I'm the one in blue...and I'm not embarrassed by any of this convo. Boom, mother fuckers.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Type of convo I have when I'm dealing with an epic bout of writer's block...
Oh hey...remember me? Yeah, me neither. I've been MIA for multiple reasons but mostly because of a pretty shitty bout of writer's block. Thank god for nonjudgmental best friends who let me go off on random tangents.
I'm the one in blue...and I'm not embarrassed by any of this convo. Boom, mother fuckers.
I'm the one in blue...and I'm not embarrassed by any of this convo. Boom, mother fuckers.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
I hate this post, but I haven't written in 3 weeks, so...yeah...
As much as this is going to sound like a Carrie Bradshaw
intro, I’m willing to take that risk and talk to you about a
subject that is really starting to stress me out.
A friend and I were talking the other day about the future
and what we ultimately wanted/needed.
Now, this may be an issue that is specifically geared
towards the ladies, but the older I get, the more I see this common fear
amongst myself and the other ladies in my life: Can we have it all?
Can we have the career we are madly in love with, plus the
man (or lady) we are madly in love with, simultaneously?
Neither one of these things are easy to accomplish to begin
with, let alone add a whole new bag of constant failure and blind faith on top
of our already stressful situations, which makes you wonder if it’s even worth
it.
Do we have to choose? And if so, what does that choice say
about yourself?
I, personally, don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, and
Twisted Puff Cheetos have gotten me through some tough times, but how much
longer can we hide from this question? And how much are we willing to sacrifice
to find out the answer? If there is one.
This all sounds so mellow dramatic, and I apologize that
this is the post I give you after a three week hiatus, but I’ve been going
through some pretty shitty writer’s block and I’ve realized it’s because I’ve
been running away from my feelings, while opening up to someone new, all at the
same time.
Vomit, I know. But at the end of the day, I am still a lady,
with lady parts, and thus get to be an emotional betch. Deal with it.
Some of you have really gotten to see me grow. I started
this blog three years ago (hiding in my parents house with adult braces after
graduating college) and I now live in NYC, dealing with my grappling fear of
failure and the fear of the unknown.
Two things that have proven much harder to let go than I had
ever assumed.
There are new people in my life that I don’t know what I’d
do without, and I’ve watched my worst/immature/emotional decisions become some
of the greatest/happiest turning points of my life.
I will always strive to document my life in a humorous tone,
no matter how shitty the shit is, but I ask you to bare with me through these
moments of emotional neediness and confusion that are bound to rear it’s ugly
head repeatedly. (Like, right now.)
And as I venture off into the world of paid writing, I beg
you to still love me, even after I sell out.
Side note: This post got weird, real quick. But again, thank
you, for sticking around. I’ll be here, as long as you are.
But as the red wine begins to hit, it’s only bound to get weirder,
so I’ll leave you with this: my life is insignificant, and not even worth
reading; I am not an expert on anything, far from it, my only strength is my
ability to bluntly open up about who I am and my choices so that you can learn
through my mistakes.
Thank you, past Natalie. You’re welcome, future Natalie.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
One of those posts where I use my blog as a public diary...ick.
The fantasy of the white-picket fence doesn’t allure me, nor
will it ever. Which is why I’m always so confused when I attract such
straight-laced, stable, men. Who want to go to college, get a job, and have sex
2.5 times a week (tops) for the rest of their lives.
Don’t act like men like that don’t exist, they do. And don’t
scoff at their dreams of happiness no matter how normal those dreams seem to
you. Happiness is happiness and no one can take that away from anyone.
What confuses (and hurts) me the most, is knowing I will
never be able to provide that life for them. I can’t give them that sense of
normalcy while still staying the same girl they fell in love with.
We both know it. We’ll feed into the lie as long as
possible, as long as we are both mutually content with the unspoken agreement
of what’s to come. Either I adapt to my new surroundings or I give up and run
away from what most girls call the final prize.
Now I’m not completely at fault for “us” not working, when I
had been so honest with what I wanted in my life from the get go. Yet, we are
both guilty of blindly looking the other way every time reality reared it’s
ugly head.
I was selfish. But so were you. We both wanted what the
other wouldn’t provide. We both knew it was a possibility, too. That’s what
makes it so much harder now. We’ll always hate each other for that reason
alone. Especially for knowing we exposed ourselves to what could have been, if
we had both tried a little harder. If we had both sacrificed a little bit of
us.
But we didn’t. I don’t think we ever will. It’s what makes
us so unattainable, yet so attractive to the opposite sex. In that sense, we are
the same.
I know exactly what you want. And I know exactly what you
need. They are not the same thing. And don’t even pretend like they are, cause
if that were case, we wouldn’t be here.
You hate me. Just admit it. You hate everything that I
represent in your life. You hate everything that is missing in your life
because of me. I’m okay with that. I will always be okay with that.
What we were, was different. What we were, made me rethink
about what could come. But at the end of the day, I still chose me. And I’m
sorry.
And I’m sorry that I’m not sorry.
Monday, February 18, 2013
How have I not blogged about this already?
(Mom stop reading now.)
“I’m having sex
tonight.”
“What? With who?”
“I don’t know. I can just feel it.”
“That’s not really how this ‘having sex’ thing works.”
“Fuck you, I know that.”
I was having what has now been dubbed a “Miss Cleo
prediction.” My insanely eerie ability to read people had pinpointed a moment
of “sexing” in the near future. My first “sexing” moment to be exact, and while
yes, technically it was a hunch, and most likely a just self-fulfilling prophecy,
that shit turned out to be pretty on point.
He had asked for my number in class two days prior by simply
handing me his phone.
“Hey, is this your number?”
“Of course it isn’t. We just met this semester.”
“Oh. Well, put it in my phone then.”
That was it. Simple, concise and discreetly to the point. It
was one of my favorite things about him: his hidden directness.
We liked one another that was obvious. But also, we so obviously
wanted nothing that resembled a relationship. We were friends, with some pretty
heavy heated sexual tension and that was it. He had gotten out of a 4+-year
relationship and I was just ready to get the deed done.
It was the perfect match.
I wanted unemotional sex. I never wanted to associate sex
with my “first love.” In my mind, my “first love” would forever be associated
with heartbreak, failure and eating your feelings, and that shit needed to stay
out of my sex life.
So I knew the moment I walked into that sketchy hipster
house party on South Main Street alone, I was going to get exactly what I
wanted.
He had texted me immediately after running into each other
at a concert and after pleading desperately with my best friend to accompany me
but to no avail.
“Please, just come! Please! I will buy you anything!”
“No, I will not go with you on your 'get laid' mission. SVU is
on.”
I had never gone to a party alone, (and I would later find
out that if I was going to a party solo…it was only in attempts to have sexual
relations with a specific man at said party), and quickly realized I didn’t
quite know the protocol of showing up to a party where I knew absolutely no
one. So I drank.
I drank, and I drank and I drankity, drank, drank. Until I
saw him come towards me with a red solo cup filled to the brim with PBR. And then I drank, and I drank and I
drankity, drank, drank some more.
It hit a point in the night where he and I were the life on
the party. We were surrounded. Jokes just flying out of our asses. Literally.
If I remember correctly there was a moment where I turned, pointed to my ass
and screamed, “Joke!”
Like I said, life of the party, but then it turned serious.
He had taken off his shirt for a joke or whatnot and without any hesitation or
thought, I blurted out,
“If you asked me, I would say yes.”
Everyone stopped.
“Let’s go inside.”
We ended up on a hidden staircase in the basement. My ironic
white dress pulled up around my waist. Him kissing the corner of my neck in
such an orgasmic way that has yet to be replicated by another other man.
There on those uneven steps, that would also lead to the
worst sexual sprains of my life, it happened.
And was fun, and enjoyable and slightly painful at the
beginning, but most importantly, it was good. DAMN GOOOOOOD. Well with the
exception of those two stoned chicks accidently walking in, it was quite
possibly the best first time ever.
I was so happy with all my choices. I was so happy I had
waited until I was twenty, and that I chose my first time to be with a friend
that I felt no emotional commitment and/or attachment to, and thus would never
associate this great moment with sadness when our relationship inevitably went
sour.
I had won. I beat the odds, without even having to tell him
I was a virgin! Double score.
And then I looked down.
“What is that on your shirt?”
Uh oh.
“Maybe you cut yourself?”
He was going to ask. I tried to spew out a lie in attempts
to hide my embarrassing truth, but he beat me to the punch.
“Were you a virgin?”
“Nope.”
Lies! All lies! But he was drunk enough to believe it, and I
was drunk enough to think my only real choice for an escape from this
potentially embarrassing hellhole was a two mile walk of shame back to my
apartment, littered with lewd cat calls and a few “Hey baby! What’s that on
your dress? Lemme clean that off for you,” inquiries.
To this day, that guy doesn’t know he took my virginity,
(well he doesn’t know I gave him my
virginity). He graduated a year before me, and we lost contact pretty quickly
afterward. He was a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. There were no roses
placed strategically around the staircase. We didn’t hold hands and talk about
our hopes and dreams for the future. We had sex. Good-ol fashioned, accidently
semi-public, sex.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
I find this hilarious and so should you.
So, usually I don't put videos on the bloggaroo but this is hilarious...and I know two of the ladies, so yeah. It's awesome. Now watch it! And also... tell me what to give up for lent. I was thinking of giving up popping zits...your thoughts?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Today's My Mom's Birthday...what? what?!
It's her bday so I thought I would give you a taste of what I get to enjoy. Love you, Mom.
These are all direct quotes/convos with my mother...this is where my shit comes from...did I say I look exactly like her too? Enjoy.
Me: Oh dear god…I never want kids.
Mom: No you’ve got to pop out at least one so you don’t get breast cancer.
“I wonder what would happen if I farted into my i-phone’s voice recognition...go grab my phone.”
Mom: Your father and I are apart of the NPL.
Me: What the fuck is that?
Mom: National Porn League.
“I’m a fan of doggy.”
“You want to know the secret to a successful marriage? Beer.”
“You better become a famous writer,.. I want to walk around naked in your house in the Hamptons and walk in on you and your husband doing it… and be like ‘yeah this is awkward isn’t it’…next time knock!”
“I don’t get your generation’s fixation on giving head…just have sex.”
Me: So I think this lesbian likes me.
Mom: All right, this is what you do…you just start talking about how you want to fuck the shit out of this dude….and get graphic.
“Are you a lesbian?”
“Birth control and a condom….and you’re still here.”
“No seriously…do you like girls?”
Mom: I thought they were talking about anal.
Me: No, butt plugs.
Mom: Oh, well that's a whole different ball game then.
Mom: Look! You use it to cut your lettuce and when you are done it doesn't make the lettuce yellow.
Me: Have you used it yet?
Mom: No...I only bought it cause it was yellow.
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