Category Archives: Friendship

He’s No Item. Please Don’t Like Him.

I’ve been a bad friend. I’ve gone against girl code. I’ve hushed the rules of feminism. I have literally driven people to the brink of unfriending me (IN REAL LIFE). All because I possess this pesky little thing called feelings. They’re of the lustful variety. The absolute worst kind to have. But, you know, I can’t help them.

There is nothing more frustrating than knowing something is bad for you and not being able to help yourself. But, it’s the feels. They come around when you’re with your cuddle buddy on the low. They tell you that everything is perfect and magical. Then, before you know it, said cuddle buddy is back to their typical douchebaggery and you’re forced to face the friends that you have disappointed. They say they aren’t judging. They say “do you.” But every interaction with them becomes much harsher. You can see them getting bored with you.

So who do you listen to? Ultimately, you listen to yourself. And, if you’re anything like me, that little voice inside is saying to put distance between yourself and the situation. It’s saying to run away to another continent for an extended vacation. It’s saying to travel across the country and set up shop… permanently. There’s only one problem. There’s a possibility that those pesky little feelings will most certainly follow.

The Miami Bucket List

What happens when two Miami natives become simultaneously funemployed right before deciding to leave the city? Well, the Miami Bucket List, OBVIOUSLY. I’m leaving to L.A. to ~follow my dreams~ and hopefully not end up on a porn set. My bad bitch gal pal Kelly is sauntering to Philly with her boo thang. So, here are the very Miami things we want to do before flying the coop:

Watch/Bet On/Try to Understand Jai Alai

I don’t think either one of us really know what the hell this is. What we DO know is that it’s fast-paced, popular in Miami and Cuban men bet on it. But all of that sounds delightful, so we’re about that life.

Frolic Around Vizcaya/Deering Estate

Despite being THE most Cuban, I’ve actually never been to Vizcaya, so we’re gonna put on some white dresses, big hats and frolic around the grounds like the Miami royalty that we think we are. And while we’re at it, we’ll hit up Deering Estate just to get real fancy for a day.

Citi Bike Around the City

Both of us are terrified of biking, so naturally we want to risk life and limb by renting a Citi Bike. Although, by “around the city,” I mean biking a few blocks before the cars scare us and we just walk alongside the bikes until we return them.

Take a Day Trip to the Everglades

Because alligators. And airboats. And Florida panthers. And milkshakes at Robert Is Here fruit stand.

Witness Half Naked Ladies Table Dance at Mangos Tropical Cafe

Yeah, we’ve never been during peak hours. In fact, we’ve laughed at tourists that come here. But now, it’s about freaking time to embrace this place.

Travel to the Mystical Land of Hialeah for Cuban Ice Cream Sandwiches

So I might’ve already done this one because I’m an excitable human being. But hitching it to Hialeah for ice cream is NO JOKE, you guys. Was it delicious? Yes. Would I go back to the birthplace of Ñooo Que Barato? Nope. So, consider this item CHECKED.

Go On a Double Decker Bus Tour

Mostly to see how our city is being advertised.

Happy Hour at King of Diamonds

We’ve both been… but never together. We’re considering it our last Miami strip club hoorah.

Take in a Marlins Game

Since it’s America’s national pastime. No, but really because tickets tend to be dirt cheap, the stadium is in fabulous Little Havana and I love everything about peanuts.

Swim in the Venetian Pool

On an especially hot day since the water is always freezing. And it’ll help us forget how many people have peed in there.

Nine Signs You Found a Ride or Die Chick: The BFF Edition

Ever since I became a single lady, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have a treasure trove of amazing women saunter into my life. Joining the equally awesome gal pals I’ve carried with me since childhood, all of these ladies have proved themselves to be the ultimate ride or die chicks. Here are nine signs that you may have found your very own scissor sisters:

1. When they see you making a poor decision, they’ll try to save you from yourself. And when you push them away and argue that you’re busy “doing you,” they’ll simply laugh it off and keep the judgment at bay.

2. After ingesting one too many shots and insisting that you’re walking 4 miles home, they’ll force you into a cab, make sure you get home okay, help undress you, feed you water, tuck you into bed and then promise you’re not dying (because you can’t possibly have drank that much and still be alive).

3. They aren’t afraid to give you that #realtalk whenever you’re acting a fool. On the flip, when you show up to their apartment in absolute shambles or suffer a freak panic attack, they’ll drop everything in order to tend to your momentary mental instability.

4. They will Pinterest the fuck out of your clothes or help you decorate your apartment or make you dinner to ensure that you’re fed properly. Basically, they’ll pick up the slack on the areas of your life that you’re less than stellar at.

5. They’ll go to bat for you without hesitation. From throwing the most excellent of shade to putting someone in their place on your behalf. Your back. They’ve got it.

6. When you’re convinced you have an incurable medical ailment, they’ll try their best to convince you that you’re fine. When you’re absolutely positive that death is imminent, they’ll go along with it and start Googling for doctors specializing in “weird bump on my friend’s crotch that she says is most definitely cancer.” It goes without saying that TMI is nonexistent in this friendship.

7. You don’t walk out the door until they’ve co-signed your outfit. Because you know that they’ll be the first to tell you if you look like an absolute hobgoblin.

8. Much like Ice Cube, they’re down for whatever. Spontaneous road trips. Impromptu dance parties. Weekly improv classes. I mean, whatever semi-crazy thing you want to do, they’re not going to ask too many questions.

9. You’re your best self when you’re around them. And on the rare occasion that you’re an absolute monster, they’ll forgive. But make sure that you never forget.

Let’s Play the Text Game

Most days, I consider myself a confident lady. Other days, I’m more of what I like to call “an absolute wreck of a human.” Sometimes, on very rare occasions, I can be both at the exact same time. And that rare moment actually caught me by surprise yesterday.

It started when one of my favorite gal pals was agonizing over whether she should text a guy first. They had a great weekend together, he had mentioned having dinner the following week and now she wanted to follow up. But he hadn’t texted in a few days and she was afraid that he had either lost interest or would “scare him off.” They’re silly thoughts, but ones that all of us tend to have. So, of course, my advice to her was to text the goober. I told her to be bold and go after what she wanted. After a few more excuses on her part (the possibility of rejection is SCARY, okay!), she relented and texted him later that night. And wouldn’t you know, he had been thinking about her, too. Their dinner has been formally scheduled.

While I was GChatting her off the ledge of #foreveralone, I was having my very own crisis. The problem was pretty much the same. Do I text the guy first? However, the terms were completely different. Dude and I hadn’t spoken in five months. Things had gotten awkward between us. And I kept questioning if this was really the right time to tear down that Berlin Wall. So, with the helpful nudging of a different favorite gal pal, I went for it. It should be said that I got ridiculously worked up about this. I immediately regretted that I couldn’t blame my decision on alcohol. I couldn’t bear to look at my phone in the case that the response (or lack thereof) would be less than desirable. I went as far as starting a video chat with my aforementioned friend so she could look at my phone screen and tell me whether I should be freaking out or not. Seriously, I was behaving like someone who needed their meds adjusted.

You see, confident while advising friends. Absolute wreck advising myself. But as I stand smack in the middle of sane and psychotic, I always manage to learn something. In this particular instance it was that the millennial “text game” is pretty damn stupid. You want to talk to someone? Just fucking do it. Don’t agonize about what they’re thinking. Don’t act disinterested to protect yourself. If they don’t respond or don’t reciprocate your feelings, you’ll find a way to move on. Don’t let the “do I text them first?” question plague you.

Are You Gonna Write About Me?

If you’re dating, sexing, casually talking to, accidentally looking at or breathing in the general direction of a writer, odds are… they’re gonna write about you. And they’ll either record your encounter in painstaking detail or compose a fictionalized version of you. Regardless, you’re gonna get put in print. It’s a fact of life. We don’t mean to, but more often than not, we write what we know.

So ever since I became a little less shameless and decided to publicize my life on the Internet, I often get the question, “are you gonna write about me?” Usually, this is asked by someone that is ABOUT to do something incredibly shady or just has. What I’ve learned is that people love to see themselves in the spotlight. Whether it’s positive or negative coverage, they have no fucks left to give as long as they’re being written about.

Lately, however, I’ve been getting confronted by the people I’ve ALREADY written about. The ones I never thought I would see again. Which, my fucking bad. Because Miami is literally the size of my abuela’s house and everyone knows everyone’s business. Also, I legit hang out at the same three places, so I don’t know why on Beyoncé’s green earth I thought I’d be in the clear. So, instead of “are you gonna write about me?” it’s slowly morphed into, “so… you wrote about me.” The question is then followed by an ever-so-brief moment of embarrassment, which is mostly just me acting painfully awkward and the other person thinking they deserve an explanation. Honestly, what am I supposed to say? “You acted a damn fool and it was my duty to put you on blast.” Actually, I should TOTALLY be saying that instead of responding with a half-hearted shoulder shrug.

As much as I hate to admit it, I fancy myself as a literary Taylor Swift. Someone with an insatiable need to write about their long list of ex-lovers (see: not that long at all, actually). So, consider this my final declaration on the subject. YES, I’m going to write about you. YES, I did write about you. BUT, you’re in great company. Jake Gyllenhaal, John Mayer and Harry Styles have been written about, too.


And That, My Friend, Is What They Call Closure

I’ve never been a big fan of unfinished business. But on the flip, I also despise confrontation. So, it’s an internal struggle of epic proportions when someone ~wrongs me~ and I’m left to decide what to do. Usually, I make like Frozen and let it go. I seethe for a hot minute and then just ignore whatever happened for as long as humanly possible. I’ll write them a letter and never send it, instead opting to throw it in the ocean in a real dramatic gesture. Or I’ll make passive aggressive comments about them, because that’s also a totally healthy and mature way to handle things.

But something changed for me recently. Come February, it was no holds barred. Maybe I listened to “I Don’t Fuck With You” one too many times. Maybe becoming another year older made me care less. Maybe I suffered a minor brain aneurysm. Whatever it was, it had me setting out for closure from situations that were weighing me down. Finally, I had the ovaries to say what was bothering me. And once I did, it made me realize that I should’ve been putting people on blast FOR YEARS. Instead of tormenting myself wondering why things always go wrong, I should’ve simply acted like a grown woman. What a concept!

Some people don’t care much for closure, but I’m just not one of those people. I probably have an unnecessarily optimistic view about the entire thing, actually. As if closure is this magical cure to hurt feelings. It might be because I don’t see it as a close; I rather see it as a continuance. A second chance at making something right between two people. Or at the very least, just making things right with myself.