Category Archives: Single Life

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.

Viva Los Angeles

After spending a delightful week in Los Angeles, it would be remiss of me not to include a mini recap of what I was up to.

By now, it’s a well-known fact that I’ve decided to hightail it over to the West Coast come September. This crazy little idea took form over three years ago when my lovely mentor kept proclaiming how “tired” Miami was. She was right. Employment opportunities are scarce. Romantic possibilities even more so. Yes, this is my home. I will love it long time. But, considering I’ve never lived elsewhere, I’m feeling some type of way about the 305 by now. Then, after spending three weeks hiking Machu Picchu and tearing up Peru and Colombia with two L.A. natives last summer (who had nothing but amazing things to say about their hometown), I was inching closer and closer to this big move. And, while I don’t know why it took me this long to realize that I needed a change of scenery, I guess better late than never. Right?

So, off I went last week. I stayed with the aforementioned mentor and her amazing family. I got to meet friends of friends that so graciously showed me around and decided to have lunch/dinner with me so I wouldn’t be a friendless loser. I was invited to my first UCB sketch comedy show, cementing my decision to start taking sketch writing/improv classes there this fall. I had food that would make angels weep from its glory. I had SUPER (you can take the girl out of Miami, but you can’t take Miami out of the girl) pleasant Lyft drivers (one time for my main man Kyle). The kitsch and glamour of Hollywood is where I wanted to take permanent residence. AND….. I found a kickball league. Which I know sounds absolutely ridiculous. Pero like, it’s important to me?

Suffice it to say, it was a productive trip. One that made me feel sure (or as sure as I would ever be), that I wasn’t making a decision of the life ruining variety. Sure that the food and opportunities and people of L.A. were totally right for me. Oh, and the weather. After all, a girl can never have too many good hair days.

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.

Dicknotized: 12 Steps to Getting Over Your Addiction to “the D”

We all suffer from an addiction to SOMETHING. Alcohol, money, Katy Perry music videos, drugs, exercise, throwing shade, power, etc. But my personal affliction and those of many other gals is an addiction to “the D.” Akin to “putting the pussy on a pedestal,” our thirst for male companionship is oh-so real. So, I’ve adapted the popular 12 steps of addiction for all those aDICKted ladies.

1. Admit you are powerless over “the D.” Your thirst has become unmanageable, embarrassing and a detriment to living a shame-free life.

2. Come to believe that a “Power” greater than yourself (usually Oprah) can restore you to sanity and steer you to the land of eternal hydration.

3. Make a decision to turn your will and life over to the care of “God.” Or, you know, whatever deity you so choose. Again, the gospel of Oprah is here for you.

4. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory. Otherwise known as going through your memory bank and thinking of all the times you shame spiraled after a sexual encounter gone bad.

5. Admit to yourself and to others (usually your poor friends that can’t find you at the bar because you went off chasing some random) the nature of your wrongs.

6. Be ready to remove this defect of character. Maybe don’t respond to that 2 a.m. DTF text message. Don’t pound Fireball shots when you’re emotionally fragile. Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

7. Humbly ask “Her” to remove your shortcomings. If Oprah attempted to fix Lindsay Lohan’s hot mess of a life, she can surely do the same for you, right?

8. Make a list of all persons you have harmed and become willing to amend them all. This includes all the friends you ditched to bang one out with your slam piece, all the dudes you never texted back and your gynecologist, who really shouldn’t have such a consistent patient.

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible. There is never a bad place to apologize for your parched behavior. Make like Nike and JUST DO IT.

10. Continue to take personal inventory and admit when you’re wrong. We all slip up. I mean, you might go back to your ex-hookup that knew how to put in work. Or you’ll mercilessly tease that guy friend you randomly slept with for not putting in enough. Just admit your wrongdoing(s).

11. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve your conscious contact with “God.” Should prayer, meditation or marathoning The Oprah Winfrey Show not prove effective in curbing your addiction, masturbation might also work.

12. Carry this message to others that suffer from this affliction. Preach it loud. Preach it proud.

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.

My Favorite Miami Bars & Lounges (That Cause Me to Make Poor Life Choices)

LourD at BroJs.

Brother Jimmy’s

My very essence has become so synonymous with this place that it’s kind of sad, really. I’ve had some highs. Like slaying at impromptu flip cup games, killing it in karaoke, becoming besties with some of the employees and watching the bouncer body slam someone that got out of line. But there’s been lows, too. Like witnessing some epic douchebaggery, having my feet practically bleed on Cinco de Drinko due to a very poor shoe game, random acts of crying and unpleasant bathroom visits. But, through it all, this will forever remain a mainstay. Bad experiences be damned.

Blackbird Ordinary

My dubious behavior at Blackbird has been well documented, so it should come as no surprise that it’s included in this list. A friend once dubbed it “black hole,” because that’s what your life feels like after a night of drinking there. Of course, I immediately co-signed that sentiment. Basically, nothing good ever happens to me at Blackbird after 2 a.m. I’ve attacked people with my mouth, participated in numerous dance-offs, had one too many #realtalks in the women’s bathroom and fallen for some OH SO STUPID pick-up techniques. But I’ll still continue ending many an evening there. Sorry that I’m not sorry.

Fado

This one is really just due to the close proximity to Blackbird and Brother Jimmy’s. It’s almost as if by osmosis that I’m compelled to act a fool. Almost every single time that I saunter into Fado I transform into the Hispanic version of Lil’ Jon and start demanding shots. It should be stated that shots aren’t simply my downfall, they are my LIFE RUINER. Multiple rounds of Fireball should never be trusted, much less accepted. Also, I don’t appreciate the fact that I have to safely descend a full flight of stairs in order to get to my next destination. Especially since I look like a newborn baby elephant when trying to achieve that feat. Seriously, a bar on a second floor? NO. ME. GUSTA.

Purdy Lounge

Dirty Purdy, how I love dropping it low within your musty walls. If my vagina isn’t touching the floor at all times, it hasn’t been a successful evening at this particularly ratchet establishment. Once upon a time, I would straight up act like The Terminator up in this piece. Set my sights on a target and simply attack. I’d like to think that I’ve grown wiser and classier with age, but it’s probably just because everyone that now comes here is a fetus, and cradle robbing has never really been my style.

Radio Lounge

The first time I ever set foot inside Radio Lounge, I made a beeline for the pool table. No, not to play, but to dance on top of it. I had a good run before they escorted me off. Plus, someone made it drizzle some dolla dolla bills on me. From that moment on, it became a tradition of sorts to have me dancing on top of that thing. Cue the first few notes of any 2 Chainz song and there I went. But, Radio Lounge has suffered some changes. The last time I went it was filled with a crowd that made me sad to be alive. Instead of a DJ, I got someone playing music from their computer (which is kinda what DJs are anyhow, but whatever). And that beautiful elevated surface that I used to call my very own was now covered and certainly off limits. It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

Single and Not Quite So Ready to Mingle

Ugh, I’m tired. No, not like I haven’t gotten enough sleep tired. Or I just went too HAM on that workout tired. But tired of the constant questioning of my relationship status. Personally, I’m fine with it. And not in the way women usually mean it, like when they say “I’M FINE,” and you know you fucked up. But I’m genuinely fine with my lot in life. I’m single. It’s okay. Really, it is. I’ll find a way to move forward without a guy by my side. I PROMISE. But, the tedious stigma of being a single girl in your late 20s is really starting to get to me. Because shouldn’t I have it figured out by now? Am I so irrevocably broken that I can’t, for lack of a better phrase, land a man? The short and the long of it is… well… no. So, allow me to cry you a river for a moment.

There’s no magic formula to this dating thing. One friend tells me, “go out on more dates,” so I do. But those end more awkwardly than they begin. Another tells me “you need to get out more.” So, again… I do. And that’s just wholly unfulfilling and no quality prospects ever seem to emerge. Yet another tells me, “it’ll happen when you stop looking.” So, I tried that too. And that one seemed to have worked for a while. I stopped trying, I kept my thirst in check, and I thought “FINALLY, it’s happened to me!” But, that didn’t work out either. So for months I thought, what the fuck am I doing wrong? Is it me? Is my very essence a turn-off? Do I look like an absolute hobgoblin? It was slowly getting to the point where the next guy with a not-so-bad criminal record and a decent tan would be the one to sweep me off my feet. Or, at the very least, sweep me off my pity pedestal. I really didn’t mean to act so hopeless. I didn’t. And praise all my Santos that at least my Cuban mom wasn’t on that “when are you giving me grandkids?” tip. Now THAT would have sent me straight to the convent life.

So what magic realization did I come to after months of I’M DYING ALONE conversations? It’s that my approach was all types of butt ugly wrong. I started and ended every day putting my entire worth and value in finding another human being to call my very own. I put aside the great friends I have, the family that cares, the career that is just getting started, the ass that doesn’t quit and the most bangin’ of personalities. I was focusing on the one negative when there were a milli positives.

And with that I say, I’m done. At least for now. At least with finding anything of substance in Miami. And no, this isn’t going to devolve into a rant of HOW NO GOOD MEN EXIST IN MIAMI. Because, that’s simply not true. I’m not bitter nor have I given up on finding a forever mate. It just shouldn’t be a priority right now. Right now I need to focus on doing me… not you.