Life might be like a box of chocolates, (or slightly-chilled dark chocolate truffles, if I have any say in the matter). But it’s also like a huge, daunting puzzle. A winding labyrinth* of tiny cardboard pieces that snap together, hopefully creating a big picture we’re satisfied with. One we’re proud of. One we want to shellac with a mixture of white paste and water and frame, hanging a completed picture up on our damn dining room wall because yeah–somewhere over
Stop Jamming A Square Peg Into A Round Butthole
Success seems to come easily to some people. These are the same people who effortlessly wear La Perla lingerie while sprawled out on their bed of money, rolling around in the freshly-pressed dollars and sipping on a dry martini, extra olives. The same people who somehow don’t seem like total elitist assholes when they order that extra shot of espresso in their 14-word morning cup of coffee. The same perfect people who give to an impressive charity likely involving
10 Signs You’re Going To Have The BEST Weekend In History
1. Your dinner option includes an item aptly titled bacon-wrapped bacon. 2. And dessert is a beer bong. Attached to a helmet. For safety. 3. You’ve hired a stripper masseuse stripping masseuse erotic improv bodywork troupe. 4. You have a master plan to steal at least one national monument like goddamn Carmen Sandiego. 5. You’re planning to Instagram a picture of your dog in a sequined Loch Ness monster costume. 6. You’ve vowed to guiltlessly lick off the inch-thick frosting from
Stop Being A Whiny Little Shit
Lo. The world is a messy place. It’s nearly meticulous in the mayhem, and it’s guaranteed that something’s going to come around to knock you soundly on your ass, snatch whatever semblance of serenity you had from your outstretched hands, and leave you sprawled out on a dirty street, staring blankly into the gutters, and truly thinking that things can’t get any worse. (Spoiler alert: They can.) And I’m not saying this to be a discouraging douchemuffin. Or a crap
The Top 10 Best Things About Working From Home, (Fluorescent Lighting Not Included)
Right out of college, (and fresh off the farm*), I found myself smack dab in the middle of a telemarketing call center, trying to convince strangers to sign up for $60,000 educations at an on “university” they couldn’t afford, to get a degree that was border illegitimate. I spent my lunch hours crying in the downtown high-rise stairwell, (floor 17, thank you very much), and my breaks genuinely contemplating barfing in my hands and rubbing it on my shirt, because
Earn Your Sleep
We’ve all been there. You set your iPhone alarm to go off 90 minutes before you actually need to get out of bed, sternly deciding the night before that in that hour you’ll go make yourself sweat in an aerobics classroom at the gym down the street. You’ll shower, taking extra care with your wing-tipped eyer or learn a new way to tie your tie. You’ll make scrambled eggs, adding in a little sharp cheddar and topping it with a
You’re Not A Haphazard Has-Been
I used to be really impressive. In college, I was a mentor in the honor’s program, and the founder of a university-wide film fest. On the weekends, I we up in the dark, pinning my stylish straight-across bangs back with bobby pins before running my hands along the cragged rocks on the way to the top of the Royal Arch, cracking open a Coors Light or two with friends as the light finally bre the horizon, sipping beers as the
What Happens When You Take An Actual, Physical Leap
The thing about me is that I’m a wimp. A scaredy cat. A wuss. (I’m also a redhead, but that feels irrelevant.) I’m someone who changes lanes on the highway if I end up behind a lumber truck, convinced one of the two-by-fours is going to come unstuck, crashing unceremoniously through my windshield and impaling me thoroughly, gruesome Final Destination style. I step gingerly out of the shower every day, one foot icately placed on the plush, heather-grey bath mat,
If A Tree Falls In A Forest, Does Anyone Actually Give A Single, Flying Fuck?
Samson never wins at bingo. Every week, I take my rounded bingo marker and stamp a bulbous glob of red ink in his relevant cardboard squares, his vision too blurry and his hands too shaky to do it himself. B-6. G-17. C-1. And every week, when the bingo cage stops turning and we sit on under-stuffed chairs stamped in faded floral , Samson and I stare at each other over the rims of our thin styrofoam cups, the heat from
When Elvis Played The Tuba, And Why You Should, Too
I’m interested in a world where Elvis played the tuba. In this world where Elvis played the tuba, The Rolling Stones also played the tuba. Bob Dylan played the folksy tuba. The Ramones likely played dinged and dented tubas very loudly. And The Beatles played the tuba, as one would expect of The Beatles, in a yellow submarine. But because one man, armed with a perfectly tailored white leather jumpsuit, decided to pick up an electric guitar instead of a
You Should Tell Success To Suck It–Here’s Why
My seventh birthday found my ass sitting squarely in the principal’s office, tennis shoes thunk-thunk-thunking on the front of his desk that I now know came from a order catalog, but at the time, was convinced had been carved by a blind artisan and imported from somewhere in Italy. Long story less long, I’d tackled a boy on the playground, punched him square in the arm and then ran away and cried incoherent, snotty tears in the tire swing.
Are You Running Out Of Time?
There are three things I know to be true: 1) Some things actually taste as good as being thin feels. (I’m loin’ at you, mango habanero hot wings.) 2) Before I had my tonsils out, I always sneezed in perfect sets of three, and now I only sneeze in twos. This is likely a government conspiracy. And 3) Torschlusspanik is a very real, and very daunting feeling–not to mention a thick mouthful of German. Torschlusspanik (n.): The fear, usually as
The Scary Underbelly Of Faking It Until You’re Making It
My biggest fear has always been the idea of Bert Lahr living under my bed. Or specifically, Bert Lahr when he played The Cowardly Lion in the 1939 cult classic The Wizard of Oz. (1939, you guys. BAFFLED.) Something about that man in full lion makeup, leaping out of dimly-lit bushes and chuffing with his head of coiffed curls has literally made me cry from pure, unadulterated terror…like, within the last ten years. Until my fourteenth birthday, I’d slap
Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept
And you’d better accept–or else. Because you need to stop cleaning. Take off the gs, put down the bleach, and throw open the windows. Your floor can be vacuumed tomorrow. Your bed los better mussed. Your dust bunnies need a place to live, and scrubbing your dishes clean just means you’ll have to scrub ’em again tomorrow. Stop coing. Drop the ladle, put on your shoes, and go out to lunch. Walk to the Italian place down the street. Order
Stop Comparing Yourself To Others (And Playing Poker In Back Rooms)
I spent every day of this week on the same brick Denver patio, sipping on a craft beer so thick and dark that each rich mouthful gave me a beer moustache, which everyone knows is like a milk moustache only much less healthy better. It’s my favorite place to work, because when the weather breaks upwards of 75, they roll open the glass garage doors that make up every wall, inviting in the spring-almost-summer breeze along with a 5-piece live
The New F-Word (That Really Should Be Censored)
(Note: Please read the word “forever” Sandlot style each and every time you see it in this post, unless otherwise instructed. Forrr-eeeeevv-errrrr.) You walked into the interview, head held intentionally high and your shoulders squared in the way that screams, “COME AT ME, BRO.” You aced it, the hiring manager offered you the position with a firm shake of his hand that could really use some Udder Cream, and then you headed up to HR to snap a less-than-flattering photo
Explicit Permission To Finally Exhale
Today, I’m giving up my v-card*. (Drum roll, please.) *No, not that one. The one about vulnerability. (This is where I break out into a nervous sweat, run my clammy palms down the sides of my jeggings, and ask someone for a sip of water, because HOLY DRY MOUTH, BATMAN.) Real talk? I haven’t slept without the gentle lulling of a fan in over 17 years. Every day, I listen to roughly 104 songs while I check my e. I
The 10 People You Meet While Working In A Coffee Shop
1) The “Can You Watch This” Woman Most easily identified by their hedging creep over to your table, gentle tap on the shoulder, or casual lean in, followed by the phrase, “Hiiiiiii. Sorry to bother you, buuuuut. Could you please watch my laptop/briefcase/baby while I run to the bathroom?” (Seriously, you guys. Last week a woman asked me to WATCH HER ALIVE BABY. ME. A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER IN A COFFEE SHOP.) 2) The YouTuber Spotted at nearly every coffee shop
25 Sure-Fire Ways To NOT Get The Job
While you probably needs guts than you need a job, in the meantime YOU STILL NEED A WAY TO MAKE MONEY–namely so you can buy icious craft beer and maybe that set of glow-in-the-dark adult onesie pajamas you’ve been lusting after for many moons. So if you’re on the job hunt? Here are twenty-five tips that will get your butt booted out of the office before you can say, “I shouldn’t have worn my fake moustache today.” (Note: you