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In 6th grade I wanted a rose tattoo on my left ankle. I never participated in the spaghetti-strap-midiff-showing white trash chic days of the early 2000’s, so I don’t know how that thought came to be. Maybe I just watched Britney Spears in “Crossroads” fifteen too many times. 

Fast forward 12 years (holy shit I was in 6th grade 12 years ago?! I still remember where my locker is) and now I have a “black pussy on my back.” Which was exactly how the tattoo artist phrased it once he finished. Not like cartoon rounded Halloween cat, it’s realistically portioned.  If you Pintrest search “cat tattoos” the one I have is usually pretty close to the top. It’s a filled in black silhouette of a cat walking. I wonder if I am bad luck to everyone that walks behind me.

Why a cat? I grew up with cats, I’ve been surrounded by cats my entire life. Not in an aggressive hoarder way, just in a, I like them so much I cry every time I go to PetSmart, way. Don’t get me confused with being Katy Perry level cat crazy though. I don’t dress up like Bratz Doll pet. I’m about one degree lower at Taylor Swift level cat crazy where I treat them like people and demand they have to right to vote.

I got it on the left side of my back, two fingers below my bra strap. It’s perfect because my skin right there won’t stretch when I inevitably get knocked up for being so shitty at taking my bitch control pill, but I can still lean side to side and make the cat skinny or fat. When you put your hard over your head and lean to the side, you know how you get little back fat skin rolls? Think of those little rolls as Honey Boo Boo’s mom’s chin-neck mass. My cat tat rests perfectly on the outside of little skin hill. It doesn’t get smashed up in a valley.

I used to be anti-tattoos, but that’s because I was way too into watching MSCBC lock-up week. I called paper airplanes “kites” and developed an irrational fear that all tattoo ink was inclusive of urine from Russian inmates. I was also afraid of needles, but then I realized there were bigger issues in the world to worry about like making sure I got all 5 pieces of my 5 piece chicken nuggets.

Getting a tattoo was a very surreal experience. Similar to going to the dentist, the buzzing sound is what really gets the Jaws theme song going in your head. It was warm and vibrated too much to really hurt. There were brief moments of sharp stinging, similar to popping a back zit. But at the same time I have drawn on my arms with milky gel roller pens that hurt more than getting a tattoo.

Now I want another, of what I do not know. Everything I like as much as cats is food: ranch dressing, pineapple pizza, rice pilaf, mashed potatoes… and I don’t want my back looking like a takeout menu. 



Seeking: Friends With Benefits

There’s a 90% chance I don’t have health insurance right now. Seriously considering marrying someone with a solid dental and vision plan. See,  I left my receptionist job in June so I could have the summer to shoot “Walk of Shame Shuttle” for Vh1. We aren’t filming 24/7 though, so right now I have some time off between cities. It’s kind of like being home sick with the flu, but instead of sleeping all day and puking my brains out, I’m sleeping all day and just bored out of my mind. I’m trying super hard to keep myself entertained, 5-year-old style complete with paint by numbers and invisible friends, but it’s harder than a dick in the red light district. I’m lingering in Ann Arbor like a chick waiting to see if her one-night-stand will make her pancakes.

The only thing I’m missing from being a TLC special about those 500-pound people that can’t leave their house is the weight part. I haven’t worn an actual bra with straps on it about two weeks, I moved my mattress into the living room where I take all my meals, and I’ve stopped wearing clothes so I don’t have to do laundry. I’ll just throw a sheet over myself, I’m seriously a toe tag away from being a body double for CSI. 

Currently I’m working on a Home Tour of Movie Stars in Ann Arbor, only instead of Movie Stars it’s houses with cats, and instead of people coming to the tour, it’s just myself and a water bottle of vodka mixed with tears. 

I totally understand why Lizzie on Real Housewives of Orange County has a swimwear line and why Lynn, from like 5 seasons ago, spent her days gluing rhinestones to cuffs and selling them for $169. With each passing day a sustainable swimwear line for cats sounds better and better. Direct message me to get in on this new business venture at the ground floor.

I don’t want anyone to come over because I’m afraid if I sneeze in their general direction they will catch my unemployment. After I watch too many episodes of Law and Order in one sitting I’m afraid to leave my apartment. Like I’ll get mugged for my Nike’s and end up in the hospital with a $3,000 bill I can’t pay. I stopped caring for Canada after I turned 21 (you can drink there at 18) but this free healthcare shit would really take a load off. My future child’s inability to run for president is a small price to pay compared to a free epidural. 

Hopefully I’ll be filming again soon because the most productive thing I have done today is refill my Brita water pitcher and my anticipation level to do it again in a couple hours is alarmingly high.



When my guy friend said he’s into girls with a “natural look, like Kim Kardashian”



Sorry! Sorry!

I pinkie promise I am not done writing. Remember that little YouTube video I made a couple years ago, The Walk of Shame Shuttle? Well my business idea got a little attention, and now it’s going to be a TV show. Premiering on VH1 this November. Been a busy busy bee filming the rides, having girl talk, and getting sassy on the guys calling girls bitches- which is a disappointingly large quantity of them. Don’t worry, I kicked them out. 



Spin Wars Episode 2: Attack of My Thighs

My summer shorts don’t fit. Luckily I live in Michigan so there is a pretty good chance we are going to skip summer as a whole and belly flop right into fall, so my strictly leggings uniform hasn’t been an issue. But in the off chance the weather is ever above 40 degrees for more than a day, I would like some apparel options.

With an hourly “job” I can only afford to buy either new shorts or enough wine to casually drink 5 nights a week. Casual drinking of course refers to drinking boxed white wine with 2 ice cubes, in yoga pants, usually by yourself, trying to guess your neighbor’s Wi-Fi password so you can sync your iPhone Candy Crush to your Facebook Candy Crush. When I get drunk enough I ride the elevator for an hour trying to make friends with people in my apartment building. If I learned anything in college it was that the easiest way to make new friends is doing alcohol together, followed up by an insincere compliment on an obvious physical trait like shoes or hair color. Needless to say I have made no new friends in adult life.

Right across from said apartment is one of those pretentious downtown gyms where they only offer spin, Pilates, and $10 organic smoothies with some hormone free, grass fed, fruits and shit. I am also pretty sure all the trainers model for Athleta (Gap’s half-assed attempt at Lululemon) on the side. Which I usually hate, but I stole a ton of free class fliers from the lobby, so I am going to put my feelings aside like a single girl at midnight on New Year’s Eve and just fucking go for it.

The last place I took a spin class was Powerhouse Gym down the road from my parents’ house. It was one of those awkward summers in college where one house’s lease goes up in May, and you can’t move back to campus until your new lease starts in August somewhere else. I was the youngest one in the class, everyone else was a fat dad or MILF looking to lose the baby weight and kill some time before she could get back to drinking nine months’ worth of missed white wine. Once you get over feeling of sweating so much you feel like you’re peeing yourself, spin can actually be fun.

When I walked into the spin studio I felt more left out than I did in 6th grade when boys snapped girls’ bras, and a boy went to snap mine but I wasn’t wearing one. All the girls had on trendy spandex tank tops with straps more complicated than a 90’s friendship bracelets. I am also pretty sure none of them had gained a pound since their original weight of 8 pounds 10 ounces back in 1992. I understand that some girls are just naturally super skinny, with crazy metabolisms that make them poop 12 times a day, but I am just not one of those girls.

If I wanted someone to call me skinny I would have to eat only turkey sandwiches with lite mayo every day for at least 2 months, which I actually did senior year for spring break. But after college there is no week long all-inclusive finish line in Punta Cana to look forward to. Now, the only motivation to get you through the Master Cleanse and 60 minute elliptical workouts is a family history of alcoholism and fear of diabetes because you get dizzy at 2:30 PM without a snack. So I have given up eating like a pigeon in Central Park during the recession, where the little old ladies have no bread crumbs to throw because Obama took away social security to make a RoboCop statute or whatever.

From now on I am working out just enough to enjoy guilt-free the occasional endless soup, salad, and breadsticks lunch at The Garden. Just enough to make sure my shorts fit, in case a tornado rips through Ann Arbor and Ryan Gosling visits to do disaster charity work and the only clothes left in the rubble are my shorts because all my sundresses got sucked up like the cows in *Twister.

*Great, great film.  



V DAY: The D Day of my Heart

For the first time ever, I had a proper Valentine’s Day. Which I inevitably ruined, as I often do with proper things- I woke up naked in my bathtub, but I’ll get to that in a little.  My last “real” Valentine’s Day was my freshman year of college where I had dinner at 10 PM and received flavored lube for a gift. To this day I cannot eat anything blueberry flavored. 

At 5:30 we had a fancy grown up dinner where I successfully followed The Millionaire Matchmaker’s rule of 2 drink max and at no point unbuttoned my pants to eat more. Then we went to a special v-day “Paint and Pour” class.  Background: Paint and Pour is a 2 hour art class where a hipster who stores paint brushes in his beard teaches participants for $35 how to paint a sunset with primary colors while getting blind drunk on boxed wine. It was like art school senior year all over again.

Here my friends, is where the trouble began. Class ended at 10:00 PM and we went back to our apartment where the boyf put on “House of Cards.” The only way you could get me to watch that overrated Netflix series is if it had a double cross over (a criss cross over?) with Scandal, The West Wing, and I was drinking champagne with the Real Housewives of Orange County. Sorry I’m not sorry. So I left and went to my sister’s house party. Since I’m as old as King Tut’s balls I didn’t exactly fit in. I missed the memo on wearing skirts as dresses and arrived in yoga pants, a sports bra, and a shirt with a giant glittery heart that said “SO OVER IT.”

I argued with some guys born in 1992 that they can’t be 21 when they looked 13 and sucked at beer pong. Did a celeb shot. Missed. Once I realized they actually were 21, I just suck at math, I ran away. I carried around a bag of wine. Did Jell-O shots by some pictures of One Direction alone in a corner. How many shots you ask? Enough to blackout mid walk home and take 123 selfies in U of M’s diag. Enough to get lost in a parking structure that did not belong to my apartment building. Enough to think it was a good idea to deposit $80 in cash at a street ATM. Enough to apparently stand in long line at a pizza place, pay in exact cash, and then sit alone in a booth to eat it.

It’s maybe a 25 minute walk from my sister’s house to my apartment. I took me an 2 hours. My boyfriend thought I was kidnapped. If I am ever kidnapped there is a 90% chance they would be like, “oh fuck this, she is too annoying and keeps changing the radio station,” and then drop me off at a McDonalds.





Cupcake Vineyard’s “Red Velvet” wine tastes less like cupcakes and more like Jesus



How my friends and I say goodbye

Person 1:
Cya later masterbator
Person 2:
After while pedophile



Things I Miss About Living With Girls

Senior year of college I lived in “Jokeland” (because the street was Oakland and our lives were, and still are, complete jokes) and junior year I lived in “Whore Island” (think Anchorman). Then there was sophomore year when I lived in a Co-Op. All I can say about that is there was a guy who made pictures in the shower out of his hair, that pretty much sums that up year. I will lay in traffic Notebook style at rush hour before I make a list of this I miss about living in a Co-Op.

I spent the last year living with boyfriend and his two roommates, five days a week. I am 75% sure that 100% of their apartment was coated in a thin layer of urine and Coors Light. Now I live with just my boyfriend. We share an apartment and hopefully a kitten that I will name Squiggles and inevitably love more than him.  It’s great most of the time, not worrying that someone else will drink my $5 gallon of wine, but other times I miss menstrual fueled fights and spontaneous Wicked dance parties that result in tears and a general lack of pants.

Boom, things I miss about my junior and senior year living situation (lylas betches):

  1. Passive-aggressive bubble letter notes around the house about cleaning your dishes and locking the front door
  2. No one admitting they clogged the toilet and then calling the landlord to come unclog it for $50
  3. Kitchen cupboards with “light” or “100 calorie pack” snacks that are still there when you move out at the end of the year
  4. Only supplying liquor at house parties because no one knows how to tap a keg
  5. Creating Facebook events for house-only activities like making a back massage line
  6. Flickering power and blown fuses at 9 PM on Friday nights from all the plugged in blow driers, curlers, and hair straighteners
  7. Creating an email group to bitch out your roomies for breaking the zipper on the dress she borrowed without asking
  8. Spending Valentine’s Day sitting in a circle, sipping $4 champagne out of curly straws, and drinking every time someone rattled off an ex’s annoying quirk or general statement about men
  9. Peeing with the door open
  10. Peeing with 5 other girls in the bathroom
  11. The toilet seat always being down, but never having toilet paper
  12. Staying in on Saturday night to watch a Degrassi marathons and do paint by numbers or color fuzzy Lisa Frank posters
  13. Never knowing which ugg boots, in the pile of ugg boots by the door, are yours, because unlike your bra’s you all wear the same size shoes
  14. Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, and Beyoncé dance parties
  15. Being that one roommate that never bought her own shampoo / conditioner / razor, and strategically used everyone else’s instead #sorryimnotsorry
  16. Having a gym buddy to use the elliptical next to you so you can text each other what guys you call fictional dibs on while you make sidelong glances at how many calories she’s burned 
  17. Making up reasons to make t-shirts
  18. Living room story time taking turns reading aloud the “steam reads” in the back of Cosmo, complete with making different voices and giggling
  19. Power hours to Disney soundtracks



Beauities and the Beast aka Bitches and the Bachelor

"Happy JUAN-uary" and pictures of car thermometers in negative degree range clog my newsfeed like a NASCAR port-o-potty. Don’t get me wrong, 2013 was a great year- I found my retainers from 2004 and Apple put the headphone jack on the bottom of the iPhone- so I am a pretty happy lady, but 2014 is shaping up to rival my drunk Taco Bell order in epicness.

Now maybe this is the Miller Lite I’m drinking through a straw talking, or maybe it’s the half bottle of Red Velvet wine (which, by the way, tastes more like Jesus than it does cupcakes), but I am feeling rather emotional about The Bachelor. Good job ABC on another super diverse season, with racially ambiguous Sharleen and the token redhead, Kylie, who has already been eliminated. Really ABC? Out of all the gingers with visible eyebrows you just had to pick the one that doesn’t know her own goddamn name.

Hearing, I had no idea how hard this was going to be, is like watching Taylor Swift’s reaction to every award she wins. Really, you had no idea? Take a break from your job as a hairstylist and watch some Hulu. You will be living in a house with 24 other girls, no Wi-Fi, and you will all be making out with the same guy for about three months. Fuck endless supplies of booze, I want an endless supply of mouthwash. My favorite girls are the ones that say they aren’t the jealous type. What that really means is, I plan on maintaining a steady champagne buzz to ensure I give zero fucks about what is happening around me.

I didn’t come here to make friends. I hope you didn’t come here to get laid either. I am pretty sure you can get away with some over the pants stuff though, they always have blankets over their laps. So enjoy that flashback to high school when you thought you could get pregnant from dry humping. However, if you did come to ride in a helicopter and rappel off something you’re in the right place (they are always fucking rock climbing on shit that’s not rocks).

I came here to find loveWell you’re an idiot. With 25 girls and only 1 guy you are more likely to catch a strain of HPV, than one man’s affection. If you want to find love then visit to your local humane society. The only living thing that will love you after you brief stint on The Bachelor is a dog. Good luck dating anyone outside of the “Bachelor Family” cult that will take you seriously after you quit your job to wear a prom dress for a 32-year-old man.

Spare me the, thank you for the experience; I learned so much about myself, speech everyone gives in the elimination limo. The only “risk” you’re taking to be a contestant on reality TV is how you’re going to explain your job lapse to a future employer. Nowhere in the lyrics to “Live Like You Were Dying” does it say, “I went skydiving, I went rocky mountain climbing, I was eliminated in the second rose ceremony on the 18th season of The Bachelor.” If you want a real life changing experience get blackout drunk and try to find your way out of an IKEA.

My money’s on the music composer. If only she played an instrument that fit in the limo she could’ve had an entrance like a normal 23-year-old ready to be a stepmom. Should’ve gotten out of the limo blowing a phallic instrument, like a flute, and ABC’s viewership wouldn’t be the only thing on the rise.