Chapter 3: Spanish Men Aren’t That Hot If You’re Distracted

Her name was Heidi. She’d been on the program some eight or so years ago. Mid-October, she’d just disappeared. Skipped classes, left her host mom, and dropped the program without such a reason as why. A few months later, Dr. H (our resident Cal Poly professor and basically father) received a call from her.

“Are you safe?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I met someone.”

And she never came home. Eight years later, she’s still here. In Spain. Married to some Spanish man.

Now personally, I seemed to have a thing for the Italians. And the Portuguese if you count that one time I fell in love for four years. Also, given that my heart and mind were occupied somewhere at a frat house on Foothill, I couldn’t see myself giving up my life at home for a Spanish man, but I could see myself giving it up for Spain.

Values were different here. I was 15 years old when I went to Spain for the first time, and a singular experience had made me determined to come back.

It was a topless beach, as most beaches here are. And it wasn’t the envy  of people with actual breasts that sparked my desire to return (still waiting, puberty…), it was the confidence. All shapes and sizes and body types lay naked on this beach, basking in the sun, and not once did you see a look of judgment. Not once did the heavier woman look up in fear of snide remarks or giggles. Not once did a skinny girl strut past someone less genetically blessed with an aura of superiority. Everyone minded their own, and everyone seemed to feel beautiful. It was a concept so foreign to me, but it was breathtaking.

Because this is something you’d never find in the United States, where someone will berate your body before they ever berate your character.

But I digress. After story time, it was time to get on the bus and reach our final destination: Valladolid and our host families. I was nervous. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. And to the continued chagrin and annoyance of my classmates, I could not shut up.

But when they called me and my roommate’s names (first), and we got off that bus to meet our “mama Española,” my nerves seemed pointless.

She reminded me a bit of my own mother, short brown hair slightly feathered, brown eyes, and a personality big enough for someone three times her size. She was fiery, loquacious, and immensely opinionated. She was perfect.

Walking into the place I’d be living for the next three months felt like home. It wasn’t fancy. It was actually quite small. It was messy, and a tad disorganized, and I shared a bunk bed for the first time since I’d lived in my dad’s Foster City apartment. And I absolutely loved it.

There was no grace period. No awkward time of trying to find my footing or get comfortable with my new maternal figure or my surroundings. It just felt like I belonged there. It was comfortable.

The first week saw a multitude of occurrences. Friday night, we all went out. Naturally. Nothing special there. Sunday saw my first home-cooked paella. Sunday night saw me getting the stomach flu for the first time in three years. Monday morning saw me barely making it through my Spanish placement test without puking on the table, and Tuesday morning saw my placement in a level that obviously reflected just how shitty I’d been feeling.

But I didn’t mind. Out of six levels, I’d been placed in Level 4. While not the most challenging academically, it would cover crucial grammar, syntax, and vocabulary that I knew I needed to re-learn desperately. My teacher was a pistol, and while her aggressive teaching style rubbed some the wrong way, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

There were groups, as was natural in large gatherings of people. People found who they clicked with, who made them comfortable, and smaller subsets formed. It bothered me in the beginning, but didn’t anymore.

The Universidad classes were easy. They were thought-provoking and the homework load was light. I found it easy to pay attention. The Cal Poly classes…well. I had never been one for history. It either pissed me off, or bored me to death. So the history of Spain, at 6pm while I’m fully fed and wide awake, brought out the worst side effects of my inattention. I couldn’t sit still, I couldn’t shut up, and then upon knowing I was annoying my classmates I would become anxious. And, as anyone who knows me knows, the more uncomfortable I am, the more obnoxious I get. But I tried to find new ways to distract myself and tone it down with every class.

We shared language classes with some students from Eau Claire in Wisconsin. The students in my class didn’t speak much. I’m not sure if it was from a lack of understanding, or that they partied harder than we ever did. But in their silence I asked questions, and I practiced. I’d come here to learn the language, and I wasn’t going to do that by staying silent in class.

This apparently rubbed some the wrong way. Wednesday, October 12 was a holiday, so Tuesday night we all went out. I was talking to one of the Wisconsin students who was in my class, when another walked up and said, “are you telling her she talks too much?” I turned to face him.

“He wasn’t, but it seems apparent now that you are,” I smirked.
“You think you’re so smart just because you can talk fast, like, slow down.”

I found this response comical, and it perplexed me that someone would equate the velocity of my speech with my intelligence. I talked fast in English, too. But why not have a little fun with the drunk boy?

“Alright, well then Thursday in class I won’t say anything. And when she’s standing up there asking questions none of you answer, feel free to just go for it.”

I began to walk away.

“Alright, bitch, see you Thursday.”

I raised my eyebrows and turned back to face him.

“Oh sweetheart…don’t fuck with me.”

My roommate, Julia, and I left the bar, wannabe-alpha male screams of, “oh now you’re gonna call me sweetheart? Now you think you’re the shit?” fading into the background.

I had not previously valued myself above this boy, but anyone who will call a woman a bitch based on her intelligence has a dick smaller than my nonexistent one. How tragic.


I shall spin you a yarn. A yarn that will be a metaphor as transparent as too small yoga pants, but a yarn nonetheless.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away that references no one in particular was a group of princesses. They all varied in looks and personality, but they all had redeeming and lovely qualities. Some princesses had more wealth in beauty, others in heart, but all possessed valor.

As the kingdom grew, more princesses came in order to help rule over the land and keep the peace. Having many princesses delighted the people, and different princesses appealed to different townsfolk.

Quite recently, a new princess had come to the land. She was plain in looks,  heavy in stature, and overall not that special. But still, many townsfolk who had not yet connected with one of the already ruling princesses adored her. The other princesses, already so high in power, paid little attention to her, content with their own followers.

Alas, the Great Migration came, and new townsfolk flocked from far and wide to the kingdom. All the princesses beamed with joy as they anticipated the lives of the new townsfolk they would touch.

Each princess received dozens upon dozens of new supporters who loved their ideals, their beauty, and their spirits. The new princess did not expect many followers, but was excited all the same. She worked immensely hard to prepare her speeches and platforms to appeal to the new townsfolk.

But then, something odd happened. A fair number of the townsfolk did begin to enjoy the new princess. For what purpose, she was not sure, but she found herself with more followers than she had ever anticipated. She glowed with pride, thrilled to have the chance to share her ideas with these new people.

But some of the other princesses grew petty. Though they had gleaned far more followers, and though this new princess had never mattered before, they suddenly found themselves plotting her downfall. They whispered in the ear of the townsfolk horrible rumours about the new princess’s harsh regime and unfair laws. They spoke of her simple looks and empty mind.

Many of the townsfolk listened, and ran away from the new princess. Despite having loved her speeches and ideals, they feared there was truth in the lies they’d heard.

And while the old princesses laughed at their success thinking, in fact, they’d won, the truth was the whole thing was really. Fucking. Dumb.

The End

Sincerely, Spanglish Chapter 2: Wine and Less Important Things

My first night in Madrid found me alone at a bar across the street from my hotel drinking white wine. I loved going to bars alone; it was absolutely prime for people watching. I sat reading the paper, and laughed at the amount of time the U.S. came up and how we were portrayed (sort of like a giant island of Donald Trumps).

I guess Madrid was playing a soccer game, because a man outside was dressed like a chicken, and he and his group of rowdy companions ordered beer after beer after beer after beer. I had no other explanation for this behavior. I would have to learn that soccer was to Spanish men as football was to the boys back home.

“Doh-bless cervezas por fuh-vahr,” a voice next to me at the bar struggled in broken Spanish. I smiled, not at her lack of lingual prowess but at her obviously strong accent of something else behind it.

“Where are you from?” I turned, asking in English.

“We’re from Ireland,” she smiled back, “we’re here in Spain and we’re going to be teacher assistants.”

That explained the other accent.

After three glasses of wine and a sample of each complimentary tapa (because your alcohol comes with free food in Spain, U.S. take notes), I found myself satisfied, thoroughly exhausted, and asleep promptly by 10pm.

We had a good group. There was no awkward getting-to-know-you phase. Everyone clicked pretty well. Personalities were strewn across the board from the shy and timid to the “beer at 10am” types, but the chemistry between what had previously been 15 strangers was eminent.

Our first day was breakfast down the street (where I was blessed with Spanish tortilla and orange juice, my new addiction), a rest, and then we met up to take a walking tour of some of Madrid’s more prominent features. We had to be awake and ready to get on the bus to Toledo at 9am the next day, so we all planned to go out, but to take it easy.

These things did not happen.

We started with a hotel room pregame and a game of Kings Cup played with what might arguably be the worst wine I’ve ever tasted. But, in Spain’s defense, it was three-dollar wine from the corner store. However, not in Spain’s defense, it was ten times worse than any box of Franzia I’ve ever tasted.

We meandered down the street looking for a bar that seemed interesting enough to enter. We were beckoned into a nearly empty bar with promises of free beer. Not being a beer drinker, I ordered a tequila shot to join the ranks of my peers. Now I’m not sure if they took this as a challenge, or if what happened next would’ve happened anyways, but suddenly free beer turned to rounds of shots and everyone was much, much drunker than they intended.

We came to Spain knowing full well binge drinking was not the Spanish culture. However, coming from the U.S. where a shot costs more than my life is worth, being able to get three servings of alcohol (beer, wine, shot, etc) for under $7 had everyone pretty excited.

We ended up in a Plaza—the name escapes me now—and a voice beckoned from the shadows.

“Hello! You like to dance?”

We exchanged glances, and whether it was the booze or the first night confidence, we followed this random man into a nightclub, tickets for a free sangria in hand. We danced around to the same playlist I used to hear at my middle school dances, buying more drinks, making more noise. And then, grace of God that she is, Sloan Cinelli came out of damn nowhere.

At 1am, someone wisely reminded us of our waking hour, and we headed home.


There is something to be said for an American college students’ ability to fully function through debilitating hangovers. Not speaking personally, in this case. I woke up feeling mediocre. But I would like to take a moment to appreciate my peers who puke and rally on a regular basis—you are warriors of your own liver-killing kind.

We boarded the bus to Toledo at 10am. An hour later, the view from the window was breathtaking. Toledo was the kind of beautiful that almost made you emotional. I don’t know how to describe it, and pictures would never do it justice. It just was.

We walked all day. I wrote as often as I could. Pen to paper, every thought that came into my head, like it might kill me to be anything less than honest. Sometimes, it felt that was the only way I could be.

We went to two churches, and I was haunted by something different in each one: in the first, the cathedral, a gigantic painting of Saint Christopher. In the second, a statue of Vírgen de Guadalupe who seemed like she could see right through me. In the cathedral, I had wandered off from the group, enchanted by some tombs. I found myself alone, but not panicked. I wandered around the cathedral alone, without the drone of the tour guide in my ears, making up my own stories. It was an eerie calm…a calm I felt guilty feeling, because I had walked away from the Church a long time ago. I saw a nun, and considered asking her to pray for me.

I don’t think it would help.

I couldn’t sleep anymore. I had gotten three hours the night before, and maybe a forty-minute nap. I was learning to run on fumes and, while impressive for someone who used to barely function on nine hours, I knew I was destroying my body.

That night, we had a dinner of tapas with our professor, Dr. Hiltpold. I tortured the boy next to me with stupid questions, and the one on my other side probably with my mere presence. It didn’t matter to me, I merely enjoyed the game of it all.

We found ourselves in an empty karaoke bar. We had all be under the impression we would only be staying there briefly to get drinks But, several songs later (including, but not limited to: Don’t Stop Believin’, Drops of Jupiter, and Smack That), we had one of the most fun nights I’d had in a while.

At 3am, I realized exactly why most people hate Americans. Eight of us walked over a mile to a 24-hour McDonald’s. Drunken slurs of broken Spanish asking for McNuggets, euros dropped on the floor, and the sheer madness of drunchies tortured everyone around us, except for one laughing woman who seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.

Sincerely, Spanglish Chapter 1: Dearly Departed


Leaving the country for three months felt a lot like what I imagine watching your own funeral would feel like. People you didn’t even know cared about you were suddenly sending you their best wishes and talking about how they wished they’d had more time with you.

Goodbyes were something I’d become all too familiar with and something I did my best to avoid. I’d spent my last night in SLO like I’d spend any other Tuesday, eating tacos and singing karaoke at the bars. This comfortable act of routine and social drinking made avoiding emotions easy. I picked my exit carefully, hugging my sorority sisters briefly in their distracted state, and leaving quickly. I stood on a curb in cold night air contemplating my next step. There was a call I shouldn’t answer, but I thought maybe I might.

My mind was pulled away from this call by the ringing of another one, and I found myself unexpectedly in an all too familiar environment with all too familiar friends who’d seen far too much of me in the last two years. These friends were, namely, the hooligans I affectionately and adoringly referred to as the “T4 Boys.” I’d managed to keep all my goodbyes short, sweet, and emotionless, and I thought these ones would be the same.

I almost escaped unscathed.

Hugs, fist bumps, and whiskey shots were my safe route. Guy friends were easy; they didn’t do emotional goodbyes. I made my way towards the door ready to endure what I thought would be one of my harder goodbyes when I heard two voices call me back.

“Rachel, wait!” Two of the boys came running out and sandwiched me between them. “We love you. You’re always going to be family. We’re going to miss you. And don’t worry, things will work out while you’re gone.” It was one of those rare moments in life I was speechless, so I repeated choked ‘thank you’s’ and ‘I love you, too’s.’

And for a moment, even when everything else in my life was about to change (and had already), for just an instant in this drunken exchange, it felt like nothing had.

I don’t know what it was about this goodbye that got to me. Maybe it was the fact that a crucial member of this little family we had formed freshman year was missing. Maybe it was the fact that these boys had been through more of my college chaos with me than anyone else. Or, maybe it was just the whiskey. Either way, when I got in the car to say my final SLO goodbye, I was sobbing.

“I hadn’t planned on missing anyone,” I sputtered between sobs.

“I know,” he said, wiping tears from my cheek. My mascara cascaded in little black trails down my cheeks and onto his white t-shirt as I attempted to regain the composure I’d managed to fake so well up until this point. I had to return to comfortably numb, because the gut-wrenching reality of everyone I loved living without me for three months was exactly the sinking feeling I’d been trying to avoid, yet here we were.

The same subconscious thought that had tried to plague me in the many months leading up to this day whispered in my ear once more: What if they all move on without me? What if I come back and I don’t matter to them anymore?

I’d been reminded by numerous parties for numerous reasons that “a lot can happen in three months.” Some used this phrase to remind me how I might change as a person in the coming months. Others, in two separate cases, had used this to refer to romances that may or may not exist upon my return. One of them no longer existed, anyway.

Romantic intentions or naught, it was true; three months was a lot of time.

“I expected this tonight,” he whispered, stroking my hair and pulling me into a fresh t-shirt.


“I just did. I knew it was coming. You’d been holding it together too well. I know you.”

At two in the morning, I stopped crying. At four in the morning, I decided I needed to leave. Right then, at that moment. I started throwing clothes into my suitcase, trying to rebuild some emotional distance.

“You’re sure you need to leave now?” He asked.

“Yea. I just have to go. I just have to go.”

“I know.”


He knew not to push it.

At five in the morning, suitcases in the trunk, gas tank full, I was ready to go home. I had one more goodbye.

We live in this generation of incomplete romances. People you sleep with, but don’t love. People you love, but don’t sleep with. And then, there is some expansive spectrum of everything in between from friends with benefits to…whatever the hell was happening here.

The ambiguity made it easy to rationalize. I told myself it was just this thing between friends that had happened that may or may not exist when I got back. Simple. Temporary. Right? I convinced myself it was. A hug, a kiss, an appraisal from heavily lidded eyes equally as exhausted as mine: the last goodbye.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just checking you out.”

And I convinced myself I would not miss him.

The next day was mostly sleeping, catching up from what had easily been a quarter’s worth of partying forced into three short weeks. My last day in the United States was filled with family, food, and goodbyes I’d already done before. My family was already used to me leaving. This part was easy.

I maintained my emotional vacancy all the way to the security checkpoint, where I hugged my mother goodbye and tried to keep it as brief and casual as possible, if not for her benefit, than for mine. I knew eventually the brick wall of apathy I’d constructed around these goodbyes would crumble and crush me, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Or maybe Wednesday’s.


By 8:45am, Friday morning, I was in the air on my way to Miami.

Now for someone as brash and forward as I am, I am obnoxiously polite to strangers. This meant a morning full of overzealous “excuse me” and “pardon me” as I made my way to my seat on the first leg of my flight. The flight itself was relatively uneventful, though I took the last open space in the overhead bins on my crowded flight and felt like an asshole.

I arrived in Miami at two in the afternoon Pacific Time, which meant five in the evening Miami time. My connecting flight was scheduled to leave at 8pm but, due to “technical difficulties” and one missing captain, did not depart until 12:30 in the morning.

So here I sat, sleep deprived, contemplative, and immensely thirsty. I didn’t have the balls to ask the flight attendant for another water bottle, nor did I have the superhuman ability to sleep on airplanes, so my head cocked mindlessly against the window watching the Boeing 777 chase the dawn.

There was something eerily reflective about racing the sun. We flew in dark indigo skies, high above the clouds, littered with nothing more than the bright lights of already dead stars. Was this what heaven looked like without humans? The looming sunrise painted a grey-blue gradient on the horizon, ending in a lighter sky blue that, I could only assume, is where day began.

To my right sat a woman that I’d barely spoken two sentences to, and yet I deem her worthy to write about because after a seven hour layover, she still had endless smiles and warmth to offer the strung out looking college student formerly known as me.

My mind attempted to swim in thoughts my body had become too tired to comprehend, so I sat in an uneasy static. My spine ached with the twists and turns of failure in trying to find a comfortable position to rest in. The clock said we had about four hours until landing. With no WiFi, a nearly dead iPod, and no hope of sleep, I allowed my mind to wander…

It wandered to stray songs that had lost their way and become stuck in my head. It wandered to thoughts of the coming day ahead. What would I do first? Sleep, the exhausted breath inside my head whispered. I brushed it aside and forced myself to think logistically: taxi to the hotel, check-in, settle, gym at some point (if for no other reason than to pretend I wasn’t about to gain 10 pounds indulging in Spanish wine and tortillas for three months)…but yes, I conceded to the voice in my head, sleep, too. Soon.

And whether my mind merely went blank or I finally succeeded in sleeping, the hustle of people around me brought me back to attention.

           Hola, por favor quedarse en sus asientos hasta que el avión ha parado completamente.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Madrid.

Sincerely, Spanglish: Introduction

It had been one of the first things I knew about college.

“You’ll have to go abroad,” my mom had said, “I never went, and I regret it daily.”

With this impending expectation, leaving the country for 3-4 months for the pursuit of education and cultural expansion was as mandatory as lackluster GE classes. I had scheduled it into my academic career since my inception, penciled in for fall quarter of my junior year because, well, I don’t know. Just because.

That time was now.

Given my Spanish minor and my obsession with the culture, Spain had been an obvious choice. Cal Poly Global had been a less obvious choice, but still an easy one. All my units were directly transferrable, I’d be on a quarter system, which meant I could stay in SLO for WOW Week, and we would be living in a city little known to tourists and the pollution of American culture. We were told almost no one spoke English and we’d be intensely and adequately immersed. It was ideal.

As the news came out, and even more so as my departure approached, people asked me how I felt. Was I excited? Was I nervous? Did I think I’d fall in love with a Spanish man? My simple response:

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it.”

This was true. I’d given little to no thought to the three-month excursion from everything familiar I was about to embark on. I’d done little to no research, and had done absolutely minimal studying for the expansive map test I would have to take upon my arrival (though in my defense, minimal studying happens on my part regardless of where I am).

In fleeting moments, I would feel something. Panic, in one instant, when I realized that if for some reason I loathed this experience I was still trapped in it for three months. Excitement, in others, when I realized that I would be completely anonymous halfway around the world from all the chaos that seemed to cling to my skin like a scent I couldn’t shake despite my best efforts.

Spain didn’t excite me so much as escape did. At one point in my life, I had been a pillar. I had been a source of consistency and strength for people who had needed me. Now, with no attachments, no responsibilities, and a clear conscience, I’d become flighty. I lived in a state of restlessness, a permanent craving for stimulation, for something that made me feel…anything really. So leaving the country in the throes of not only political and moral chaos, but also in the midst of my own personal and romantic chaos was not only perfect, it felt mandatory for my very sanity. Because if you’re going to run from your problems, why not do it in a beautiful country, surrounded by strangers and paella?

The next bombardment of questions came in the form of: how will you communicate with us? Personally, I’d be content disappearing for three months and going of the grid entirely. Those who loved me were not as fond of the idea.

Family requested emails, my mother requested limitless pictures—knowing fair well that the request would be ignored; I had never been a huge picture person. I would have to document my trip in some way, if not for the benefit of my dear mother than possibly for sheer reflection later in life when things had become even duller than they already were.

Then, as fate or some other entity would have it, an email found its way to my inbox. A representative from a website I’d read frequently sought a team of 15-25 personally selected writers to cultivate and grow their skills in a group setting. I imagine it was the equivalent for young writers on this site of something we used to have in school called LEAP or GATE.

It then occurred to me, if I was to be writing weekly articles anyways, why not selfishly, conceitedly, and completely conveniently make them all about me and my foreign existential crisis?

And so dear readers, random Facebook companions, my supervisor, and my mother: as I embark on this journey that will supposedly “change my life,” I invite you to follow me week-by-week as I document it the only way I seem to know how: writing.

Everyone Shut the Fuck Up For a Second

I hear a lot of talking.

Whether it be in the form of Facebook posts, Twittering, bar fights, or baseball caps with slogans printed on them. Everyone has a gigantic stick up their ass, a big ego, and a loud mouth, paired with an audacity to ask, “where did we go wrong?”

I’ve done my part to stay out of politics. Not because I am uneducated, uninterested, or unmotivated. But staying out, staying away from the news (despite being a Journalism major), and staying un-opinionated (on politics, not life) has given me something I feel a lot of you “LOOK AT ME, I KNOW THINGS” people seem to lack: perspective.

My mother has never been one for strong political views. My father probably was, but he dropped dead before I could hit puberty and give a shit, so I’ve grown up in what we’ll call a rather uninfluenced environment.

I’ve been born and raised in the Bay, where diversity runs rampant, but spent my “politically formative” years of college in what seems to be the rich-white person capital of the world. I talk a lot, I think a lot, but underneath all the bells & whistles of my exuberant personality…I’ve been watching. I’ve been listening.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

  1. Americans truly think social media matters. Okay, partially yes. It has become a platform for communication, education, connection, etc. Believe me, I get a nice little ego-boost when I tweet something sassy and gain publicity from it as well. But it seems like social media has become the end-all-be-all not only for politics, but for society. Like ISIS is going to see you changing your profile picture to a flag and be like, “Oh yea. That’s the one. That’s the profile picture that shows me what I did was wrong, and I will stop now.” I mean honestly, people seem to be more focused on Instagram likes and YouTube subscribers than, I dunno, maybe being half way decent? Than maybe actually getting involved? Actually donating? Actually thinking of solutions? What?Here’s a thought: maybe aim to have as many educational, well-processed thoughts as you do likes on your “finsta,” so you can add something to this society you claim to care about other than good contour and fake thigh gaps.
  2. There has become a beautification of mental illness. Yippy skippy, let’s all accept ourselves. WAHOO! It’s cool that mental illness is becoming more talked about, really. I remember being a little girl and being told I could NOT talk about my dad’s alcoholism because it was taboo. It was shameful. It was something those outside the family could never know…and that sucked. It sucked because I needed help and support and I was told not to talk about it. But I swear to fucking God, if I have to see one more BuzzFeed or Odyssey or whatever article about “10 Ways to Love Someone with Anxiety” or “5 Ways to Talk to Someone With Depression,” I am going to fucking lose it. Here’s a secret: those of us who are ACTUALLY fucked up, don’t think it’s great. In fact, we spend the entirety of our lives trying to get UN-fucked up. You’ll never see me posting “7 Ways to Be Friends With the Girl With a Dead Dad” because I don’t give a fuck. My shit is my shit. My issues are my issues. Do we need to educate people on mental illness? Yes. Is it good that it’s something being talked about? Yes. But it is NOT something you take a cute lil quiz about on Thought Catalog. It is NOT something that everyone around you should have to change their lives for YOUR comfort. YOUR shit is YOUR shit. YOU handle it. Asking everyone to baby you and say special words to make you feel safe isn’t going to help you, I promise. The best way to combat mental illness is to sack up, and keep going. The world does not stop spinning merely because you’re in pain. Tough pill, I know. Swallow it.
  3. What the fuck happened to basic manners? People. Seriously. Please and thank you. Like, if the two syllables in “thank you” are too much time for you to take out of your day, I have good news! It can be shortened to “thanks!” It’s not that hard. It just baffles me, because I’m a total asshole. Like, a full blown, no filter, very little sympathy asshole, and I still manage to find it in my cold little heart to FUCKING SAY PLEASE AND THANK YOU. And to smile at strangers. And say excuse me. And to not mean-mug every other girl I see, like god damn. All you have to do is be halfway decent to other people. HALF. NOT EVEN FULL, HALF. CIVIL. POLITE. HALF. It’s really too much energy to be (and teach your kids to be) HALFWAY DECENT?
  4. Everyone thinks they’re right, and you all sound the same amount of stupid. You. Yes, you. Sharing your conspiracy theories and “NowThis” clips on Facebook. You look just as stupid an uneducated as the side you are so vehemently against. Creating circular arguments on Facebook is never educational, only entertaining. And why? For the same reason “fail” videos, spoof cartoons, and “Impractical Jokers” are popular: people like to see other people look like idiots. So while you think you’re the next SJW with your 8 page long Facebook attack on *insert candidate or policy here,* the only attention you’re getting are those arguing against you, and those laughing at you.

The wrap-up: You probably read this thinking it would be about Trump or Hillary. Wrong. Like I said before, I don’t keep up with the nitty gritty of politics, I keep up with the nitty-gritty of people. Back to when I called you all audacious, asking “where did we go wrong?” The answer, to me at least, is plain as day. We need merely to be halfway decent to one another, create a community again, and it’s just that simple. You cannot advocate peace, and then engage in unbacked political arguments on Facebook. You cannot be against Trump’s racist policies, and then exhibit racism in your own life. Look in the damn mirror, and change YOUR life instead of expending energy yelling at everyone who disagrees with you.  We are headed for a boat load of shit. Like, shit is about to go down. And when that time comes, we are going to need decent, open-minded people way more than we will ever need Instagram models and Facebook fights. There IS an “us” and a “them,” but it is not “Hillary” and “Trump.” It is not “African Americans” and “police officers.” It is those who will fight, love, and support when the time comes, and those who are going to be part of the problem. Choose your side.

Loyalty: Worthy Of A Blowjob

My Fellow Peers,

Once again, you have pissed me the fuck off. Only this time, it’s about your relationship standards. Now, obviously this doesn’t apply to all people my age, and can even apply to some outside our generation. But my middle finger is pointed at you.


Because I just read something on Twitter that suggested a man deserves a congratulatory blowjob for being LOYAL TO HIS GIRLFRIEND.

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I’m sorry, what? You deserve a prize for literally meeting THE MINIMUM STANDARD OF A RELATIONSHIP?!

All the gifts, dates, dinner, sexual favors are extra. Sure. If your man shows up with flowers or does some other sweet extra shit, or even if you’re just feeling friendly, go for it. Give out those BJs like you’re god damn Oprah.

You can even be like, hey. I am grateful and appreciative of how well you treat me. Allow me to gift you with oral sex. Fine.


That’s the same as being like, “wow babe, you didn’t punch me in the face today! You’re such a keeper! Here’s some sex!”


(Side note: does not apply to fuckbuddy/FWB relationships. Those are lawless, open-field battle zones. Enter with caution. There are no rules.)

  2. RESPECT. Like, not calling your significant other derogatory terms in a serious way or hitting them or making them have sex with you against their will. Dating does not equate a free-for-all vagina buffet NOR does it equate some unspoken “I can say whatever I want about/to you because we’re in a relationship” clause. If you do not respect the person you are dating…just WHY?! WHY.
  3. THE BROKEN TV METAPHOR: Why do you people lead me to preach like I’m fucking 80 when I am 19. Allow me to get into character *clears throat* Baaaaack in my day, when something was broken, you fixed it. You didn’t run out an buy a new one. You worked hard, and you fixed it.

    HERE’S A PSA, KIDS: RELATIONSHIPS ARE WORK. LOYALTY IS WORK. COMMITMENT IS WORK. It’s not easy. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always the “honeymoon stage” where your partner shits rainbows and the sex is great and everything is hunky-dory. LOYALTY+RESPECT+WORK+COMMUNICATION= BASICS OF A RELATIONSHIP