it being sucked out and thrown away, but not big enough to have any parts to sort through, will be vividly in your mind. Your doctor will tell you that she’s pregnant, afterwards. You will start crying as you say, “congratulations.” A young mother and her young daughter will sit next to you on the bus, afterwards. The daughter will point at the butterflies on your bag and say “spider?” You’ll say, “Butterfly.” She will point at each of them, one by one, and each time, you’ll say, “butterfly.” You will underestimate how hard this will be for you. Maybe it’s supposed to be this hard. Maybe these signs are the universe’s way of punishing you. In the waiting room, you’re surrounded by visibly pregnant women and their babies. You wonder who, if anyone else there, is one of you. You are bombarded with life and reminders of what you’re doing. It haunts you.

You resent everything you’ve given up because of him. You resent everything you’ve put on hold for him. You resent that you’ve put yourself on the backburner because of him. This is his fault. You blame him for this. Nothing he does is quite right. Nothing he does is enough. Even when he brings you flowers, and makes you tea. You bite your tongue when he’s always late—don’t push him away. You did that already once—you were too needy. He won’t call you “babe” anymore. He’ll grow tired of you. He won’t touch you. When you cry, he will eventually limply throw his arm against you in a weak attempt at what he thinks he’s supposed to do—you think, it would be better if he didn’t touch me at all. You ask him if he will talk to you about it at some point. He asks, annoyed, “why is it so?–” and then stops himself, but you know the rest: “Why is it so hard for you to move on?” You can tell he just wants to go to sleep. He’s a simple man. You think to yourself, over and over, “I killed my own baby.” Then, you think, “I killed my baby for you. It was ours but I should’ve been looking out for the part that was me. And the part that was you that you didn’t want.” You think, I can’t do this—I can’t lose him, but even more, I can’t struggle every day, trying to stay in his good graces, trying to stay acceptable and desirable to him. You think, I am destroying myself. You feel that you’re about to break. He will break your heart. It will be your fault.

You think, it’s too late—I will never have this baby. This baby is gone. Yet I cannot let it go. You think, you’d rather go through this alone, because now, you’ve never been so lonely. You think, you can’t share a bed with someone you feel so utterly distant from. You think, you feel more alone in bed with him than sleeping by yourself on the couch. You spend the whole day envisioning saying that to him when he calls, but he doesn’t call. You hate him. Don’t complain that he’s shoving you aside to wait in the wings, because he’ll walk away again. Just give him the benefit of the doubt. Convince yourself it’s not settling. You’re not good enough for him, so tread lightly. This situation is delicate. You want to yell at him, and say, “You’re doing it all wrong.” You think he may think he’s doing it all right.

You are alone in this, whether you like it or not. You are isolated. This cross is yours alone to bear. People can try, but can’t fully break in from the outside. And some of them won’t try—they will abandon you. This has happened in your body, and therefore even more so in your mind than anyone else’s. It only gets worse with each passing day. How are you supposed to move on? Everyone else is moving. How do they do it? How do you move like them? They expect you to keep moving. They don’t understand. Yet, you’ve hardly cried this entire time. You feel fine and then wonder if you are. You feel fine and then wonder if that’s ok. You wonder if you’ll carry this heavy weight your whole life. You wonder if it will get lighter. You wonder if it should. You wonder if your regret will pass. You wonder if you’ll forgive yourself.

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As Featured on News Cult: Red Flags in a Relationship

If there’s one person who can tell you which red flags to look out for in a relationship, it’s me–I’ve seen them all. Granted, sometimes they’ve been flapping right in my face, large and in charge, and I’ve completely missed them only to realize 3 months after the fact that they were, in fact, red flags–but I’ve seen them nonetheless.

So learn from my mistakes–bypass the red flag-filled trenches and rise above, like a phoenix from the ASHES honey, to the heights of relationship glory–AKA the point at which his mom cooks you her tuna casserole every time you see her because you pretended to like it that one time to be nice but didn’t realize the life sentence you were condemning yourself to but HEY it’s worth it right because now you’re in with the matriarch.

They’re friends with your ex

You are the company you keep. Just sayin’–psychos get along with psychos.

They don’t want to use a condom

What’s next? A blood oath? NOPE.

They don’t like to eat

You don’t enjoy food? Ummmmm, who ARE you even?!?!

They won’t go down on you

Amy Poehler said it best: “If you don’t eat pussy, keep walking.”

They make you feel bad about yourself

You’re an Amazonian PRINCESS–you sparkle you SHINE. They shoulda worn sunglasses because your light is BLINDING

They don’t like your dog

They offer to make you dinner and then try to serve you kale

They don’t get your sense of humor and call it “campy”

You’re HILARIOUS–I really don’t get what’s so hard to understand

They’re flaky

If they can’t be bothered to text you back, you can’t be bothered to fuck with them.

They tan

Like seriously get over yourself

Their birthday present to you is a pot cookie

Motherfucker I’ve TOLD you that shit makes me paranoid, stop trying to act like you’re some spiritual guru trying to give me a mind-altering, transcendent experience! All that’s gonna happen is I’m going to start weeping while insisting that you promise to pass on my will, which I’ll write on a napkin and will say, “Pls don’t read any of my journals, or emails to my therapist, or Google searches. Otherwise–…actually all of it is probably NSFACEAA (not safe for any circumstances ever at all),” to my parents because I’ll be pretty sure I’m dying (but like when you deliver the news to them leave out the fact that minutes before my death we were banging doggy style).

They don’t have an appreciation for reenacting scenes from Boy Meets World

Um did they not have a childhood?

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As Featured on News Cult: The Perks of Getting Older

Most people seem to fear growing older, and our society certainly encourages us to feel like natural aging is a terrible thing. But, personally, I think getting older is fantastic. First of all, it brings us closer to death–eternal sleep–which frankly sounds euphoric. Secondly, it comes with a lot of other perks that we can enjoy in this lifetime. Here are some of the best ones that will make you realize your youth is a wash and the best is yet to come.


Giving progressively fewer fucks

Since this is the primary win that accompanies getting older and it’s a broad one, I’m going to break it down. With each passing day, I find myself caring less and less about SO many things:

1. Most importantly, what people think of me.

You don’t like me? Sorry what was that I was too busy jacking off to care. You think I’m not funny? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of my own laughter because I crack myself the fuck up. I don’t fit your beauty standards? Great, more donuts for me. I’m not docile and delicately feminine enough for you? Hmm that’s funny because I think a little something called WOMEN’S RIGHTS would disagree. You want to be a dick to me? Sticks and stones, motherfucker—sticks. and. stones.

2. If something goes wrong.

Murphy’s Law is real guys. Embrace that like it’s your body pillow. No one showed up to your birthday party? It’s cause they couldn’t HANDLE your brilliance. Your boyfriend broke up with you on your birthday? Great—now you can hook up with your hot co-worker without feeling bad about it. Your flight got cancelled? Whatevs—at least you don’t have to sit next to someone gross in a germ box for 4 hours and navigate the passive aggressive politics of the flight attendants anymore. You have HPV? Congratulations—so does ¾ of the adult population—you’re really not that special.

3. Work stressors.

You gave that client the complete wrong information in that email that your boss was copied on? Eh, life goes on. You told the chairman to fuck himself and you hope he gets syphilis? Hey, to be fair, he deserved it. You missed that super important deadline? Deadlines are for the weak. A job is just that—it’s not the end all be all of your existence. You can always leave yours and get another if you have to—treat it like every man you’ve ever slept with has treated you—it’s disposable.

4. My nonexistent love life.

The more failed relationships with psychopaths I accrue, and the longer I’m alone, the more I realize there are wonderful things about being single. Like I’ll be able to bypass so many amusement park lines because I’ll be a single rider! And since selfies are socially acceptable and prevalent, people won’t judge me for taking them since I’ll have no one else to take my photo when traveling. And I’ll be an exceptional friend/family member–need a ride to the ER in the middle of the night? Sure, I can take you—no one else needs me. Need a last minute babysitter on any given Friday night? Just give me an hour ten minutes to haul myself out of the bath and stop crying and I’ll be right over!

5. Sticking out.

Most people are afraid to be noticed, or embarrassed, or make waves. But as you age, you realize that you could be a whale in a kiddie pool and ultimately it wouldn’t matter. You stop caring if you make a scene when telling someone who cut you in line to go back from whence they came—you care more about principles than fitting in. You stop worrying that people will judge you if you tattoo your face—so what if they look at you like you’re a freak? Don’t get us started on their faces—honestly they’re just offensive. You don’t worry so much what you look like in a bikini anymore—your attitude regarding cellulite becomes, “let it shimmer, let it shine.” And you say what’s on your mind—time to bulldoze those eggshells and tell your sister-in-law that you added her picture to the Wikipedia entry for “cunt,” or the dipshit who just knowingly littered in front of you that if he doesn’t pick up his trash, you’re going to follow him home and tell his mother what he did, and if she doesn’t care, you’re going to watch him while he sleeps. I’m telling you, getting old is liberating—like free the slaves liberating.


Related to not GAF anymore, perspective is gained in spades as you get older. You realize that you are, in fact, mortal, and you don’t have forever to be miserable, so you better buck the fuck up and start living your life in a way that’s actually enjoyable to you. You sweat the small stuff less and less, and start pouring your energy into shit that actually matters to you—whether it’s that puzzle you’ve been jonesing to conquer, or the backpacking trip you’ve dreamed of taking ever since watching 127 Hours, or med school because you’re a hypochondriac and you need to be able to diagnose yourself at all times—YOU DO YOU—you. do. you (mostly because we don’t know how much longer you’re going to have to do it).


Because your body and health are already decaying, you get more of a free pass when it comes to food. Unless you’re trying to prolong your life those extra three years, which why would you because honestly it’s not worth it to live to 97 if I have to eat kale to get there. When all those heavily fake-tanned 20-yr old college girls are bemoaning the caloric value of ice cream, you get to down a pint as you laugh/spit in their faces. LIVE A LITTLE—you’re not trying to impress anyone with your figure anymore, and you’re on the track to death anyways, so indulge. Treat yourself. Not to be the party pooper and mention again that you could die at any moment, but you could, and the older you get, the higher your chances of death, so do you really want to miss out on the pizza while you have the chance?


Need I say more? The cessation of work is EVERYTHING. We LIVE to not work. Heads up though, social security most likely won’t be around in another 50 years, so marry rich, everyone!

Preferential treatment

You have ENTIRE seating sections on public transportation reserved for you! You get to keep your shoes on in the airport security line! You get to use those little motorized scooters in the grocery store! You get to get in the lifeboat first! You get discounted movie tickets! AND MEALS—CHEAP FOOD. I repeat: CHEAP. FOOD. Like, what about all of this is not to love?!



For the ladies—I know most people are gonna think I’m crazy for this one, but no more periods? Are you kidding me?! Sign me up! I’d like it now please! Can we speed up this process? I could finally invest in nice underwear! Hahah jk I’m never not going to wear the biggest cotton drawers a few dollars can buy–but still, it would be nice for it to not often look like a Quentin Tarantino film in my pants.

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As Featured on News Cult: How to Make Your Commute to Work Better


The commute to work is the worst because work. It’s like the trip to Hell. But in this case, it’s not paved with good intentions. If it were, it would lead us right back from whence we came: bed. But since we have to make it because being a functioning adult in society means having a job and responsibilities and supporting yourself or whatever, we may as well make the commute to work as bearable as possible. Here are some ways you can do that.

Music, obviously

Don’t just listen to it–sing along. DANCE. Roll down your windows, turn up the bass, and BLAST it. EXPRESS YO’SELF. This is especially effective when you’re a small white female blasting rap songs with potentially offensive lyrics and singing along while refusing to break eye contact with the elderly Asian lady sitting adjacent to you in the Prius at the red light.

Talk to the other drivers

People don’t know how to drive–that’s a well-known fact. And we need to talk about it. I’d discourage you from making it so they can hear, because there are so many crazies out there who won’t hesitate to pull a crossbow out of their trunk at the slightest sign of conflict, but if your windows are up, yell it from the rooftops: “Thank you SO MUCH for cutting me off, sir. I really appreciate it–no, really, it’s as welcome as a swift kick in the balls. Or chlamydia.” – or – “I was thinking that we’d all just use common sense on the road, but the absolute lack of logic, self-awareness and decency works, too” – or – “WHY. JUST WHY.”

Make some calls

Owe your mom a call? Give her a ring (especially if you know she’s unlikely to answer at this time). Missing your bestie? Call her up. Had a terrible experience at Baja Fresh? Call their 800 customer service line and air your grievances to a supervisor: “You know, the tomatoes were just so mealy, and I didn’t feel that the cashier expressed sufficient empathy–because, like, nothing will ruin a taco like some mealy pico de gallo. You’re Mexican, so you get it, right?”


If your commute is riddled with traffic because there are too many people in the world, bring along your favorite book, catch up on the news, or read those work emails you won’t be wasting your time at the office reading. You have so much free time while being parked on the freeway, and if you don’t occupy it by doing something like reading, you’re left with nothing to do but ruminate over the fact that the world is full of countless idiots who ruin everything, and China really has it right with the one child law, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing for birth control to be pumped into the world’s water supplies.


Help save the environment while also giving yourself a companion to help pass the time. The chances that any of your co-workers are tolerable, let alone enjoyable, company, are virtually nonexistent, but if you’re lucky enough to work with or close to some not-the-worst people, seize that opportunity like it’s a piece of pizza and share your ride.


Coffee is on all of my lists for how to make things better, and there’s a reason for that: it’s more essential to life than oxygen. If you don’t love coffee, you are deficient. I myself couldn’t get on the coffee train until this year, and boy oh boy were the first 25 years of my life a wash. Coffee is so comforting, it wakes you up which God knows we need because we are never not exhausted, it can taste really good, and it’s a loyal companion–coffee is never going to abandon you, tell you your personality is why it’s breaking up with you, or come on your stomach and then leave without even giving you a towel first. #thisiswhyitsimportanttoalwayscarrypockettissues

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