She is Risen.

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

After quite the hiatus, we’re back with another go.

Dating has been sporadic, yet eventful–Especially during COVID.

There was the guy with great chemistry, but horrible B.O…

The one who was consistent and witty, but always had an elaborate story or excuse. He was the Boy Who Cried Wolf that grew into a man with great abs and a personality disorder.
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Then there was the one I dated for five months at the start of lockdown. He was a good ol’ homegrown boy from the Midwest.

I asked him about liking to surf as an opener since he featured the emoji on his profile, and he told me he had never done it before…

Our first date was on a ferris wheel in Golden Gate Park, where they had a professional photographer snap a photo of you like they do at theme parks. We took an awkward couple pic that was available for purchase later in the giftshop.

He accidentally left his phone in the car, and asked me to take a picture of the ferris wheel and send it to him so he could send it to his mom.

On our second date, he picked me up in a tricked-out bright yellow BMW coupe. I asked if it was his dad’s car. Okay, Bumblebee.

I’m still not entirely sure if he was bald or not. Every one of his pictures featured a backwards hat. And in 5 months of dating, I never saw him without a hat. That also means that in five months of dating and calling each other baby, we were never intimate beyond some very uncoordinated, sloppy-in-a-bad-way kissing.

Ultimately, that one ended because he still lived in his grandmother’s house along with his mom, dad, sister and brother-in-law, and he was “sneaking out” to see me against their wishes during quarantine. He would also set an alarm on his Apple watch for the time he needed to leave to go home every single time we hung out, so there’s that…

After him was the bootleg version of John Mulaney. No complaints with this one other than possibly having a slight lisp. But, he ghosted me after I went to Mexico for two weeks. Oh well.

After rescheduling with a guy twice, I felt obligated to go on a date despite every inch of me not wanting to. I have an innate fear of letting people down–It’s a complex, we’re working on it.

He was a clean-cut Australian tech bro who listed his height at 5’9″, which we all know means he was 5’7″ on a good day.

We started off strong when I got the following text, which I screenshotted and sent to my roommate expressing my concern that my date’s feet were dangling off the barstool and he may need a booster seat.

We did the typical first-meeting awkward hug where I towered over him in my heels, and I suppressed my initial surprise of his hair being entirely grey, contrary to every one of his dating profile pics.

My eye was profusely watering, so I explained that my contacts were bothering me, to which he said he got contacts so that he could “post up with a book at Wildseed and see all the hot girls better.”

I recall him saying “You’re one of those loud girls,” and then making a comparison of me to Charlie Sheen. Something that had to do with how quickly I drank my espresso martini. Throughout the rest of the night he continued quoting Charlie Sheen–I heard “Winning” far too many times.

I complimented him on his veneers, and he went on to tell me that he’s aging way better than his friends in Australia. Mostly because of the thin ozone layer that causes so much skin cancer, also because they have kids, and lastly because he had “a shit ton of Botox.” Which he did–He had that singular bulging vein on his forehead that typically protrudes when people get too much Botox. May or may not be speaking from experience…

When the waitress came around for our second round, he suggested we each order the other’s drink for them, given we knew little to nothing about each other.

I was game.

I chose a cocktail for him that had Aperol in it after noticing the first drink he ordered had Aperol as well.

He looked at me, looked me up and down, and said “Hmmm, ripped jeans…I know what to get you.”

Then he ordered me a juniper gin cocktail–The perfect accompaniment to my vodka espresso martini…

I made a sarcastic remark about my ripped jeans and not dressing to his liking, but I should have known given he said he wanted someone who liked “dressing up to go out.”

Sorry bro, my version of dressing up in San Francisco consists of various iterations of jeans, a bodysuit, and heeled booties in a rotation. It was also a Wednesday at Balboa Cafe–I guess I forgot to wear my finest pearls and ladies’ pantsuit.

Then he said “I’m going to the bathroom but also never coming back.” To which I laughed, but also thought it was a 50/50 shot that he wasn’t joking.

After two more rounds of that god-awful gin drink, the rest of the night is a bit spotty.

He told me that he loves walking around his apartment naked all the time and that his neighbor can definitely see him, but that it’s unfortunate because she’s not attractive. I called him a voyeur and he said he would live in a nude colony if everyone was good-looking.

Siri is his enemy, because one time he was cycling and accidentally called a girl who he only went on one date with and had a panicked conversation because he had so many Emily’s in his phone that he didn’t know which one it was.

He shared that he’s spent thousands of dollars on Japanese lamps, a self-proclaimed “Japanese lamp collector.” His latest was his $3k bedside lamp that he liked because “tripods are phallic.” I told him it looked like an Ikea lamp.

The night finally came to an end, and I played the usual *offering-but-not-really-offering* card to split the bill–Only this guy actually took me up on it. Very odd considering I wasn’t even choosing my own drinks and he had been ordering them for me.

He made a fleeting remark about being already drunk before I showed up, and when I got my receipt back for $86 that was made apparent.

I immediately realized that I had just paid for half of whatever drinks he had during happy hour before our date in addition to my four cocktails.

Had I known that I’d be paying not only for myself but also his pregame, I would have just stuck with my espresso martini.

The Werewolf and the Veterinarian

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

(Part 1)

I’m a huge animal lover.  Dogs to be exact.  I can name almost any breed of dog, guess what a mutt is mixed with, and as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I browse the Pets section on Craigslist to look at puppies in my spare time.
It’s weird, I’m aware.
So, naturally, I’m a sucker for dog-lovers.  Pretty much any mention of a pup in someone’s dating profile gets them a swipe right.  I’m also a sucker for wit.

If you can talk shit better than me, it’s game over muchacho.

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One swipe long-ago, I came across an engineer who we will call Jared.
Jared and I messaged back and forth, each of us one-upping each other with smart-ass comments, until we exchanged numbers.  We texted daily for a month, but our schedules never seemed to line up.

I was legitimately cyber-dating.

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The day finally came to meet this person who I’d spent so much time talking to.
The plan was pizza, beers, and a movie.  I pulled up, parked, and was greeted by a tall, lanky man with a borderline unibrow.

Initial thought: “Okay—he’s a nerd.  I can work with that.”

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After all, based on our lengthy month of texting all day every day, I was certain that this one was a keeper.

The first hour was painfully awkward.
I quickly realized that he was very much involved with the online gaming community, and probably spent more time talking to people behind a computer screen than he did in person.

 

But get a few beers in me, and I could carry a conversation with Charlie Chaplin.
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I may have gone one or two past “a few.”
My little turtle finally came out of his shell, and conversation was flowing.
Until he said,
“I feel like with dating you need to put all of your cards out on the table and let the person know everything wrong with you right from the beginning.”

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Oh boy.

Jared started off telling me about his childhood, and proceeded to tell me the following story of his life:
His mother was kidnapped and raped by a powerful Russian mafia member who was on the run.  He impregnated her, and she ran away from this dangerous man, who had deep, deep ties to cartels in Russia.
She put her baby up for adoption, and he was adopted by a Mexican family, who named him Juan Navarro.

So 6’4” blonde, blue-eyed Jared Hunter as I knew him, was really Juan Navarro…

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He said he had always felt different growing up.  As if he had a sixth sense.  Then came his 12th birthday, a full moon.
He had agonizing pain, and was filled with rage.  Until he looked in the mirror…
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He was a Werewolf.

When he looks in the mirror, he sees himself with claws, his body covered in fur.
He has primal desires to eat copious amounts of meat.
He has slammed his bushy tail in the door before, and it really hurts.  He can also speak to other canines.
Jared said when he came out as a werewolf to his parents, they wouldn’t accept it.  So he hot-wired a car, and drove away.
Until he came across a group of people in the middle of the woods.  He had found a pack of fellow werewolves. He spent the next year roaming the woods with “his pack.”
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But then he decided he wanted to start going to community college.
He met a girl at school, whose dad was a recruiter for the FBI.  He was recruited to go to Afghanistan undercover and set up all of their computer systems.
He lived in this warehouse setting up high-tech computer systems for the military until he was told that the whole time, there were nuclear weapons in the warehouse, and he was never supposed to have been staying there.
Because of the radiation from the nuclear weapons, he only had 5 years left to live…
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Meanwhile, I had slammed two more beers and two slices of pizza in order to avoid having to say anything, and to keep my jaw from physically hitting the floor.

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All I could manage to get out of my mouth was,

“Thats a lot.”

I proceeded to turn on John Mulaney’s standup routine on Netflix.  Then I made out with the werewolf.
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…Part 2 to be continued 

 

An Open Letter to Millennial Men:

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

Dear Millennial Men,

I know you’re tired of hearing it.  You’ve got to be sick of hearing us say that “chivalry is dead.”  I’m sure you think that any woman who feels this way must be just another spited feminist.  But here’s the thing—it really is dead.  Unless you fall into the less than 5% of men who still have old-time values, to whom I say:

Sorry, but the majority of your bros are royally fucking things up for you good guys. 

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We live in a world where the accessibility of new, beautiful, interesting women is as simple as swiping right through a stream of strategically selected, filtered photos.  A world where your interest in a potential new woman can be either sparked or snuffed out by how original and witty her opening line is.  Because it is also a world where, at the swipe of a thumb, you can scroll through a selection of women served to you on a platter via Bumble, and where you just have to sit back and wait for the messages to start rolling in.

Maybe because of how simplified and accessible dating has become, you’ve started also resorting to seeking simplified and accessible when it comes to the level of effort you have to put in.  But I am telling you this:  While times have changed, the wiring of a woman has not. 

So put in some damn effort and woo us, you lazy ass. 

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Nowadays, men don’t woo, they swipe.

Telling a woman over text how you are going to sweep her off her feet is not chivalrous.  Opening a door, showing up with flowers, paying for your dates—You know, shit your Dad had to do when he started dating your Mom simply because it was EXPECTED back then?  That is.

When did it become stuck up or boujee for us women to expect that you open our door?  That you pay for a meal when you’re the one who asked us out on a date?  You don’t deserve sex, a cookie, and a gold star for doing these things—It’s called just being a damn gentleman. 

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I think you have become confused with a falsified idea of “modern-day chivalry.”  “Modern-day chivalry” is not, and never will be a thing. 

This modern-day chivalry could look like this, for example:

  • Calling, instead of texting
  • Picking me up for a date, versus meeting there separately
  • Walking me to my car to say goodbye, versus standing at the door and giving me a quick hug

Then there’s texting me after a date to say you had a good time.  Takes maybe 30 seconds to do, and with such a small gesture, you can make a girl feel valued and appreciated.  It just makes her feel good—so do it.

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I shouldn’t have to feel shocked when I actually receive a text back, or when you keep a date you planned.  I shouldn’t get this excited feeling just because you call at a decent hour, rather than 1 AM just for sex.  I shouldn’t feel like you MUST really be into me, just because you asked me questions beyond the typical, “How was work? How many siblings do you have? What’s your favorite food?”  I shouldn’t feel like you’re an amazing guy with manners just because you didn’t ghost me.

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Quite frankly, it’s bullshit. 

Us women have seemingly lowered our standards of what we should expect from our dates.  We shouldn’t be getting so excited over getting a text back! A reply should happen automatically just for the sake of respect for another person.

I’m sorry to say, but because of how things have strayed so far from these old-fashioned values us women still want and adore, that often times when we’re simply being respected, we start questioning if there is a hidden agenda or ulterior motive.

I know a lot of you men need examples, and so, as a learning lesson and service to you, I’ll put one of the assholes ruining things for you on blast.

Meet Alex.

 

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One of my most gorgeous, career-oriented, hilarious, bubbly girlfriends met Alex from Bumble, and they met up at a restaurant for a date that he asked her on.  A casual Taco Tuesday filled with initial small talk.  Conversation and drinks were flowing, smiles were had by both.

And then the bill came.

I’m sure you can guess from the tone of the rest of my letter that I believe that men should pay for the date.  If money is a concern, then he should have asked her to go on a damn picnic with peanut-butter sandwiches in Ziploc bags.

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But, considering that this was a Taco Tuesday and not a Michelin-star restaurant, that he is the one who suggested the dinner and the place, and factoring in that the guy worked as a Software Engineer in Los Angeles— I think we can all assume that money was not an immediate pressing struggle for him that night.   

He paid the bill, she thanked him for the date, and they went their separate ways.  Moments later, she gets a phone call from him.  He is utterly disgusted that she didn’t reach for her purse when the check came, and demands that she send him $50 for her portion of the bill.

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NOT.  GONNA. HAPPEN. BRO. 

Now, he could have decided simply to call the date a wash, decide not to take her out again, and move on.  (His loss anyways)  But no. 

He sends her a Venmo request with this classless note:

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She blocks the loser, deletes him from social media, and vents to her friends about the audacity this asshole has.

But of course he still doesn’t let this go. 

Since she blocked him, he decides to MESSAGE HER MOTHER ON FACEBOOK…

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Guys, you’ve gotta be better than this. 

Better yet, I command you to be better than this.  Be the redeeming dude from our generation.  Open the door for your date.  Compliment her on how nice she looks.  Look her in the eyes when you’re talking to her—act interested.  Send her a goodnight text telling her you had a good time.  Chivalry is dead, and it’s up to you to bring it back.

Don’t be an Alex.

Sincerely,

-Katie

No Solicitation

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

As I’ve discussed in previous posts, most of today’s dating is done via profiles in phone apps, where your initial interaction comes from swiping either yes or no on a picture of the person.  Then, once you’ve both “matched,” women will often experience something to varying degrees along the lines of, “Send papi a pic.”  Maybe not to that extreme, but at some point in time, he will ask for a pic.  It can just be expected.

But what shouldn’t be expected, and for that matter, what SHOULDN’T OCCUR, is unsolicited pictures from a dude.

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You all know what I’m talking about.  And I am going to make a public service announcement right now, and tell you all that NO GIRL WANTS A PICTURE OF YOU UNLESS SHE ASKS YOU.  So, if you send one, be prepared for it to be circulated to all of her friends.  

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You’ve been warned now.  We will rip him a new one.

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Why is it not okay, you ask?

#1.) It’s feminine AF.  Girls take selfies because a.) Women are beautiful, b.) We enjoy using filters and editing pictures. c.) Our girlfriends compliment us on them and we feel fly as a motha.

Now, explain to me why a dude would take a selfie?

a.) Are men beautiful?  No (Except for a few rare breeds like David Beckham)

b.) Do guys put the filter on with the flower crown that makes their skin look flawless and their eyes sparkle?  Not the straight ones.

c.) Do guys comment on each other’s pictures and say, “Ya bro, you’re slayin’ in this pic.  You look so hot.”

No.  I sure as hell hope not.

So WHY DO THEY DO IT?!

Let’s take a look at a few more examples.

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CRINGE. 

But no, he doesn’t give up.  He decides to then give you a play by play of what he’s doing after you didn’t respond to his selfie and other texts…

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Good.  Lord.  f6878539136752df6f59bbd305997f55

What is a girl to do when she gets these unsolicited selfies?

Honestly, ladies… My only advice when you come across one of these yourself, is to take notes from my girlfriend Miranda, and start quoting Beyoncé lyrics the next time he texts you.

  Maybe that will get the point across, that she’s just not that interested, bro.

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Or, if nothing else, he’ll just be confused as hell, and you will have something to die laughing at with all of your girlfriends in your group text, as they send you suggestions to keep the Yoncé lyrics flowing.

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Actually, keep the man-selfies coming.  We always love a good laugh, and I can always use some good blog material.

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Dating-Now and Then

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

Before Bumble and Tinder, there was only Myspace.  Back in the days when if you were dating someone, they were #1 on your top 8,   you used PimpMyProfile to edit your background to be his name in sparkly graphic letters, and your profile song was in dedication to your boo.

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Back then you actually messaged someone with the intent of meeting up and hanging out.  You exchanged numbers, would maybe text or talk on the phone a bit, but you still got to know a person by being IN PERSON.

Flash forward to now, and dating can exist solely in an app.  You can learn where someone went to school, who their friends are, what kind of puppy they have, where they work, and what they look like shirtless, in a suit, and with their Mom, all from four photos and a short bio in a profile like this:

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(For those of you who live under a rock and don’t know who this is, it’s Rob Gronkowski…)

Then-if you’re still interested after getting to know all of this about a person without having ever spoken-you have to come up with a clever opening one-liner to grab their attention and hope that it was clever/funny/cute enough to get them to choose to write you back, amongst the other 47 people they “matched” with who are all attempting to do the same thing.

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You just might get to have a meaningless conversation like this:

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Bro.  I don’t give a fuck about your bourgie-ass drinks you’re making on Sunday afternoon.  I just liked your dog.  

It’s a game.  You swipe and analyze people when you’re bored, without the intent of ever meeting up or getting to know the person.  But, if your conversation and witty banter happens to strike a chord, they just might ask for your number.  Only, now, it’s not like it was back in those Myspace days.  If they ask for your number, it’s because they think you’ve done enough talking now to be able to meet and hook up.  They now know everything there is to know about you, because they went the extra mile to ask the ever-revealing “How was your day?”  And if you take the conversation from the app to texting, they will most definitely want you to send them a pic (preferably something scandalous).  At which point all is lost, and you send them an ugly picture from when you got your teeth whitened.

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And there you have it.  The modern-day dating cycle.  Swipe, message, text, pic, maybe bang, repeat.

Which is why I’ve chosen to give in to the game, and try out my arsenal of captivating conversation starters.  If you can’t beat em, join em.  I like to take the bulk-messaging approach, rather than waste time trying to customize each message.

I figure, they’ll either:

A.) Not respond because they think I’m weird, which then, we wouldn’t have gotten along anyways, because they’re right.

B.) Say yes, and come back at me with something funny, at which point I’ll entertain them.

C.) Say they don’t have a dog and respond with confusion, to which I will say, “Oh…I do.  Do you want to be her Dad?” thus slaying them with all the game that I got.

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So far, I’ve been killin it in the modern-day dating world.  No dates yet, but plenty of screen-shotted conversations to send to my various group-texts of girls.

Ahhh, the Myspace days…

Sure, it was more personal and real then, and you got to know people in person rather than over the phone.  But, who’s to really say that the old way of doing things was all that much better?  After all, I did happen to stumble across my first love who completely broke my heart back then, Fillmoe Trev…

Posting personal ads “looking for love” on Craigslist.

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I guess the modern-day dating world really do be hard out here for a pimp.

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No Ragrets.

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

It’s pretty well-known that I’ve been through some ish in my 25 years of life.  And with this ish, undoubtedly comes some situations that, looking back, I could have gone without experiencing.  Most of these situations involve me doing something to absolutely humiliate myself.  You see, I’m not the most graceful, nor the most poised.  But that’s what makes me fun (or fun to laugh at) to begin with.  Get a few drinks in me, and I’ll do just about anything for a laugh.  But it’s the times where I wasn’t actually trying to be laughed at that still make me cringe a little.

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There was the time that I went to Patrick Willis’s mansion with my friend Bailey.  There were maybe six of us girls, and 20+ Niners hanging out at his gorgeous estate, overlooking the entire San Jose skyline.  I was absolutely star-struck and nervous, and immediately sought out the bar counter.  I made myself a less-than classy cosmopolitan—vodka with a splash of cran for color—and spotted a bar stool that I could post up on and keep it cool.  P-Willy was just chatting it up with Delanie Walker on the other side of the counter.  I went to take my seat, but unfortunately for me, I COMPLETELY missed the chair, fell straight on my ass, and brought down Patrick Willis’s designer barstool on top of me with a THUD.  Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing, looked at me, and then BUSTED THE FUCK UP with laughter.  Probably all wondering who the fuck brought Scarlett Takes a Tumble to the party…

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A couple months later, I ran into Delanie Walker at the bar.  He came up to me and said, “Hey, aren’t you that girl that fell off the stool?”

At least I was memorable…

Then, there was the time I decided to add my new coworker on Snapchat.  We were at that freshly “let’s be new friends” stage, and had just exchanged phone numbers.  One random weeknight I went over to my girlfriend’s house for a wine night after work.  It was just going to be she and I, so of course I needed to bring two bottles of wine.  Well, there’s this thing that happens to me when I drink.

I turn into Beyoncé.

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At least I think I do… It’s like a running joke in my group text when they see my Snapchat stories after a night out—”Katie, you were really feeling yourself last night, weren’t you?”

So anyways, a few hours and two bottles of wine later and I’m back at my apartment feeling like I just wrapped up a photoshoot for People Magazine’s Sexiest Woman of the Year edition.  So, I start snapping some selfies.  And I take an extra sultry one with my hair all in my face, pouty lips making a kissy face, and my cleavage on fleek and extra-out there.  I decide to be a little flirty, and send it to this guy I had been seeing.  We had just become friends on Snapchat.  But there’s a problem.  You see, I broke my screen a while back, and didn’t go to the Apple store to get it fixed.  I took it to some Asian phone repair spot, and it looked great and crack-free.  Fast-forward to now, and I can barely text because the screen is so glitchy.  So, I tap on my new boo’s name on Snapchat to send the picture, and IT FUCKING SENDS TO MY COWORKER who’s name happens to be right next to his in my newly added contacts!!!!

So, hey, new coworker friend Emily, hope you enjoyed my sexy selfie.

ABSOLUTELY.  MORTIFYING.  Great job, Katie.

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And last but certainly not least was a moment that I was completely serious in doing at the time, and now, looking back 5 years later, I realize how absolutely ridiculously hideous and hilarious it is.  I was “dating” Lil Uno from The Pack at the time, (you remember—”Got my Vans on but they look like sneakers”) so that should tell you a bit about what stage in life I was in.
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I worked at Bebe, every girl’s favorite store for slutty Vegas dresses, and I had a client come in who was a makeup artist for music videos.  I would not consider myself to be photogenic, but she asked me if I wanted to be in the video for a Kafani song featuring Gucci Mane, “She Ready Now.”

(Click play for quick a reminder:)

Obviously my ratchet ass said yes.  So, a week later, I show up to this random club in Pleasanton at 9 AM with my freshly purchased Frederick’s of Hollywood lingerie, nervous as all hell.  The girls start arriving, little by little, and I realized just how out of place I was.  I’m a curvy girl, yes.  But these girls?  They look like they just came out of a twerk video with the Ying Yang Twins.

So, I nervously wait my turn to get my makeup done.  Hours pass.  Still, no Gucci Mane.  Then, Kafani gets a call and storms off—Gucci isn’t coming.  Someone pulled out a gun on him at the club he was at the night before in Oakland, and he flew back to Atlanta.

Well, shit.  I’m all the way in good ol’ Pleasanton, sitting in lingerie, and I’m not even going to get to be in a Gucci Mane video.  There’s some hustle and bustle, and they decide the show must go on—we’ll film a video for a different song.

I finally get my turn in the makeup artist’s chair, and she decides she “likes my big eyelids” and wants to bedazzle them entirely in rhinestones.  One. By. One.  She meticulously picked up each individual gem, and glued them onto my eyelids.  By the time she was done with my makeup, they were already filming the last scene of the video.  So, I rushed into the scene, and just felt so damn ridiculous, half-naked, my eyelids weighed down so heavy with fucking gems all over them to where I can barely keep my eyes open—all I could do was laugh.

And that, my friends, is how I became a video vixen.

But this story gets better.  The video ended up being released on WorldStarHipHop, and I am in it for a total of :01 second(s).

Screengrab Exhibit A :  (I’m the one laughing on the left) 

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What’s even better than the hideous fact that I did this?  Let me show you.

People love to comment on WorldStar, and as I was watching the video and dying, I came across this little comment:

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“Guest,” my friend…It’s five years later and I’m still asking myself the same damn question.

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At least I can say that I have stories to tell, even if they’re embarrassing as all hell.  You have to be able to laugh at yourself and live without regrets.

So, without further ado, and to sum up this post, I present to you all:  “Baller Roll.”

Ahhh, Valentine’s Day.

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

Valentine’s Day.  What a lovely, wonderful time to remember exactly how single you really are.

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But hey, it could be worse.  Like that first Valentine’s day I ever spent with a boyfriend.  His name was Trevor.  He went by “Fillmoe Trev” to rep not the hood he grew up in, but the street his grandma lived on in her newly updated San Francisco apartment.  He was 4 years older than I, a 6’7, 325 lb black man with dreadlocks.  We used to do romantic shit all the time, like hold our phones up to our boombox and leave a voicemail of “Me and My Bitch” by the Notorious B.I.G. on each other’s phones.  Because, obviously, our relationship—me, growing up in a 99.9% white suburb, and him, living in the same said suburb—was exactly like the gangster relationship Biggie describes in the song.

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Our very first Valentine’s together, he brought me a partially-deflated Love balloon, and a pair of fuzzy socks from Nordstrom.  He used the gift card I gave him for his birthday.  And I, I bought him the brand new cleats he wanted (I worked at Nike at the time, and he swore he was going to make it to the NFL) and emailed him a picture of my butt in a thong that I bought for 5 for $10 at Rue21 that I had to hide from my mom, which I edited on Paint to write “I love Fillmoe Trev” on my ass.  Ahhhh, young love…

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And then there was the complete opposite Valentine’s experience.  This time, I was in a new relationship, after being single for years, and the idea of having a romantic night out was completely foreign to me.  My boyfriend wrote me a beautiful card, and whisked me away to the city where he had a hotel room with a panoramic view of San Francisco, a bottle of champagne, and chocolate strawberries waiting for us upon arrival.  So, naturally, I gave him a picture of my ass with his name written on it.  I kid, I kid.

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But who’s to say that one Valentine’s Day was better than the other?  In all honesty, I felt loved on both days.  And you know what I’ll be doing this Valentine’s Day?  Spending it with people who make me feel loved–my girlfriends.  Probably eating and drinking too much, watching a chick flick, and going out on the town to slay like we usually do.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way, because Valentine’s Day is about feeling loved, with those you love.  If you’re single and fabulous, and can’t manage to get together with friends, take some time to treat yourself this Valentine’s Day.  Because to quote the ever-amazing Justin Bieber, “You should go and love yourself.”

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Finding Yourself

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

In High School, I had three main stages.

The first—

The awkward, self-conscious girl who developed double-D boobs way before everyone else, and happened to look like a grown ass woman who could have birthed a few children by the age of 14.  I spent a lot of time reading Lil Bow Wow’s fan site forums, choosing my next Myspace page song, and trying to convince my mom to buy me the latest Abercrombie slightly-suggestive graphic tee (which I never succeeded unless it was on clearance).

Here I am, age 13, looking like my friend’s babysitter (yes we are the same age):12112013_10153772253344665_3838460925155198906_n

The second—

Let’s just call it KatieBaby/BabyKT.  Picture crunchy-scrunched hair, Baby Phat jeans rubber-banded at the ankles and tucked into my Jordans, and mini-backpacks with Spiderman, Barbie, and Sesame Street characters on them that I carried as purses.  I had always been a fan of hip-hop music—I used to come home from school and watch 106 & Park every day.  But by this second stage, I had met the love of my life—Fillmoe Trev.  And he, oh he was everything a dad could ever dream for his white, middle-classed daughter’s first boyfriend—big, black, and four years older.  I joined the stomp team at school (FHS STEPPERS, WE STEP FOR YOU!) died my hair pitch black, and wore my hair in partial corn-rows to our Sadie’s dance.

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But, to my disbelief, that relationship with Fillmoe Trev didn’t last forever.

And thus, I entered the third stage.

I traded in my Apple-Bottoms for denim miniskirts and fake Ugg boots.   I dressed as a grandma for our Sadie’s dance, and went to prom with our high-school quarterback (shoutout to Cary—sup babe).  By this point, I became me.  Silly, crazy, still-a-little-bit-hood, me.  And that me has remained mostly the same, through growing up, facing the real working world, loving, and losing.  Sure, I’ve adapted and morphed and changed in ways, but my core is and always will be the same.  The only thing that has come with time is learning to be more comfortable being me, and loving myself just the way I am.  Because after all, a white girl who was in the honors humanities program in college, yet still can rap every lyric to “Fireman” by Lil Wayne, doesn’t come a dime a dozen–and I love it.

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Ghostin’.

Posted on by dicksanddonuts

Today’s lesson is on: GHOSTING.

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ghost·ing

[goh-sting]

verb

1. the bitch-ass act of nearly every ex-boyfriend or “I thought we had something,” hookup.

These fuckboys keep ghosting me.

It usually consists of a dude texting you, crying to you about how much you mean to him, and making weightless promises one day—and then disappearing the next.

POOF. Right into thin air…

Why, you ask?  Because they simply couldn’t suck it up, grow a pair of balls, and admit that they couldn’t be the man you needed them to be. Whoever decided it was a good idea to just fall off the face of the Earth should, well… fall off the face of the fuckin Earth.

It is so disheartening—such a bitch move—to not have enough respect for someone you once shared something so special with, to have the decency to explain to them where you’re coming from, and your lack of meeting their standards.

Or let’s say it was just a hookup.  Well, NEWSFLASH—that lack of chemistry you felt?  She probably felt it too.  Felt like you didn’t have enough in common?  Enough to talk about?  Yea, so did she.  But chances are, if you’re the only one she had in her pipeline, she’ll still drunk text you or hit you up when she’s feeling bored and wants some attention.  So text her the fuck back and play along, or tell her you’re not feeling it.  Just don’t ignore.  

Because what it can do to a woman is horrible—laying in bed countless nights, wondering where he is, who he’s with, if he’s thinking about you too… Your mind just lets the idea of him fester, until he consumes your thoughts, because he has become this mystery—a giant question mark.giphyOne day you were talking, the next, POOF. No one deserves to be ghosted. It is a childish, pathetic way to handle not wanting to have an honest conversation. But, after all, anyone who ghosts you clearly just didn’t respect you like you deserve to be to begin with.

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