sleeping with dogs and sometimes humans

I’ve somehow convinced a handful of rich Manhattan Beach homeowners to pay me generously for simply going about my day as usual and, at night, heading to their place to sleep in their comfy ass guest bed and snuggle with their dog whenever they’re on vacation.

It’s like a rotating door of beachside Airbnbs way outside my price range that people venmo me to stay at. That happen to come with a free dog.

“What if there are creepy hidden cameras? I bet they’re spying on you.”

Meh. Again, sounds like an Airbnb.

I’m not worried. These people could easily afford high end escorts. Paid porn subscriptions. The good shit on OF. Nobody wants to spy on my slouchy, unevenly tanned body doing boring shit like change from a ratty, oversized t-shirt into a rattier, even more oversized t-shirt when it’s time for bed.

The only time I’ve ever made money from sleeping with a human is that one time someone gave me cash for a cab home and I got to keep the change.

1 point for dogs.

But maybe I just like hanging with dogs more because it’s something I do all the time. And also they don’t talk.

There’s comfort in familiarity. In predictability. Which is why I’m now also into country music and reality TV. The same words and stories are repeated 100 times. Perfect for anyone whose brain needs to cruise on autopilot.

Getting laid is novel. The only time it happens anymore is when I’m out with my single girlfriends. And man are they dwindling. For the past few years, I’ve gotten so used to going out with the same group of platonic guy friends I don’t even remember how to approach a dude in the wild with horny intentions.

A couple weekends ago I trekked down to San Diego prepared for a relaxing, quiet Sunday by the pool. Just margs, takeout, and catching up with a few college girlfriends.

10 minutes from my destination, I get a text.

The text.

The dreaded fucking text that, back in college, meant we’d quickly down a shot of Burnett’s, strap on our 6-inch, open-toed heels and hike 0.7 miles through all varieties of inclement weather to whichever frat house was throwing a kegger.

“Wanna go meet boys?”



Honestly, not really.

They’re just..rowdy and sweaty and none of them wash their hands after they pee.


But..if everyone else wants to…

..then La Jolla house party it is.

Ugh. How did I meet boys before the pandemic? No clue. I can’t even remember the last time I put on makeup to go out. Guess I’ll have to drink enough to morph into my alter ego and let Drunk Me figure it out.

In the Before Times, I’d hobble out of my cave every fall for football Saturdays at the bar. But again, usually with dudes. And any guy who hits on a girl when she’s out with guys he doesn’t know deserves to be commended. It’s ballsy. And, from my own experience, very rare.

Probably for the best.

Last month I went out to a karaoke bar with my guy roomies, the 3 of us many drinks in and unsure of how we ended up so far from the neighborhood dives we usually jaywalk to.

This spiky-haired rando kept following me around. Which was fine. But he also kept talking. And if there’s one thing I don’t want on a Friday night, it’s random people talking to me.

“But you’re out at a bar!”

Yes. A karaoke bar.

Scream lyrics in my face. Attempt to rap off-beat. Just don’t make me have to make small talk. My brain’s fried from the week and this Rumple Minz (I think that’s what it is) is frying it even more. It’s like..deep-fried brain. Zombie junk food.

I’m just trying to finish whatever’s in this glass and loudly bellow out lyrics I barely know and at this point can’t read fast enough on the prompter to keep up with.

I decided he crossed the line when he almost walked in on me peeing. Almost. And I should mention this was in the men’s bathroom. Still his fault.

God, I know I’m drunk when I voluntarily set foot in a men’s public restroom without setting fire to my shoes at the end of the night.

When he asked for my number I gave him my roommate’s, and this poor guy had no idea he was enthusiastically sexting two hairy, giggling straight dudes the whole night, whom, in a fit of creative inspiration, sent him to pick up Taco Bell before directing his Uber to a For Sale house down the street from ours and ghosting.

We’re all going to hell.

My only regret is spending $25 on McDonald’s after the bar when this guy offered to bring me Taco Bell for free.

“Free”. We know he meant to exchange those Crunchwrap Supremes for about $25 worth of sex.


Back to the San Diego house party.

We’re 6 hours in. We’d taken numerous pulls of Tito’s (ew). Witnessed a glorious sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Downed tequila shots that ranged in color from light brown to backwash. My girlfriends are off making out with guys they met somewhere in this bajillion dollar mansion (success!). I’m hovering in the kitchen wondering how many more Costco turkey rolls I can eat before I puke all over the pristine, manicured front lawn.

Someone approaches.

Hmm. He’s hot?

If the DJ turns off the strobe light and I manage to uncross my eyeballs I can tell for sure.

We make small talk. It’s a Sunday so this is ok.

We head somewhere quieter to keep making small talk.

Wtf were we talking about?

Then- these words, crystal-clearly punctuated in my otherwise hazy memory.

“I was really awkward-looking a few years ago. I would never have had the confidence to approach you.”

Holy shit.

A Fellow Childhood Uggo.

And just like that, we’re slammed up against the wall of the empty basement shower/sauna combo, butt ass naked, two formerly whack-looking fuggos who woke up one day to a very different reception from the world and years later still have no idea how to process or respond.

Shout out to the guy who Princess Diary-d his way straight into my guts.


Everyone loves a good glow up tale.

If you’ve never hooked up in a sauna, I wouldn’t recommend it.

It was fun, yes, do it for the novelty, and no, it wasn’t on, Jesus-I’m-not-a-sadist. But wooden planks don’t exactly make for a comfortable surface.

I holed up in my room for 3 days after that, chugging water, nursing my bruises, eating pizza off a plate on my chest while watching Jeopardy reruns.

The great thing about having a flat chest is that it functions perfectly as a table when you’re too sore to pick up food with your hands.

I still can’t decide whether I’d rather sleep with dogs or boys. Don’t say both. It’s not happening when neither has any regard for how much space they take up in the bed.

My phone dings.

“HH? A new coworker’s coming and he’s cute and single 😉👅”


The mini bernedoodle snuggled in my armpit smiles up at me, rolls over for belly rubs, then scampers off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in silence save for the steady, repetitive, gentle crashing of ocean waves.

“Nah,” I text back. “I think I’m good right here.”

i accidentally wrote another post about cheese

I’m heading back to the Midwest for work this weekend. I can’t wait.

I looked it up. There’s a Noodles and Co right by my hotel.

And a Howl at the Moon around the corner.

Shit’s. Going. Down.

For those who aren’t familiar, Howl at the Moon is the greatest piano bar of all time. I remember when one opened up down the road from my old apartment in Minneapolis, and we’d go every Thursday for $1 pints.

We were outraged when management had the gall to raise the price to $2 and boycotted the establishment. A month later, it was back to $1 pints.

I love the Midwest.

Although they did close down shortly after.

Back in the heartland, I partied so hard and so irresponsibly for so many years. There was hardly a bar offering $1 Jager Bombs I hadn’t stumbled home from, a friend I hadn’t made out with, a dumpster I hadn’t puked in.

It’s a miracle I never got kidnapped, killed, or chlamydia.

Knock on wood.


Pound that wood.

Side note since we’re talking about wood and boning (no one was talking about boning, but now I am), earlier in the year I boned a guy who, two minutes after we finished, started jerking off to a Netflix preview of some reality show.

Like, literally lying naked next to me jerking off to some girl on TV.

I told him he has a serious problem and I hope he gets the help he needs and never talked to him again.

Not my loss. This dude didn’t watch sports.

Which is fine and doesn’t say anything about him as a person. But if I ever take a guy seriously, it’s not gonna be someone who makes me watch the game alone while he jerks off to reality shows in the next room.

Or right next to me.

Literal Jerk Off was also from the Midwest, proving not everything out of there is the greatest thing ever. But what can’t be beat?

The drink prices. And the cheese.



Sometimes when I’m horny or on my period or both I fantasize about diving into a giant vat of nacho cheese. The yellower the better.


I just realized my last post was about cheese too.

*checks birth control package*

Yep, it’s Welcome Week for my hormones.

Some people cry when they’re hormonal.

I guess I write essays about cheese.

While I cry.

What power this substance has over me. It lures me into temptation (eating cheese), lust (-y thoughts about cheese), and inspires sudden, furious bouts of creativity.

Anyway. So I’m in this large clear vat of bright yellow liquid goodness and I inhale large gulps, over and over, chugging the cheese while I’m completely submerged and floating in it, like Landfill from Beerfest, except maybe I make it out of the vat having successfully inhaled all the cheese in one breath and my twin won’t have to fill in for me the rest of the movie, or maybe I don’t and have the most satisfying death ever.

Noodles and Co’s Wisconsin Mac n Cheese, in my opinion, is the best restaurant menu item of all time. Forget your steak.

That dish holds a special place in my heart.

I’ve never done molly but when people explain their highs to me, it sounds like the feeling I get from eating this addictive concoction. The world explodes in color. Unicorns and rainbow-colored leopard cubs leap through the air, dancing and hugging while a baby koala emerges from the cover of a bulky 3-ring binder to snuggle against my leg.

I’m in a Lisa Frank fantasy land.

I take another bite and two hot pink kittens pop out of my sneakers and a golden retriever puppy bursts through the door in a shower of glitter.

Mac n cheese has been with me through every pivotal moment of my life.

It was the first meal I learned to make as a kid, and one of the only ones I know how to make as an adult. Although I won’t forget the time I used Crisco instead of butter, both rectangular blocks wrapped in foil stored in the clear side compartment of the fridge door.

0/10, would not recommend.

Throughout college, my diet was Easy Mac and my cholesterol was high.

At my first supply chain job post-college, a friend in my department was charged with sourcing mac n cheese. She taught me to always go for the regular noodles and not the shapes, cuz you get more in the box.

This invaluable advice followed me from the corporate world to the beginning of my #actorslife, stacks of boxed mac n cheese waiting patiently in my basket as I painstakingly counted change for groceries.

So far, this creative journey hasn’t been at all what I imagined. There are so many twists and turns, occasional ups and frequent downs. But through it all, mac n cheese has been a constant, delicious companion.

And shit, this weekend I get to do what I love AND travel to my favorite geographical region of America, conservative politics aside.

Is it a better journey than I could’ve imagined?

Fuck no.

I thought it’d be way better.

But, like everything else in life, it loses any power to make you feel shitty if you just look it in the eye, say “Fuck it dude I don’t give a fuck,” and shovel a spoonful of cheesy noods.

Man, those harrowing times when I could barely afford food…I reminisce as I make my now daily salad of organic veggies and plop down on my expensive new couch with a bottle of Kombucha.

Although science says it’s better for my body (definitely not my soul or taste buds), organic kale is a fair weather friend, adopted much later on in my career and only staying as long as I can afford it. A gastronomical trophy wife.

And this coming weekend, I’m having none of it.

In a world that values organic kale, there is truly nothing better than the stable, solid comforts of mac n cheese.

And this weekend, when I take that very first bite, I’ll know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I guess this is my nacho cheese fantasy

People who post engagement pics with the caption, “Easiest yes I ever said!” make me cackle.

Cuz, while I’m happy for you, I don’t believe you.


Easier than when your boss asks if you’d like to cancel a meeting scheduled for 5pm on a Friday? Or when the lady at Sephora asks if you’d like a free sample of La Mer?

Fuck yea you would. That shit’s like, $400.

How bout when you’re on your period and the DoorDash guy shows up and says, “Hey someone ordered extra Taco Bell. A Chalupa Supreme, hard shell taco, and Nachos BellGrande with a giant fuckin Baja Blast. Do you want it?”

Easier yes than that?

Then you notice like, hey this dude’s kinda hot. Plus he’s giving me food. And he takes out the nachos and you notice whoa what, his shirt’s gone. Shit, where’d it go? It was just here. And he slowly starts dribbling warm gooey nacho cheese on his chest and asks if you’d like to grab some chips from the taco bag and dip them on his cheesy ass nips.

And you’re like, “Yea, sure. I mean, if there’s another order of nachos in there. Cuz like, I kinda wanna eat them for real.”

Easier yes than that?

And he’s like, “Yo I got more Taco Bell in my unmarked van out front. Wanna come check it out?”


Easier than that?

Yea right. You’re either lying or you haven’t lived.

I’m heading to Palm Springs this weekend for a Bachelorette. It happens to be Stagecoach weekend, so my guess is every guy I see out there will be my type. TBD if they’re straight. It is Palm Springs.

I can’t help it. I was raised in the midwestern suburbs on WB dramas. I can’t say no to a lanky, baby-faced white boy with scruff, extra-points-for-a-gold-necklace. Hell, a few shots in I have a hard time turning down any guy wearing flannel.

But there’s a hookup type, and the type you marry. Or, rather, the type you hook up with on an ongoing basis until one of you gets mad about something stupid and you decide never to speak again.

When it comes to anyone I’d actually take as seriously as my commitment-phobic ass can possibly commit to, I’d want them to be exactly like me.

Like. Actually. Exactly like me.

But with a penis and good with power tools. That shit scares me.

The power tools, I mean.

And sometimes the penis. If I’m lucky.

I’m talking eldest child of immigrants, can’t use chopsticks properly, born left handed but made to switch to right cuz it’s more culturally appropriate, one string of white hair that periodically grows next to their right boob that you can’t see til it gets pretty long, adept at translating for and between parents who never quite functionally speak the same language, even when they phonetically are.

Whose perfect date is creating a blanket fort in the living room, watching an entire day of college football while consuming Cheetos, Capri Sun, and Domino’s Pan Pizza til we pass out in a pile of grease and orange dust.

TCK? Ah, a rare one. Let’s swap stories!

Although the few I’ve found and met up with from the apps were boring as balls cuz that’s all they wanted to talk about.

I get it.

You peaked in 3rd grade at your bougie international school in Switzerland. Thank you for that rudimentary demonstration of your language skills.

No I did not understand a single word you said.

The few times in my life I’ve actually managed to find what I deemed to be a male version of myself, I wimped out so hard. Straight up avoided eye contact. Stuck my nose in my phone, tried not to stare at his one string of long white boob hair that perfectly matches my own. Prayed he wouldn’t try to fucking talk to me cuz then I’d have to think of a response and I’d want so badly to be charming and witty and hilarious and there’s a 100% chance I’d just open my mouth and say something totally fucking stupid (normal) and be really insecure about my stupidity (not normal) and spend the rest of the night/week/month replaying that scenario in my head with alternate realities all stemming from me having given a less stupid response.


Why am I so afraid of a male version of me?

It’s just me with a dick.

He’s prolly hoping he doesn’t say something even stupider.

Great pep talk, Mel.

Thanks, Mel.

And on that note, I’m off to find my counterpart.

I Am My Own Best Friend (and a rainbow hologram with no sex drive)

I met a close guy friend’s new girlfriend recently, and I think I like her, even though it’s unfortunately not mutual. Even though I find her a little terrifying. Even as I mentally prepare for this friend to drop out of my life for the duration of their relationship.


If he’s happy, wants to see where this goes, and shit, is finally getting laid, who am I to do anything but wish him the best?

A few drinks in at the bar, I declare I have to pee. New Girlfriend says, “Me too,” and follows me to the restaurant’s pissing quarters.

As we wash our hands side-by-side, this girl who’s barely spoken all night rapid fires a barrage of questions about how do I know her boyfriend/did we ever date/why not/did I know they’re official now with juuust enough hostility and accusation that I felt…

a little flattered.

Dang. This IG butt model and OnlyFans-treprenuer feels somehow threatened by my homely ass?


*checks out baggy, mismatched clothes, unwashed hair, and makeup-less face in the mirror*

I don’t get it, but fuck, I’ll take it.

Part of me is a little worried this bitch is into like..witchcraft n shit. Cuz the day after meeting her my car gets totaled on the freeway on my way home from a staycation.

I’m gonna go with my rational mind and say the two incidents aren’t related.

In the span of just a few days, it’s goodbye platonic friend! Goodbye car! My poor little Chevy and literal ride-or-die for the past 6 years, purchased after my previous car was also totaled by a reckless driver on the freeway.

Careful out there, people.

As I removed a hulky suitcase, yoga mat, and a bunch of random shit from my now-lifeless vehicle, I thought, “Man. Maybe I do need a life partner.”

Funny I only ever think that when faced with the immediate prospect of lifting heavy objects.

Maybe I should just work out more,

I say to myself as I lay in bed eating chocolate covered pretzels and polishing off another $5 bottle of wine.

It’s ok. Everyone needs a break sometimes. It’s been a stressful few days and plus I’m on my period…

in 3 weeks.

So, here we are. Another night alone doing nothing.

A year ago, I thought I’d be on a mad bender boning all sorts of randos to make up for lost time once things opened back up.

But alas, I upped the dosage on my birth control, and a surprise side effect is that it completely and utterly destroyed my sex drive.

It’s awesome.

I’ve never been more productive in my life. I have so much free time now that I don’t spend any chasing the D. I’m like a laundress in the Middle Ages who’s handed a washer and dryer.

Right now, you could be the most gorgeous dude alive, don a sexy fireman outfit, cuddle a puppy in your left hand and wave your dingdong in my face with your right, and I’d just shrug apathetically and think, “Hm. That is an objectively good looking man.”

I’ve tried and failed to explain this. I will literally say, “I’m on the pill. It’s killed my sex drive,” and I swear guys only hear, “I’m on the pill.”

What to do with all this newfound free time.

Duh. Binge more murder shows.

One of my sisters is incredibly sensitive to TV spoilers. She doesn’t wanna hear any comments about any episode she hasn’t yet watched. I could say, “The next episode is scary,” about a horror show where people die in every episode, and she’d feel like my insensitive comment spoiled the whole series.

It’s hard for me to remember this cuz I honestly don’t get it. You could tell me who dies before I start a show and it wouldn’t make the series any less interesting. 

I still don’t know how or when or why or how I’ll feel or how the other characters will feel or the look on their face when they die or do they come back as a ghost or will it be hilarious or painful or victorious or mysterious or touching or nonsensical or all of the above. 

Spoiler alert: 

We’re all gonna die. 

That doesn’t make my life any less exciting to live. 

Although hopefully that day doesn’t come too soon (again, careful on the roads, people). I got too much shit I wanna do. 

A psychology major friend once asked me to take a personality test reputed to be uncannily accurate. I said ok, if it doesn’t fuckin take forever, and was told to imagine the following (definitely incorrectly paraphrased) scenario.

You’re out on a grassy field. There’s a tree, a horse, and a cube. 

That’s it? 

Yup. Describe the cube. 

Easy. It’s floating a few inches off the ground on one of its corners, rotating like the Cube at Michigan.

What’s it made of? 

I dunno. Light, I guess. It’s a rainbow hologram outline of a Cube. 

Interesting. The density of the material you imagine represents your level of openness and transparency. 

Hm. Guess that checks out, as someone who published a public blog post about how many dudes I’ve slept with

How many flowers are on the field?

A bunch. The whole field is covered in flowers. 

That symbolizes how many children you wanna have. 

…The fuck. 

I told that bitch she was crazy and this test was a sham. 

I don’t fuckin want kids. Gross. 

But over the years, I’ve come to realize that may not be entirely true. 

It’s just that, instead of raising a kid in LA, I could sponsor an entire field of orphans in India. Or China. Or Kentucky. 

Bonus: I wouldn’t have to go to any kids birthday parties. I can continue to spend my Saturdays drunk watching football in my underwear. 

Double bonus: I’m fighting climate change by literally doing nothing.

Don’t you ever get lonely? 

Honestly, not often. During pandemic lockdown I unwittingly became best friends with myself. 

Sad? Maybe. 

But better than being best friends with Lamp or Roomba.

I’m lying. I don’t have a Roomba.

All in all, I highly recommend it. Being best friends with yourself, I mean. Not the Roomba. I wouldn’t know. 

I wake up every morning, look in the mirror and say (in my head, cuz you can do that when you’re talking to yourself), “Good morning, beautiful!!!! I love you sooooooo much!! Thanks for being the best partner in the entire world! How would you like to start off our day today?”

Then Me and Also Me decide whether we’d like to do some yoga and meditation, a little cardio with weights, or sit in bed sipping coffee and reading the news.

On the rare occasion that I do feel lonely, untouched, and desperate for 30-60 minutes of companionship with no attachment, I’ll hop on an app and see if anybody out there’ll pay me a few bucks to walk their dog.

Or blow them.

Just kidding. 

Better puppy cuddles than returning to dating. My rationale is this: Any big life change is likely to affect perceived levels of stress, chaos, and happiness, which together (among other factors), help determine overall quality of life.

My life as structured is very low in stress, very low in chaos, and pretty high in happiness. What are the odds my effort on the apps will lead to meeting someone who manages to add incremental happiness without simultaneously spiking levels of stress and chaos? Pretty much zero. 

Damn you, diminishing returns.

But I do support my friends’ romantic pursuits! Even if they cause them to disappear for a while. 

Back home in Oakland County, the night before Halloween was Devil’s Night. Teenagers would TP peoples’ houses. Knock over mailboxes. Run over peoples’ lawns. 

It was like a super lame version of the Purge. 

In the movie, the point of the Purge was, in a twisted way, a type of rebirth. It’s an interesting concept to me cuz it seems to suggest that nothing’s ever lost, it just comes back to you in another way at a later date. 

These past 18 months, lost in-person interaction found its way back in the form of newfound self-friendship. 

Lost sex drive comes back as gained free time to do…any number of non-sex-related activities (I need a new birth control).

In my experience, even friends who drop off for relationships have a way of coming back into your life. 

You’ll be out somewhere months or years later, having not thought about this person in forever, and you’ll randomly receive a text. 

Just one word.


And with those three letters, nothing more needs to be said, explained, or justified.

Welcome back to the single life, bro!

Me and Also Me have missed you.

Guys I did it. I peed in my neighbor’s bushes.

I’m almost done reading Untamed, which every lady in my life has been talking about for the past year. I get why. It’s magical.

Something about a woman being so profoundly honest about her potentially shameful experiences makes you feel so seen and understood.

In honor of this delightful book and Women’s History Month, here are a few of my own shameful secrets that I’ve collected over the past few years.

  1. I had a huge sobfest in the pasta aisle last week
    Sometimes delusional people tell me they want my life. Which is so ridiculous to me cuz my life consists of a whole lotta crying myself to sleep at night.

If I’m lucky enough to make it to bed. Sometimes it happens in the middle of the grocery store.

The other day I found myself openly sobbing by the canned tomatoes at Sprouts. I wouldn’t be upset if face masks covered up your entire face. It’d make crying in public so much easier. As such, I crouched down in a small ball and pretended to be examining rigatoni as I took deep, shaky breaths and tried to hide my tear-streaked face, but the old lady sniffing an orange 6-feet away from me knew what was up.

I stuck my head in the freezer, inhaled deeply that icy cold air and instantly felt better. Anyone experienced at sniffing grocery store freezers knows the air smells freshest by the meatballs.

The good thing about being frequently unemployed is you can run errands at off-peak hours so fewer people are around to witness your public breakdowns. Or hog the tasty, calming freezer air.

2. I broke up with my last semi-serious boyfriend over email
Short story kinda long, yearsss ago, and unbeknownst to the victim mentioned in the header above, I was stuck in an abusive relationship. Whenever I tried to leave, he’d make sure I didn’t through a combination of physical intimidation (wow. You’re stronger than a 5’2 woman. Good for you, bro) and emotional and psychological manipulation to make me believe I would never be able to do better than someone who’d throw me against a wall when I did something to piss him off. Which was apparently often.
Don’t ask for details. Cuz this is all I’ll say about it. One thing about sharing stuff like this is you want other people who’ve experienced it (there are a lot) to know they’re not alone. But at the same time, you don’t want any acknowledgement from anyone that they actually heard you. Cuz discussing it further opens up a hole inside you that you’re still trying to mend.
Worst thing about these experiences is that, after the physical injuries heal, the emotional ones continue to take a toll on future relationships. Nothing scares me like a man who’s emotionally invested. Or confrontations (hence breakups from a distance at which no one will be able to touch me) or presenting myself as anything less than perfect to people I date. I’m privileged to rarely feel threatened or unsafe in my day-to-day life. The only time I do?
In relationships.
The good news: karma’s real. A mutual friend went to this asshole’s wedding and told me he, piss-wasted (as I would be, so I guess we have that in common), pulled her aside and warned her to “always wear a condom.” HAHA! Turns out, he’d knocked up some poor girl and been forced into a shotgun wedding by their families. Yikes. For the sake of his new family, I hope he’s no longer a dick. But I’m not holding my breath cuz I no longer need to.

3. I peed in an orange juice carton on my driveway and watered the neighbor’s plants with it (I’m not gonna give a date in case I get arrested. was..definitely..maybe at the start of this year).
Conversely, in this case, I kinda hope karma’s not real. The most embarrassing part of this is I was stone cold sober.
Our water heater burst around 1AM on 1/1/2021. Dammit. I guess I did give the date. Anyway, we spent the first night of the new year without any running water. Fuck you, 2021. But not really, cuz I’m still hoping the rest of you turns out to be magically delicious. Earlier that night, I’d drank a lot of water and I kept having to pee. But I couldn’t flush. There was so much pee I was scared I’d overflow both toilets in the apartment that I could easily access and I didn’t wanna wake up my roommate to use his toilet and pee on top of his pee cuz that’s weird and what if there’s backsplash and omg it’d smell so bad.

So clearly my only option was to dump out a bottle of orange juice and pee into it. But I didn’t wanna throw it into the dumpster and have my pee spill everywhere, so, since the dumpster happens to be placed right by my neighbors in the back unit, I poured out my pee onto their plants before disposing the bottle.

There. I said it.

I’m sorry.

But I’m not that sorry. Cuz earlier that week, one of the guys in that back unit had seen me struggling to haul our bigass, COMMUNITY, SHARED trash cans to the curb for trash pickup and just walked right by me without even offering to help. The useless piece of shit. I piss on your plants.

4. At one point in time I was boning both my roommates.

To clarify, it was never at the same time (see below under “Never Have I Ever”). And- hear me out, in the entire history of my life, of all the roommates I’ve ever had IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, I’ve only banged 2 of them. That’s not bad, right? Counting all the roommates I had in summer camp as a kid, that’s like, 6% of my total roommates. They just happened to overlap. But barely! And one of them traveled a lot, so they were hardly ever in the house at the same time. I’m justifying this as much to myself as to you all.
Both have since moved out for new jobs or relationships, but, since everyone asks, it really wasn’t ever awkward since no party was ever romantically interested. Most days I forgot we boned at all. They were just normal guy roommates whose crumbs I was constantly cleaning up and who’d see me in the same bathrobe/socks combo for 6 days straight until I finally decide it’s time for a new outfit. Maybe this is what married life is like. Occasional sex, perpetual cleaning, no effort to look or smell good.

Now that you all know my dirtiest secrets, here are a few things I haven’t done up to this point in my life.

Never Have I Ever:

  • Taken Aderall
  • Taken part in a threesome
  • Touched an adult butthole- before people dissect this, I’ve changed baby diapers and I don’t know if that counts. I also don’t wanna put too much thought into this or it’ll get even weirder.
  • Taken off my clothes for money. Except that 1 time, which was an accident. A hookup after a long night at Skeeps (s/o to Scorekeepers Ann Arbor, the best underage bar in the city), gave me cash for a cab before Ubers were a thing and it was way more than the fare, so I pocketed the rest. But it doesn’t really count cuz I didn’t plan for this to happen.
  • Taken longer than 1 hour to get ready. For anything. People who take longer than that mystify me. What are you doing in there? I find that, no matter what magic elixirs I’m rubbing or painting onto my face, body, or hair, I pretty much end up looking the same.

So that’s the short summary of my life experiences and lack thereof. Hey, guess what. Soon everyone’ll be vaccinated. And we’ve got a year’s worth of adventures to make up for.

*sniffs the frozen meatball air all around* Aahh yes. New experiences. The stuff of life.

Certain life experiences push you to grow, other ones make for a good story, and some just serve to teach you some whack ass shit. Like if something’s marked 4/$5 at the grocery store, you don’t actually have to buy 4 to get the discount, or that just because a guy yells, cries, and punches walls when you try to leave him doesn’t mean he actually likes you, that yellow-toned concealer is best on purple bruises but green provides better coverage if the bruise is red, that instead of peeing into an orange juice container and then pouring it out you could’ve just squatted right on your neighbor’s yard and saved yourself some OJ.

If you’ve ever experienced any version of anything I mentioned, you’re not alone.

But beyond that, I don’t really wanna talk about it. See you out there in the real world soon!

I’m Bored So Here’s A Chart of Everyone I’ve Ever Boned By Occupation

I suddenly and unexpectedly quit a lucrative side hustle.

The job was easy, moderately relevant to my career goals, and, for the most part, enjoyable. But new info about company leadership came to light and was handled in a deceptive, manipulative manner so directly opposed to the few moral principles I actually try to uphold, that I could only apologize to my bank account, turn in my resignation, and get tf outta there faster than you can google “NXIVM”.

As of this week, I’m officially side-hustle-free, supporting myself purely through acting jobs. It’s 3 parts thrilling and 1 part scary. But most exciting things are.

I’m spending the holiday week with my two younger sisters, both of whom hold corporate positions. As they sit on their Zoom work calls, I do cartwheels and handstands around the living room, listening to their end of conversations so I can strategically burst in and flash my pasty ass titties on the other side of camera whenever it’s their turn to present.

They’re both too nice to tell me to get a normal job. Instead, they keep encouraging me to get on TikTok. Probably so I’ll stop popping into their workspaces every afternoon, flopping down dramatically in their laps, lamenting my boredom and also are they jealous of my new fuzzy bathrobe, while they streamline data-driven processes to improve HR best practices and run analytics to optimize buying decisions for aerospace.


I spend a few hours a day dancing around to my favorite Spotify playlist, which consists solely of 90s boy bands and Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken reminds me of an era in my life that peaked at hooking up with a guy in the back of a school bus with 11 other people on it. Second greatest achievement of my life to date.

Part of me is itching to get back out there to see if I’ve still got it. But, as always, damn you, COVID.

I’ll admit, 48 hours in I mildly considered whether it was a bad choice to leave the company. I’m still freshly out of the red when it comes to my acting career. But I’ve quit more lucrative jobs before, simply because I hated it, and things have always turned out ok.

That’s me!

A Blind-Faith Quitting Machine.

Or Someone Who Sticks to Their Values.

Yea right. My moral compass is perpetually stuck on whatever feels fun and won’t disturb my conscience.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like my siblings. Besides that they have real jobs and boyfriends.

They’re so multi-talented.

One of them will sit on the couch knitting a blanket in her pjs while casually listing all the drugs she ordered from her dealer earlier that day.

The other is the most attractive person I’ve ever seen who can emit raucous, squelching fart noises from any crevice of her body at will.

I can throw up in a cup and keep boning with puke in my hair. Liquids dripping off my strands like the girl from The Ring.

I win.

Today, while my adorable sisters pored over complex Excel models, I made a chart of all the guys I’ve ever boned according to their occupational field. That I know of. I consulted a few reliable sources to fill in the blackout holes of my early 20s. The learning? There were way too many supply chain dorks and not nearly enough “I don’t know”s. Keep the mystery, people. All I need to know about you is that you’re single, disease-free, and will respect the sanctity of the safe word.

*Listed occupations are at time of first bone. I have no idea what most of these people are up to now.

I feel like I have to justify the fuckin feds.

First of all, it was an accident. I had no idea wtf DEA was. I’m a sheltered suburban kid who once feared I’d fail a drug test for a summer internship cuz I’d walked through a college hallway that smelled like marijuana the week before.

The way this guy explained it to me, he’d entered this job hoping for assignments that involved busting large drug rings, adrenaline-inducing arrests, and bringing down narcotraficantes notorios.

Instead, his job consisted of “going undercover” by sitting in his car all day spying on some dude in a sketchy area of DTLA and tailing him whenever he left his house.

This high octane mission comes to a compelling end when the guy he’s watching crosses the street, knocks on his car window and says, “Hey. Stop following me.”

It didn’t work out between us, but I hope he eventually got the adventure and excitement he was looking for. Maybe in another field.

I have more thoughts, but in the past hour I suddenly received 4 auditions and 16 pages of lines to prep for the week- the most I’ve received all year at once with production being shut down for the vast majority of it.

If there was any doubt that firmly closing the door to things that don’t feel right only causes brighter, glitterier, more magical-er doors to open, this seems to be a strong sign for me to stfu and stop worrying, quit reminiscing about guys I used to bone, put the Clay Aiken on hold for a few days, and just do the work.

Audition tapes, here I come.

Hopefully my two favorite siblings won’t complain when I don’t have time to flash them on conference calls the next few days. I’ll be busy chasing down a badass job of my own.

My Favorite Fuck-Up of All Time

One of my roommates is moving out.

A few months ago, I wrote about how great it’d be to start boning a random guy who lives across the street. In an act of what can only be described as pure serendipity, a random guy who lives across the street stumbles upon my Craigslist ad looking for a new roommate and thinks we should hang out. You know, as neighbors.

Plot twist.

He’s not single.

Plot un-twist: he’s got roommates.

The new guy moving into our apartment is a flight instructor from Oahu. I love Oahu. My first memory of the island was when I went to the Polynesian Cultural Center with my family in middle school.

Smily greeters wearing grass skirts and leis took pictures with tourists. Shirtless dudes scaled coconut trees barefoot.

As a wholesome 12 year old, it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Pretty sure that’s where I got my first ever lady boner.

Who knew half naked guys climbing trees and picking fruit could be to titillating?

But my dad quickly ruined it by saying he used to do the same thing as a kid growing up in the mountains of Taiwan, shirtless cuz he couldn’t afford shirts, fending off monkeys and wild boars with a stick to pluck a few ripe mangoes for my grandma to sell at the market for soap to use when bathing in the river.

Jeezus. How are we related.

I can barely put together a meal when all the ingredients are laid out in front of me, neatly sorted into separate glass containers. I can’t go an hour without washing my hands, let alone an entire childhood without running water. If I had to forage for food or bathe outside I would’ve given up and wasted away a long time ago. Or worse, begged to be married off to any non-forager who’d have me.

[Note to self- get right back to hustling after this so you never have to marry for money.]

I don’t really understand the purpose of marriage besides it being a nice gesture to your partner that comes with another tax filing status option (what’s the incentive not to take each other for granted when you’ve already signed a contract promising forever upfront?).

But if I do end up deciding it’s for me, I’d marry an Asian guy.


Cuz they get me. More specifically, they never give me weird looks when I ask them to take their shoes off in the house.

Why take your shoes off?


Because your shoes are effing disgusting. Have you ever stepped into a public bathroom in those babies? Have those shoes ever been out on the streets of LA, which is pretty much one large public bathroom itself, covered in dog and human excrement?

I don’t need you trailing fecal matter all over my house, and God-forbid you put your shoes up on a table, spreading poop germs where someone’ll consume their next meal. I’m not a queasy person, but I do get an aggressive urge to hurl whenever a show depicts people with their shoes on in bed.

The ultimate Lady Boner Eradicator. The opposite of being tanned, limber, and climbing a tree to save me from vitamin C deficiency.

Or maybe I’d marry my best friend from college.

In hindsight, I think he tried to come out to me freshman year by singing Beyonce loudly every time he peed. Or when he spent that Michigan 3rd & goal at the Big House arguing with one of our girlfriends about whether Mariah Carey writes her own songs.

But alas, my gaydar is non-existent. So I spent most of undergrad trying to make out with him, and was handily rejected every time.

Years later, we met up in Vegas and he introduced me to his beautiful boyfriend in the pool at EBC. As we chased rounds of tequila shots with overpriced margs under the blazing desert sun:

“Show her your thong!!” he yelled over whatever Diplo was spinning.

His boyfriend bent over, shook his perfect ass to the beat, and pulled down his wet swim trunks to expose a hot pink thong with bright, bold lettering across the waistband: TROPHY BOY

That’s it, I give up. I’ll never be able to compete with that.

I think about that thong sometimes when I’m having a bad day.

They didn’t work out, and he’s still unmarried.

I recently pitched him the idea of an open marriage where we exclusively bone other people. He told me I could be his backup.

So it’s not a “no.”

But this arrangement, to me, sounds pretty awesome. He’s super clean. I’m anal retentive.

I sanitized my airplane seats and gross ass tray tables before COVID made it a thing to do. Every Monday the doorknobs, light switches, toilets, faucet handles, remotes, kitchen appliances, and all surfaces are wiped down and the couch is sprayed with Lysol and all pillow covers are thrown in the wash, cuz I live with boys and I know guys don’t wash their hands after peeing and I don’t want dick germs over everything.

(Wow. Never woulda guessed you’re averse to dick germs.)

Shut up.

Anyway, if we got married, I’d get to come home every day to my best friend in a clean house. This guy loves feeding me, and I’d never have to worry about staying in shape or shaving my legs cuz my husband doesn’t care. We’d hang out when we want to, live our own lives when we don’t, he wouldn’t pressure me to pop out babies, and I wouldn’t stress about him cheating.

No obligations, no expectations.

What more could a girl want?

But while I wait for him to (probably not) come around, I have a career to chase.

The industry’s slowly opening back up, which means easing back into that steady diet of gut-wrenching heartbreak sprinkled with intermittent success. But the rejection doesn’t scare me anymore. I think life ultimately guides you in the direction of optimal happiness, even if that means closing doors you desperately want (need!!) opened in the moment.

My freshman year of college, besides acing my pre-reqs so I could get into the business school, I had one other goal: make Michigan’s competitive hip hop team.

People who’ve met me since then are gonna be really weirded out by this, because I never talk about it, and because I never danced sober again after tryouts that fateful fall semester.

Throughout the sweaty but exhilarating night, the group of 60 was slowly whittled down til there were 5 of us left, known just by the numbers pinned to our shirts. Up to this point, besides a few plays in elementary school, I’d never auditioned for anything in my life.

I was so. Effing. Close. And I was at least better than the guy at the very end.

This was it. As we were counted down to the final round, I mustered every ounce of energy and charisma I had left after hours of mental and physical exertion. I was killin it. I was powerful and confident and HAVING SO MUCH FUN!!

Then it happened.

Leading up to the final 8 counts, a seemingly harmless thought gently giggled its way into my head: Wouldn’t it be hilarious if you fucked it all up right now?

And just like that, my mind went blank and my body froze, everything I’d learned and rehearsed for the past who-knows-how-long-at-this-point instantly evaporating, as the 4 people around me seamlessly hit every last step. Or so I assumed. I blacked out for a few seconds.

When I came to, still standing there like an idiot after the music stopped, I didn’t wait for them to cut me. I just grabbed my shit, mumbled thanks, and walked out, regretful cuz I could’ve done better, confused about how I’d managed to lose it so quickly, and annoyed that I wasted my entire damn night.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck my stupid effing brain and its stupid effing thoughts.

2 fall semesters later, I was a junior in the business school looking to secure an internship for the following summer. I’d applied everywhere, had a mediocre GPA (turns out b-school’s hard when your mind has a tough time processing basic mathematical concepts), and internship offers seemed to be flying in left and right for everyone around me.

As a last resort, I suited up, printed out a few resumes, and reluctantly trudged across campus to a career fair. On the way, through the glass windows of the science hall, I saw them practicing. That same dance team I’d failed to make almost exactly two years ago.

I stopped and stared, running through those pivotal 8 counts of choreography that’d slipped my mind in the most make-or-break moment of my 18-year-old life, now forever seared into my brain.

I arrived at the career fair as it was winding down. Wandering the booths aimlessly, I made eye contact with a campus recruiter from a large corporate retailer. I don’t know what I said or what we talked about, but he offered me an interview on the spot.

When I arrived to interview the next day and tried to check in, I didn’t see any slots available for my assigned time. I looked closer at the sign-in tablet.

He didn’t have any more open slots by the time we met.

He interviewed me on his lunch break.

The ensuing offer led to an absolutely epic summer of blacked-out debauchery, a few minor scandals, and the most incredible new friendships. Oh yea, and I guess, gaining valuable work experience, transferable skills, and whatever other corporate buzzwords.

I went back full-time after graduation, and those few short years in Minneapolis are some of the best times of my life to date.

I can’t even begin to describe how much I love the people I met there.

For years, I’ve had one goal and one goal only, but my time in the Twin Cities is honestly one of the only life experiences I wouldn’t trade for a series regular TV contract.

And to think, none of those people would be in my life had I gotten what I wanted freshman year and ended up at practice that day instead.

When I started this career, I promised my parents I’d be a series regular within 5 years. I’m still workin on it. And every year I continue to get hundreds and hundreds of no’s. But the ‘no’s’ eventually blur together and fade into anonymity when all you need is that one yes that completely changes your life.

Despite the anguish and temporary emotional spirals, I can’t help thinking this drawn out path is life’s way of ensuring I make all the mistakes I need to make, learn all the lessons I need to learn, and cross paths with all the incredible people I’m meant to encounter.

And on that note, it’s time to go meet the neighbors.

Quarantine Diaries Part 3: Sex Dreams and Alcohol

While thumbing through my 4th grade diary recently, as one does after 6 months of quarantine, I came across a particularly interesting entry where I listed all the dumb acts committed by my then-peers.


It’s the OG Burn Book, if you will. Of course, this prompted me to look up all these people and see what they’re up to so many years later.

Not to scare anyone, but I’m pretty sure Sean P.’s now a practicing physician. Facebook also tells me he ended up at Ohio State. Giggles. How fitting that he found his way to a whole community of childhood butt pickers.

Just last week, I wouldn’t’ve bothered with that comment, cuz without CFB, any and all shit-talking seemed inconsequential.

But SURPRISE! Big 10 football’s back (until they change their mind) and I’m so, SO excited to have an outlet for my many feelings; to roll out of bed on Saturday morning and scream, laugh, mourn, cheer, and cry in front of the TV for 12 hours straight.

I wish guys would allow sports to be their main emotional outlet as well. But in my experience, nothing makes them open up like a spontaneous wasty bang sesh.

I hate it.

Like wtf. I just boned you for the price of a couple shots. You’re gonna make me listen to your freakin problems too?

You owe me more booze.

As they lay there post-coital, droning on about how they have a hard exterior cuz their brother used to beat them up as a kid or how much they miss their ex-girlfriend, I lay next to them, drunk and naked, running through some variation of the following conversation in my head.

Me: Dear God, I know this is the only time I ever talk to you. But I promise to be a
better person from now on if you get this guy to stfu and leave. 
God: You said that last time.
Me: …You’re right. Hey, if this rando’s plan is to lay here talking for the rest of our lives, which it’s starting to sound like, and I end up being stuck with him forever, could we just count this as a preemptively consummated marriage?
God: No.
Me: Ugh. But you know there was Jager involved. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.
God: It was actually Rumple Minz.
Me: WHAT??!! You saw me ripping shots of Rumple Minz and didn’t stage some sort of intervention???
God: I did. I made you leave your phone in the Uber so you wouldn’t meet up with What’s-His-Face.
Me: Oh, shit. Was I really gonna do that?
God: You were thinking about it.
Me: Ugh. He’s so hot.
God: You know he’s a terrible person.
Me: …Ugh. He’s so hot.
God: Is there anything else you remotely enjoy about him?
Me: He has a cute dog.
God: Thanks! Little guy was fun to make.
Me: Yea, really nice work with the ears. Anyway, how did I end up with this guy?
God: No idea. I turn my head for one second to check on the other drunk kids…
Me: I’m speedy.
God: You’re an idiot. I swear this is the LAST time I bail you out.
Me: Who do you swear to?
God: Myself.
Me: Power move.
God: And I need you to swear to me, too, that this will be the last time I pull a stranger out of your bed.
Me: But Godddddd! Guys do it all the time. I’d like to think RBG would be proud.
God: Are you kidding me? She fought for way more tha-
Me: HI RUTH!! How’s heaven?!!
God: Wrong religion.
Me: Rest in power, Queen!!

Guy I Just Boned: Who are you talking to?
Me: My friend Ruth. And God.

At this point they suddenly decide it’s time to go (finally), and I follow them out the door with, “Hope you get to live out your dream of being a Green Beret in Russia!” or “I’m sure your dad will call soon! There’s no way he likes his shitty stepkids more than you.” Or, if I didn’t listen to a single word they said, just a simple, “Bye!”

One time a guy wouldn’t leave until I got his name right. It took fucking forever. I hate that guy. 

Guess what his name was?


(Ru serious?) 

Yes. The fucker’s name was John.

So I guess it was really my fault for being so bad at this game. I felt so stupid I haven’t forgotten his name in 5 years.

No wonder he was so adamant I’d be able to get it in 3 tries.

Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve told this story multiple times.

I don’t have any new fun stories to tell, thanks to the Great COVID Cockblock of 2020. I just keep having recurring sex dreams about my exes. 

It was jarring the first night and now I’m largely unfazed. We’re always banging in some abandoned gas station, for some reason. I’m too scared to deep dive into that part of my psyche. 

For the record, never have I ever.

One of my girlfriends recently told me about a raunchy romp back in college with a basketball player I rooted super hard for in the Bubble (RIP Mavs). Long story short, a minor mishap led to him bleeding everywhere from his penis. But it’s what happened next that makes the story.

Get this.

He simply goes back to his dorm, cleans up his bloody schlong, then comes back to her room..and CUDDLES WITH HER ALL NIGHT!

tf. They weren’t even dating! THIS WAS A ONE-TIME HOOKUP!!

I love this man.

Since hearing this story, I’ve DM-ed this guy every night offering to make his dick bleed in exchange for cuddles, but no response yet.


Another friend recently texted a fuck buddy, “I’m craving your cock.”
His response: “Wanna go to lunch?”

And this might be the single funniest story I’ve ever heard. I can’t stop laughing about it. What a masterpiece in ambiguity.

What is he trying to do? Move her toward the “let’s start seeing each other before 2AM” Girlfriend Zone, or the “definitely not romantic cuz we’re freaking going to lunch” Friend Zone?

This needs to be a reality show.

Fuck buddies go to lunch and are forced to spend an hour together, see each other in broad daylight, and have a conversation completely sober.

After the hour, they choose to DTR or GTFO.

…Yea I totally wouldn’t watch that either.

My mind mostly consists of impractical ideas and imaginary conversations. It’s probably good that I stay away from drugs.

People are always surprised that I don’t smoke weed. And also have a great relationship with my dad.

Every time I’ve smoked it’s never done anything for me besides make me wildly paranoid. Last time I got high I made the mistake of walking to a 7-Eleven where I was stared down by an entire shelf of Furbies with their wide, white, all-knowing eyeballs.

Their childlike, mechanical voices filled my head.

“We know you’re high. We knowwww you’re highhhhh!”

I stood there staring back, whole body frozen in place, clutching a giant bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. It felt like two days before I could move again.

I haven’t smoked since.

Drugs only ever seem like a good idea when I’m spending an extended amount of time with both my parents in the same house. I’m constantly on edge waiting for the next fight to break out, knowing I’ll be approached separately by each person to vent afterward, as if my decades of indentured marriage counseling has had any impact whatsoever.

As a kid, my hideout was whichever room in the house was furthest from the warzone of the day, my escape a large stack of library books, a vivid imagination, and I guess this weird diary I kept. 

As an adult, it’s whatever alcohol I can get my hands on.

Thank God for booze.

I once dated a guy who doesn’t drink, cuz I obviously don’t know what’s good for me.

If I’ve never shown any interest in dating you, it probably means we’re great for each other. That or you’ve previously tried to date one of my sisters. That puts you in the Brother Zone. And you don’t ever move out of the Brother Zone. Incest is a no-no.

The only type of dude who fits into my life right now is one who’ll wake up early to pregame for 9AM games. We drink, cuddle, watch football, order Postmates, he gets the door so I don’t have to get off the couch, bang out a quickie during halftime, it’s quite literally…the perfect relationship.

Hmm. “Perfect relationship.” Lofty goals for someone who’s never managed to strike a balance between cold ambivalence and codependence.

But just like anything else worth waiting for in life, if it never happens for me, then it never happens. I’ll stick to my delusional optimism until it breaks me.

And maybe this’ll be the year!

I say the same thing about Michigan winning a Big 10 championship every fall.

October 24th can’t come soon enough.

In the meantime, I’ll get by on sex dreams and alcohol.

Quarantine Diaries Pt.2: My Neighbors Jerk Off and Set Their Driveway on Fire

After a loud, lengthy screaming match last night, our neighbor to the west grand finale-d the show by throwing her husband’s shit outside and setting it on fire. As of this morning, his charred, crispy underwear was still hanging over the fence.

I slept through the whole thing, but my roomates, whose bedrooms are on the west side of the apartment, witnessed the entire saga- a woman screaming at 3am, throwing things, carrying his stuff outside and finally, lighting a fire and letting that shit BURN.

Quarantine takes another one.

My room faces east, and I’m exposed to the sounds of a very different neighbor. Every night around 11:30PM, it starts- quietly building to a plateau- a monotonous, steady fap-fap-fap-fap-fapfapfapfapfapFAPFAPFAPFAPFAP.

This neighbor just moved in, replacing an older woman who liked to yell at Amazon delivery people. I’ve never met this guy, but he sounds very lonely and very bored.

I’m bored too. Especially in these past couple days the NBA has been postponed. It’s pretty much all I’ve been doing whenever I’m not recording or finding ways to support these incredible orgs. Don’t get me wrong, I support the boycott 100%. If anything, I couldn’t be prouder to get back into watching after a years-long hiatus following a years-long obsession.

Entering college, my top career choices were dermatologist, news anchor, and NBA courtside reporter.

After deeming each one of those jobs to be impossible pipe dreams, I decided to become a movie star instead.

When the league restarted a month ago, I was tasked with decorating brownies in Lakers and Clippers colors to celebrate their first game. I need it to be known that I am not a fan of either team.

But the Target by my house didn’t sell yellow, red, or blue sprinkles. So instead of driving  around the corner to Ralph’s, my dumb ass decided to buy Funfetti MIXED SPRINKLES and spend 2 and a half hours sorting each individual sprinkle into different color piles, resulting in very little personal satisfaction and a mild case of carpal tunnel.

It still hurts to type.

Me: That was stupid and a total waste of time. Why did you do that?
Also me: I dunno
Me: Are you ever gonna do something that stupid again?
Also me: Gee, I hope not. But I honestly can’t be sure.

I have the same conversation with myself after every relationship.

The irony of my current situation doesn’t escape me. I am physically trapped on either side of my home between my two perceived life options-  an eternal routine of midnight masturbation vs. relationships that literally burn to the ground.

Multiple friends have offered to set me up with their single doctor friends. Which is so kind, but also such a waste of effort. I have no interest in dating a doctor. Throw me an unemployed fuckboy instead. I get a(-n albeit messed up) sense of comfort and security from knowing we won’t be in each others’ lives long enough to ever fight.

Does the lack of genuine, deep human connection get lonely? Yes. But I’d rather be single and occasionally lonely than be in a relationship wishing I was single.

What are you doing with all that free time, loser?

Reading a new fiction novel I’m obsessed with, writing, and recording and editing audio files in my closet-workspace. Yes, I am a loser.

I tend to shit on contemporary fiction cuz all the stories are the same.

A college grad has dreams bigger than the town she grew up in, moves to a big city, pursues a big career, juggles men, and, after an awkward meet cute scenario, keeps running into the same guy in progressively sillier situations until he eventually asks her out. But plot twist! He turns out to be her new boss!

Give me a firm deadline and a bottle of tequila, and I’ll scribble out that whole story for you myself.

Writing is such a funny process. The previous draft of this blog, before my neighbor decided to light her driveway on fire, was all about eating ass. Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

The one time a guy surprised me by sticking his face in my butthole, I lurched forward so violently I almost crashed through my headboard.

When did that become a thing? My germaphobic ass just can’t understand the thrill of putting your nose up someone’s poop chute.

Call me a prude, but I once ****ed a *** *** with my ****.

It was weird. One of the few things in life I can say with absolute certainty I will probably never do again.

But I’ll discuss this more in a future post.

I’ve received enough updates from friends who’ve ventured back on the apps to know that dating still sucks and must still be avoided at all costs.

If I’m destined to find love, it’s gonna have to fall straight into my lap.

Like, some guy moves in across the street. We make eye contact one morning while dragging our trash cans to the curb for garbage day.

I say, “Good morning. You’re hot. Wanna bone?”

He looks me up and down in my fuzzy bathrobe, hesitates, then shrugs. “Meh, sure. But we should wash our hands first.”

We do it, it’s adequate, he doesn’t murder me or sneak a nose dive into my anus.

And thus begins the story of our happily ever after. No pressure, no preamble, no courtship involved.

Yea. I guess that sounds pretty bleak.

But there are 20 million different things in the world that can make people happy, and one person doesn’t need access to all 20 million things in order to be happy.

Romantic relationships are just one of those things.

Plus, I got other shit to do.

Voiceover has actually been taking up a ton of my time in quarantine. I recently signed a contract that, in the first 20 hours, paid more than my annual salary first year out of college.

It’s been awesome. But this job was the result of 300+ auditions, which means hundreds of hours in the recording booth, not knowing whether the effort was ever gonna amount to anything. Also, if the client opts not to re-up, then I’m right back in the poorhouse.

I’ve also been doing a little writing.

At the request of someone whose work I think is awesome, I started writing a TV pilot. I’m not done yet, but I already know it’s the shit.

The thing is, I’ve never aspired to be a TV writer. And it’s certainly nothing like writing this, where I can type up whatever pops into my head without any thought given to plot, character arc, or structure. So pretty much, I have no idea what to do with it once I’m done.

Ready for the logline?

Here it is:
Mia needs to get laid. Coronavirus killed her once thriving hookup game and, to make things worse, she’s quarantined with two perfect couples. Life is unfair. She decides to cure her loneliness by venturing online to find some cock, but instead connects with someone who might just convince her that there’s more to life than scoring dick.

I have the utmost confidence that no one will be able to tell this story like I can. And it’s my opinion that the best stories are ones that sound stupid on paper.

I don’t know what’ll happen with this script. I don’t know what’ll happen with this voiceover job. What’ll happen in the next few days, months, hell, the rest of 2020 or this so-far whack ass decade.

But one thing that is predictable: tonight, like every night, I’ll lie in bed at 11:30PM while my neighbor whacks it, giggling into my pillow like the dirty pervert I am until the monotonous, repetitive fapping lulls me to sleep.

Quarantine Diaries Pt. 1: Dark Times

I conclude my weekly meeting with the VP of Planning and gather all the nonsensical line graphs I’d created out of made-up data 5 minutes prior.

My VP stands behind his desk, smiles, and declares,

“In 5 years, you’ll be running this company!”

I imagine holding a gun to my head, right there in his office.

I flash the same toothy grin I’d eventually use everyday in my next career.

“Can’t wait!”

then walk back to my desk to take mindless internet quizzes until it’s time for lunch.

When I first moved to LA, I got absolutely everything I ever wanted. I made more money than I knew what to do with at a corporate job that required no brain power whatsoever. One weekend, in the midst of my routine weekly blackout somewhere along Hermosa Pier, I (apparently) gave some dude my number and realized when I met up with him the next day that he was hot af.

I couldn’t believe my string of luck. I was literally a blind, blacked out squirrel who’d managed to find a nut without even trying. Or rather, two nuts that belonged to one seriously gorgeous man.

A year later, both the job and the guy had made me so effing miserable and caused so many anxiety-ridden sleepless nights sobbing alone in a dark corner of my (stunning, 3rd story, marina-front) bedroom that I was forced to make the (somehow still) seemingly insane decision to leave them both.

Yes. I had a corner of my bedroom specifically designated for crying.

Talk about a quarter-life crisis. 

The universe had handed me everything I wanted- and was ever taught to want- on a silver platter, just to turn around and laugh as I waded through the mucky confusion and unexpected torment of my newfound reality and yell, “THIS IS WHAT YOU SAID YOU WANTED, YA DUMB BITCH!! PWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAH!” before cockslapping me in the face with the medium-sized weiner of a beautiful man with no substance.

I’d never felt more catfished by life! I felt like a character in my favorite Goosebumps book as a kid. The girl in the story got 3 wishes and, as they were granted in succession, each made her life progressively worse.

We all know where I landed in terms of career choice. But I’ve learned my lesson on men, too.

I only date ugly guys now.

Jk. But that’s a safe go-to, single friends, if anyone asks why you’re not interested.

I feel bad for any guy who sleeps with me these days (pre-quarantine, of course). I send them out the door the following morning with a high five and thumbs up, and then they gotta wait months for a new blog post to maybe learn how I feel about them.

Each time I think, “There’s no way this random ass dude knows about or actually reads this blog,” and I write whatever I want if I haven’t already forgotten about them by the time I get around to writing.

And each time I learn that yes. Yes, indeed he did manage to somehow stumble across this blog and he’s got some questions about my comments.

Most guys are great. “Great” meaning at least deserving of the hungover, semi-enthusiastic high five they receive on their way out. And some guys are super great. Except for that oneeeee little thing you wish you could change.

Like that guy whose dick game is A++. The proof-that-magic-is-real, leaves-you-grinning, head-spinning, rehash-in-graphic-detail-at-bachelorette-parties kinda dick game.


He also has the derpiest voice you’ve ever heard. Like if Mike Tyson and Kermit sucked helium together.

So whenever he tries to talk dirty you cover his mouth and command him to shut up with all the authority your own squeaky ass voice can muster, so for a moment you sound like 2 chipmunks humping.

And he thinks it’s super hot when you tell him what to do. But you don’t mean like, “Shut up and break me.” It’s more like, “Please, for the love of God DO NOT SPEAK or I’ll feel like I’m fucking a Muppet baby.”

So close yet so far from perfection.

But quarantine has, for me, as it has for many of my single peers, brought upon a dry spell.

And, speaking only for myself, that actually hasn’t been a bad thing.

These days, instead of wasting my time on boys, I’m practicing meditation, taking online courses, revisiting the glorious contents of my dusty bookshelf, and, oh yea- making it a goal to eat a salad once a day.

Apparently, it’s “good for your body.” 

The thing is, I fucking hate salad. Carbs are so much better for my soul.

When the salad alarm goes off on my phone, I sigh loudly and dramatically, begrudgingly trudge to the kitchen, angrily pile a bunch of vegetables into a Tupperware, dump a crapload of dressing on it, cover it up tightly with the lid, and mix it all up by shaking the shit out of that damn salad.

Like, aggressively trying to mutilate all the vegetables inside that fuckin Tupperware, getting sick glee from watching the juices violently splatter onto the sides of the container.

Lastly, I pour on a crapload of croutons and bacon bits to hide the taste of nutrition, then stand back to admire and maybe even eat my creation.

Zoom calls with my favorite people have also become routine, although this activity doesn’t turn me into an unhinged psycho. So far on these calls, 5 of my girlfriends have announced they’re pregnant.

How exciting! I love babies.

But I also find the idea of growing a human inside me to be absolutely repulsive.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s cute and sweet and precious when anybody else does it.

But a life form inside me stealing all my hard-earned, gross-tasting vegetable nutrients? Making me feel sick and permanently destroying my body for its own benefit?

Sounds like a parasite.

I’m good. I’ll play with everyone else’s kids once they’ve grown out of that ugly newborn phase and developed real faces.

Then give them back once they start to get annoying.

A few months ago, I was playing a babysitter on a shoot with 8 toddlers at a daycare center, with the off-screen assistance of a couple ADs and all the children’s parents.

Even with all the help, I hope to never do that again. On “Action,” the girls sat nicely as directed, calmly coloring and looking at picture books, while the boys threw containers of food across the room, growled, ate stuff off the floor like they hadn’t been fed in a week, pushed each other and me, and knocked over kiddie furniture like mini savages.

It was horrifying. We were indoors, yet they somehow managed to be covered in dirt and grime after 3 takes.

The most unsettling part of it was how unfazed their parents were by their feral behavior.

18 years is a big commitment.

The only thing to which I can pledge that degree of dedication is my career. Besides the 3 days a month where I burst out over my balcony and scream, “FUCK THIS SHITTTT I’M DOONNNNEEEE!!!!!!” for all the neighbors to hear.

They’ve stopped reacting.

Some days the only thing keeping me in the game is knowing that no other job out there would make me remotely happy.

So I guess I can be miserable at a job I hate or miserable pursuing a life I want.


Who needs a boyfriend when your life choices fuck you daily.

Sometimes I think back to my short-lived stint in the corporate world. And, despite the dependable paychecks, I’m still glad to be out of a rat race in which it was no longer gratifying to partake and whose rewards I no longer coveted.

The decision to dramatically reroute my life didn’t come on a whim. It was forcibly and reluctantly made after months of overwhelming cognitive dissonance. The kind that keeps you awake at night thinking about what your life could be if you trusted yourself enough to step away from what’s comfortable and familiar and lean into the temporary unknown long enough to come out on the other side.

We’ve all been simultaneously plunged into a strange, awkward, unfamiliar situation, albeit not by choice. Good news is, everyone you know is along for the ride. It’s a weird paradox that we’re all forced to be separate together.

Nobody wanted this.

But then again, sometimes getting exactly what you want ends up sucking ass anyway.

Keep your Zoom buddies close and an extra bottle of wine even closer.

There’s no better time to build up that tolerance for when live, in-person group drinking events are once again a thing. I refuse to survive a pandemic just to die from over-celebrating once they let us out.

Bet we can set a record for World’s Longest Pregame if we start now.