Category Archives: fear and loathing



Writing this post is making me anxious, which is funny, because I’m writing about anxiety. I guess it’s funny in a Big Bang Theory way; I know I’m supposed to find it funny, and I don’t find it not funny, I’m just not laughing. That kind of funny.

I’m usually really upfront when it comes to writing about my personal life, as evidenced here and here and here. So I don’t know why this is so particularly difficult, but it is.

I suffer from anxiety. And it’s not the big things in life that make me anxious, like death or anything. Though I do get very, very anxious about my future and money.

No, it’s the little things, like…sigh…parking. Parking is the gigantic steel thorn in my soft sensitive side. If I go anywhere, the first thing I think about is parking.

And now that I’ve moved, it’s even worse. Because where I used to live, I had a guaranteed space behind my apartment. Now, I have street parking. And while I have a guest pass (until I get my parking sticker), which means I can park anywhere on the street, I am still terribly anxious, because the guest pass is only good for my block, which is about the length of a pixie cut. And if all the spaces are taken, I’m kinda outta luck. I’m afraid to leave my house. Thankfully, I work from home. But sometimes, I have meetings. And that means I have to give up my space. And that’s like asking me to die. It sounds so overdramatic — and I hate that word — and it is, and I know it is, but I also don’t, cannot possibly know.

It’s about the loss of control. I can’t control a guaranteed space on my block, the same as I can’t control my future and everything in my life, blah blah, therapist shit. I know that part. I know it’s not just the space. But it’s also the space. If I leave, there may not be a space when I get back. And then what? What will I do then? I get a horrible image of me driving around Los Angeles for hours, searching for a space that isn’t permit parking or street cleaning. I’m envious of South Park characters for their, “ample parking day and night”.

I’m a fucking mess over a parking space.

This is illogical, I know. And believe me, I’ve had people say to me, “Are you fucking kidding, get over it.” But when you suffer from anxiety and the things I do, it’s not that easy. I would love to be a normal person who doesn’t feel like they’re controlled by a parking space. I feel like a motherfucking alien who just landed on Earth and is learning the ways of its people. On Saturn, parking is everywhere, Earthlings. What have you done?

I know there are people in this world far worse off than I am. I’m not suggesting I have it the worst. I live in beautiful Los Angeles with great friends. I have both legs. Both legs! I have a fantastic boyfriend.

But I also have a flawed mind. My brain is out to get me. It finds things no one else would be anxious about, and it multiplies them. And it won’t leave me alone. It goes something like this:

BRAIN: “Did you put on the parking brake?”

ME: “Yes, of course, I always do.”

BRAIN: “But what if you didn’t this time?”

ME: “That doesn’t make sense, Brain, I always do. Ever since that accident.”

(Long story short, we lived on Mulholland Dr. when I was a kid, and the neighbors above us on the hill didn’t put on their parking brake and their truck rolled down the hill which crashed into a tree which crashed into our breakfast nook window where we were eating dinner. My brother fell to the floor. If I hadn’t gotten up to go to the bathroom, I could have died, as I was sitting right in front of the window. That story wasn’t very short, sorry.)

BRAIN: “But what if you didn’t, and your car crashed back into the car behind you which crashes into the car behind that one which crashes into the car behind that one and before you know it, you’ve ruined Los Angeles?”


BRAIN: “No, you.”


(Looks in window, parking brake is up.)

ME: “See? Told you, Brain, it’s FINE.”

BRAIN: “Get in the car.”


BRAIN: “Get in the car and make sure.”



ME: “What?”


And it goes on. And I get in the car. And the brake is fine. And I leave the car. And I go back to the car again, just to make sure.

I know, okay, I know: it’s just parking. It’s not possible that I’ll be driving around for hours without a place to park. That’s not how life works. Maybe that kind of shit happens to Werner Herzog, but not to me. I’m just a girl, standing in front of the Internet, asking it to love her.


Who else has anxiety? How do you cope? Let’s use this post to help each other.

Photo by me, via Instagram, @apocalypstick.

Follow me on Twitter | Facebook


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

10 Things That Will End A Relationship Before It Begins

Actress Sophia Loren humorously berating her husband, movie producer Carlo Ponti, while dining in restaurant. Alfred Eisensteadt

Relationships are hard. So hard, that sometimes we destroy them before they even come to be. We’re just so excited about this new person, this new prospect, that we just want to jump to the end where everyone is happy and in love. And in doing that, we ruin the whole thing. If this hasn’t happened to you yet, keep doing what you’re doing and avoid doing these things. And to those who have done one, or some, or all of these things — I feel you. I really do.

Here are 10 things that will end a relationship before it begins.

10. Being available all the time.

jason segal gif

If you’re available a lot, that’s fine. But don’t let anyone know that. You want people (and not just people you want to date and have sexy times with) to think that you’ve got a life full of important and fabulous things to do. And if you’ve got too much time on your hands, then find something to do. Clean your apartment. Make plans to see that friend you haven’t seen in years — and actually do it. Make your own schedule.

Continue reading


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

Lying about having a boyfriend.

benicio del toro vogue


Two days ago I lied about having a boyfriend. I don’t do this, ever. This is one of those things I do not like to do. I do not want to feel like I have to lie about having a boyfriend to get out of an uncomfortable situation. Before I get to this story, here is an example of a situation in which I could have lied about having a boyfriend but I didn’t.

I was in Las Vegas in May, walking around with some of my dearest blogger friends, when we were approached by two men. One guy went right up to a friend of mine; the other went to me. This man stopped me and said, “Can I ask you three questions and you answer honestly?”

“Does this one count?” I deadpanned. He paused. He didn’t get it. So he asked again, “Can I ask you three questions and you answer honestly?”

When in Vegas, right? “Okay,” I said.

“One. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Really? “No,” I said.

Immediately he got right up into my face. “Two. Do you find me attractive?”

Without hesitation I said, “No.”

That got him to step back. “No?”


“But it’s my birthday.”

And then, because I’m too polite, I actually felt bad for the guy, and wanted to apologize, even though he was the one who invaded my personal space. I asked to see his ID for proof, as if that even mattered, as if it even mattered if he was lying about his stupid birthday. I think that was my way of apologizing, somehow. He showed it to me for about two seconds. “Look,” I said, “It’s not very attractive when a man gets in front of your face and demands to know if you think he’s attractive.”

“It’s fine. I was just asking.”

“What would have happened if I said yes?”

My friend told me. I guess her guy was more attractive than mine. Turns out, if you say “yes”, the third question is, “What do I have to do to get you to kiss me?” Charming, right?

They eventually walked off, pretty soon after I made it clear that I wasn’t kissing anyone, and the whole event felt kinda weird and icky. “Why didn’t you just tell him you had a boyfriend?” people ask, when they hear this story.

“Because I shouldn’t have to do that. Because I should be able to be strong enough on my own and don’t have to pretend to have a man to provide some sort of imaginary, invisible protection. I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t feel I have to lie about that.”

But two days ago, I did.

There’s a liquor store down the block from me, so yeah, I pop in there pretty often. And not just for liquor. They sell Diet Coke by the can for seventy-five cents. That’s just good business. Because I’m nearby and because I’m in there a lot, the guys who work there have started to recognize my face. They’ve always been nice, helpful guys so it seemed like a bonus to be recognized as a frequent customer.

Once, one of the men working there — and the only one on shift at that time — completely threw me off when he asked me, “Do you live down the street?” I paused. “What?”

“Do you live a few houses down?” Now. I’ve gone over this before. I feel, like many other women, that I suffer from over-politeness/unnecessary apology syndrome. I’ve been breaking out of this (see the above Vegas story.) But once in a while, I don’t think fast enough, and out of fear of hurting someone’s feelings or causing someone to get angry and call me a bitch (not like that matters at all, which I realize, but is part of the whole syndrome), I answered this man with, “Oh, I live very, very far down, a few blocks down.” I didn’t need to do that. I didn’t need to say anything. But because I go there so often and because it seemed like he had an idea of where I lived, I chose to give a half-truth.

“I saw you go into a house right down this street.”

Okay, that was fucking creepy. “No,” I said. “That’s my friend’s house.”


“Yes. I go there a lot.”

And that was the end of it. I remember thinking, damn, I wish I’d specified the gender of this imaginary friend. I wish I’d said, “he” and “his.”

I’m now going to get to the boyfriend thing.

Two days ago, that same guy was working there, but he wasn’t alone, there was one other guy working the counter with him. Everyone was friendly and nice and then one of them (the non creepy one) said, “That guy you’re always in here with, is he your boyfriend or your roommate?”

Immediately I decided that this was not when I wanted to tell the truth. I wanted to lie. Full-on lie.

“He is my boyfriend. I stay over there all the time, so I guess he’s my roommate too!”

Yup, I went for both. Boyfriend and roommate. The guy who asked laughed good-naturedly. But the creepy guy…that wasn’t good enough for him.

“I saw you go into a house two houses down from here,” the creepy guy said.

This really, really bothered me. He knew exactly where I lived, and the way he shared this information did not feel like a fun, conversational “howdy-ho neighborino!” Ned Flanders exchange. This felt weird and I didn’t like it.

“That’s where my boyfriend lives. I stay with him all the time. It’s my boyfriend’s place.”

The bastard wouldn’t let it go. “Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. We live close enough so I am with him all the time. It’s his place. His.” And that’s it, I was fucking done with the conversation.

Now, as for the guy they’re asking about. Not like it matters to the story, but we’re dating. We hang out a lot. Is he my boyfriend? No. Is he my roommate? No. Want to guess what I did as soon as I hurridly walked home?

I texted him, “From now on, whenever we are in [name of store here] you are my boyfriend, we live together, and you have a gun.” I told him the whole story.

“Got it,” he said.

So, because of some weird dude at a liquor store, I felt like I needed to make up a boyfriend. I don’t know if I can go in there again. And unfortunately, for the owner and for me, it’s a good liquor store. Very upscale, huge wine collection, up until now great employees, and they also sell those night-late essentials like toilet paper, and also Advil and coconut water AKA my hangover kit. But I feel like I can’t go back in there without my fake boyfriend. I feel like we have to go in there, arm in arm, talking very loudly about how much in love we are, how I’m moving in, and how he’s a very jealous man with a baseball bat in his car. I wish they sold condoms behind the counter so that we could go up there and I could say, “May I please have a box of condoms, for me and my boyfriend, who is standing right here, for us to use to have sex with? We have sex. Because we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. We’re going to go home to his house and have sex. My boyfriend is going to have sex with me after this. So we’d like to buy some condoms, please, shopkeep.”

I don’t even know if that would deter this creepy guy. I have no idea what he’s thinking. I’m not seriously concerned for my personal safety. I don’t think I am in danger. I think this guy thought I was pretty or whatever and doesn’t know how to talk to women and doesn’t realize that he’s fucking creepy. Or maybe I’m making excuses for him because of the syndrome.

What I know for sure is that I wish I didn’t feel the need to lie. I wish I didn’t feel uncomfortable about the idea of going back there alone. And I really wish this creepy guy didn’t know where I live.

Goddamnit I need a drink.


Photo: Benicio Del Toro and Sara Foster by Bruce Weber for L’Uomo Vogue via


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

my future self.

exercise class

Okay so I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go ’round and ’round but there’s really no wheels aside from the ones in my head and they are spinning. I cannot focus on anything except the wrong things, like how loud this typing sounds and how annoying those goddamn children are next door and how I don’t know if I’m hungry and I think that logically I must be as I haven’t eaten since 11:30 AM and it’s 6 PM now and that I’m not sure if I’m hungry really concerns me. I am completely overwhelmed to the point of just being stuck and unable to move, though clearly I am able to type and get this all out there. Every sound is way too present. They are talking upstairs too. Why are they doing this. Why are they walking around. Just stop and stay in one place. I was walking around too and it was making things worse.

Really, on the outside, everything looks fine and probably is fine. I love to take the fine in life and stretch and contort it into “kind of fine” and then “not very fine” and then “fuck, I’ve ruined my life.” That’s fun. I am getting better at not doing this but on days like these when you see the work piled up, it’s piled in your mind, on your computer, when you see it, you think there is no way I am going to catch up with my future self. I know she’ll be there, because that’s how time works, it is inevitable that at some point I will have made these deadlines and I will come out on the other end and try to use this panic as I reminder to myself that things are never as bad as they seem and that I always pull through but


THESE. GODDAMN. CHILDREN. NEXT. DOOR. Fuck this, I’m done, I can’t write anymore.


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

A woman with curves.

 vintage bathing suits

When men say that they like, “a woman with curves” what they mean is chest curves and ass curves. They don’t mean, “Yes, please have a little tummy that spills over the top of your underwear.” They mean, “I love big boobs.” They don’t mean, “Girl, I love it when you gain 10 pounds and look 5 months pregnant.” (Well, some men want that, but those are not the men I’m referring to. That’s a festish, not the norm.) They mean, “I don’t like a flat nonexistent ass” not “I love it when your thighs ripple and wobble when you walk.” Curvy means a large chest and a tiny waist and a rounded butt. Curvy does not mean a curved lower tummy and armpit fat. Next time you hear a man say he likes a woman with curves, ask him for an example. He’s going to say Kate Upton, not Melissa McCarthy. And I hate that.

There’s so much bullshit out there. Everyone loves to say, “Marilyn Monroe was a size 16.” Yes, that’s in 1960s sizing which has changed over the last 40 years. Today she would be a size 4. Have you seen that girl’s tiny waist? And as she got more famous, she lost more weight. (She briefly gained some when she was pregnant in “Some Like It Hot” but then miscarried.) Look at every film she’s ever done and you will realize that everyone is full of bullshit. She was the “right” kind of curvy. That’s just how sizes were marked. Then vanity sizing was invented creating a generation of confused fucking women.

And then photoshop was invented. Photographers have been touching up photos practically since photography was invented but never to the drastic degree that it is now. People are taking actresses who are already skinny and pretty and are making them tiny and mathematically stunning, and it’s insulting. Look at Kristin Wiig on the cover of “Vanity Fair” this month. “Vanity Fair” are you fucking kidding me? Are we supposed to pretend that’s what she looks like? Why do you hate women? Compare this cover to the “Marie Claire” Kristin Wiig cover from a few months and you’ll see what I mean (Google it.) Seriously, you do this all the time, fuck you, “Vanity Fair.”

A few years ago Mischa Barton gained weight and everyone attacked her, saying things like, “Lose some fucking weight!” How about instead of that, you change your fucking perspective?

I’ve struggled with my weight ever since I’ve hit puberty. I have never been this heavy in my entire life. And I know that when I say that people look at me and say, “Fuck you bitch, I’m 200 pounds, try being me, try getting insulted every fucking day for how I look, I wished I weighed what you do.” I get that. But we all have our own issues, and mine aren’t any more insignificant than yours are, because we’re all battling a common enemy.

I don’t know what we can do to change this. Something’s gotta give. We deserve better than this. We deserve a worldwide acceptence of looking like a person who eats regularly and doesn’t have a personal trainer at their disposal. We deserve to have a woman like Lena Dunham who is proud of her body and doesn’t get trashed by men and women alike for it. I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.

Finally, this is just for my own curiosity: scroll back up and look at the photo of the women in bikinis. Which body do you think is “the best”?


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

Singledom and the holidays.

girl bikini vintage

Full disclosure: this post is sponsored by AZO. Keep it real, ladies.

The holiday express is choo chooing down the track and you either have to hop on or jump in front of it. Hopefully, you jump on it. If you jumped in front of it, you can’t read this anymore. Because you’re dead. Because this is a very literal metaphor. So let’s get you on that train. Here’s the tricky part: are you traveling alone, or with a partner, on the holiday express?

The holidays have a way of making single people feel like they need to be part of a couple. Not even in a deep, serious way; sometimes in a more superficial way, because you need a really hot date to bring to that bangin’ New Year’s Eve party you’ve already decided to go to. I shall not be untruthful: I always want, need, and like to have a date on New Year’s Eve. I don’t know why this is. Maybe I feel like it’s the real people version of The Oscars. Everyone is all dressed up for a big evening ahead, and you know there’s going to be photos taken and making out to be had. Admittedly, I feel “cuffed” to this idea, of needing a date. And they’re emotional handcuffs that I’m putting on myself. They’re cute handcuffs though. The handcuffs are the guy, by the way. In case you didn’t figure that out. Just in case.

But please understand this: I’m not going to scour my Facebook friends list, cell phone contacts, or OKCupid for potential dates. I actually do have limits. If that’s something you do, that’s your thing, go do it. But I’m not at the level where I’m going to call some dude I had sex with once three years ago, breathless, saying, “HI WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO A NEW YEAR’S PARTY WITH ME, IT’S GOING TO BE FUN, I’M BREEZY!” And they’ll say, “Who is this?” And I’ll laugh nervously and say, “OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS, IT’S ALMIE!” And they’ll say, “Almie…it’s November 30th.” And I’ll say, “WELL YOU KNOW HOW QUICKLY SCHEDULES FILL UP AROUND THE HOLIDAYS.” And they’ll say, “Did you just pronounce it ‘shed-u-elles?’ And why are you shouting?” And I’ll say, “I have the wrong number, I was trying to reach Tyler.” And they’ll say, “This is Tyler.” And I’ll say, “Oh, I meant Ryan, bye.” (BTW, Tyler, this is in no way referring to you, I’m referring to The Tyler Technique. Even though, coincidentally, we did spend New Year’s together one year. And your name is Tyler. But it’s not you. Swear. I think you’re swell.)

As far as needing to have a date: it doesn’t matter. If you focus on the parts of the holidays that matter, like giving and love and gingerbread lattes or whatever, you’ll be just fine. I know this. We all know this. We just can’t forget it.

Does anyone else have these, “Oh no, it’s the holidays and I’m single” feelings? If you do, how do get over it?

Ladies, read the rest more info on AZO. Or guys too, whatever, it’s just not going to apply to you, and may cause confusion and fear.

Continue reading


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook

Why OKCupid is terrible.

fred astaire barri chase hollywood film set

Disclaimer because this post will probably upset people: to the guys I’ve been out with on OKC lately, who are probably not even reading this, this doesn’t refer to you, so calm the fuck down, even though you pretend you don’t care, but you totally do, because all anyone wants is to be flattered, especially on the Internet. This post is about OKC and my experience with it in general, not the exceptions.

I am tired of doing this. I am tired of dating. Tired of OKCupid dating, mostly. I can’t. This is getting ridiculous. Guys, hot tip: if you don’t look like Chris Pine, do not use the photo that someone took of you on that one day where the lighting was just right and you looked, for once in your life, like Chris Pine for two seconds. Especially do not use it as your main profile photo. You have to let us know right away if you’re ugly. (And maybe you’re not actually ugly, maybe you’re just picking terrible photos that you think are flattering.) And here’s the thing, before you yell at me: I have very specific, crazy standards. Most of the guys I consider ugly are men that most people consider attractive. So don’t get angry with me, like I just sent you an email saying, “Hi, ______, I was just looking you up online and you are ugly.” No. And I’ve been called ugly. And I get it. I look like Mick Jagger. I get this. I have a weird face. Some people consider my weird face weird enough to somehow work and be beautiful. Other people see my face and think that nothing works and it’s a mess and that it’s ugly. And that’s fine. I don’t give a fuck.

Everyone tells me to change my standards. No. How about you stop being ugly? Why the fuck should I change my standards? If you don’t like my standards, then don’t date me. Find someone else who sees you and wants you for you who are. I like men who look like this. Or this. And this. I do not like men who look like this. Or this. And those last two men are men that lots of women think are insanely attractive. See? I’m not asking for Ryan Reynolds-Gosling. That isn’t my type. Do you get what I’m saying here?

Be thin. Yeah, sucks to conform to the same standards we’ve had to deal with for years, doesn’t it? Go fuck yourself. Be thin. Be creative. Be smart. Be able to play an instrument, even if it’s just barely. Be able to have an awesome conversation with me. Be kind. Be generous. And I don’t mean just with money. I mean with your time. With your patience.

Almost every time I meet a man who fits these standards, they either 1. live in New York, 2. Leave me for an ex, or 3. Both. I’ve tried long distance. If you’re worth it, I’ll do it. I visit New York a lot now that my dad lives there. But you give up on me. And I go back to OKCupid and try again. And I don’t find anyone I like, and if I do like them, they of course do not like me.

Or maybe, I hate you. Maybe you hate me. But if you’re hot, and we have heated arguments, and then hatefuck each other, I’m okay with that. Because at least there’s passion in hate.

If you want help with your OKCupid profile, I can help you. Because I really just want you to find someone who loves you as you are. I don’t want you to be an asshole like I am. I want you to be happy. I want to help you be happy. I won’t judge you. I will find the most attractive and awesome thing about you and amplify it times a thousand. And why? Because I am sick of these stupid, inane, misleading, diabolical online dating profiles. So help me help you.


Follow me on Twitter | Facebook