No thanks.

You know what 48 hours in self made solitude will do? Make ya think. After 4 cups of tea laced with a scotch that was given to me by an ex tryna fuck, three ice cold hot pockets, two romps with my vibrator that ended with me being thoroughly disgusted by the porn I was just watching and enjoying mere MOMENTS prior, and two naps, I have made some discoveries. The first discovery is that I am incapable of cooking a hot pocket that isn’t cold in the middle. Doesn’t matter, I ate those cold ham and cheese travesties like the god damn trash monster I am. (which unfortunately gave me VIVID flashbacks to a time I was blackout drunk and ate a hot pocket FRESH OUT OF THE FREEZER at 2am). How I haven’t died of salmonella by now is beyond me.

The second discovery I have made is that I have a really hard time telling people to fuck off. I have given my number out to not one, but three terrible drunk men within the week. One of them sent me a drink from across the bar, and I accepted hoping it was the hot saxophone player with a mysterious briefcase hiding in the corner. (The amount of accessories he had on his person alone intrigued me. Also, I mean, saxophone playing include a lot of simultaneous finger and mouth work…..I can’t be the only one who has put two and two together people.) It turned out to be a 5’3 balding door man wrapped in some sort of headphone wire that I think once belonged to a walkman, who thought it would be cool to come over and “share” the drink he sent me together. For clarification, this man thought that I wanted a drink with a side of his backwash. The second was also a man who sent me a drink, asked me if I even “knew what my tattoo meant” (Its a hindu god and yes I do) and when he found out what my job was said “wow thats a turn on” and touched my lower back (I teach children???) In hindsight I should have immediately dialed “To catch a predator.” The third I don’t even remember giving out until I received a text from someone named “Wallace”  at 1am which is a feat in itself.

Here are the top two most common pieces of advice I have gathered from both men and women about how to avoid giving out my phone number:

  1. Tell them you have a gf/bf.  (This never works, the inevitably terrible person spilling their coors light on me will always ask where my S.O is or accuse me of lying)
  2. Say you have diarrhea (If only I had the balls to do this. or the incontinence)

I think what I need to be better at is just saying no. No thank you. No thanks I don’t want to give you my number so that you can call it in front of me to make sure it’s not fake, and then text me in the morning telling me you thought I seemed “chill” and would like to take me to an Italian place for some “killer calamari.” I can find my own calamari thank you very much.

Once I gave my number to a man at a bar a year after college, he called it in front of me, and when my phone didn’t ring he berated me in front of his friends for giving him a fake number. My phone, ladies and gentleman, was in airplane mode because it was low on battery. Sometimes I hate being bi. Not that women are much better. My ex recently texted me that on her trip she has a “young” girl who has a “burning desire for her” and another who is “deeply in love with her” and keeps asking her to hang out. (hanging out in lesbian speak is mostly discussing serious topics such as the dwindling supply of tuna fish due to over fishing for hours until you form a deep connection and one of you writes a song about the experience). Why she thinks these are things I need to know, I couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that I have spent the past 3-5 hours searching through her instagram’s and snap chats trying to find out which girls they are and which flaws I can find to make myself feel better. And I hate myself for it. Fuck her and her fancy scotch.

Here are my resolutions, I’m gonna say no to the things I don’t want. No I don’t want to accept your friend request on my instagram where you will DM me things like “wow keep blessing my timeline with those bikini pics” once a month regardless of whether or not I ever answer. No I don’t want to hear about how good you think you look in your new beach hat that is significantly too big for your lima bean shaped head. No I don’t want to tell you how many guys I have in my “rotation” because god dammit I am 26 now and I don’t have the time or energy to upkeep a once a week “how are you? good, work sucks.  lets hang soon, okay see ya soon!” text relationship with more than 1 sexual partner at a time. I don’t have the capabilities to keep my phone charged that often, my vagina gets swollen WAY too easily for that nonsense, and I need a solid 2 day bounce back period and several ice packs in order to be fully prepared to *hopefully* have an orgasm. And NO FUCKING THANKS to those men who follow me down the road asking if I will give them my number/give them a minute of my time while I am holding 4 months worth of laundry in my arms and can think of nothing other than picking the wedgie I got three blocks back.

Hopefully I’ll update this thing with more things to yell into the void sooner than a full calendar year. Wish me luck.

BONUS- Words I’ve had to google to make sure I was using them correctly while writing this post: Incontinence, berated, dwindling




Champagne for the Pain

You know that phrase “you live and ya learn” …. I have not yet acquired that skill. For example, promptly after exiting a relationship with a fellow teacher, I swore off all relationships with future co workers, then approximately 25 hours later jumped head first (literally) into a relationship with a teacher at my brand new school leading to a WORLD of awkward run ins and one very mean post card.

I also have a fondness for hooking up with strangers in public bathrooms that I can’t seem to shake. Maybe its the excitement of getting caught in that act or  the aroma of urinal cakes that I’m addicted too, either way I feel like delving into the bathroom hookup fetish I seem to be cultivating could unload some weird psychological shit I don’t want to realize about myself… so I’m gonna just let that slide.

For all two of you who read my blog (Looking at you Corinne and Nicole), I will clarify that although I do enjoy a sloppy make out sesh while heavily intoxicated at a bar I am much to old for, I have never been a fan of the one night stand.  Having said that, this summer I’ve been trying to live as though I’m a much less fashionable and more insecure version of Carrie Bradshaw.  I told myself, “lets try to squish as many dates as I can into a very short period of time, this way I can expand my chances of finding someone who I don’t mind faking an orgasm for.”  In my mind I formulated a dating schedule akin to what I believe a modern day Carrie Bradshaw would have developed: I set up 3 bumble dates on Monday through Wednesday, one date with a past flame on Thursday, and then a tinder date for Friday.


After 5 of those dates I can honestly say all I ended up with was 200 more dollars of credit card debt, one offer from a moderately famous comedian to become one of his many NYC mistresses, a t-shirt tan line, one make out with yet ANOTHER CO WORKER WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME, and a crush on a girl with some serious psychological problems. I swear to our lord and savior Jesus Christ, you can put me in a room with about 40 human beings, and I will immediately try to hook up with the ONE person who identifies strongly as a psychopath (most likely in a bathroom).

After my failure to locate a mate for life in my Bradshaw week, I decided the best thing to do was continue the destruction of my liver. (obviously) SO onto the 5$ bottles of Andre it was. I somehow bribed my normally level headed friend to drink for a straight 12 hours with me and ended up interacting with not one, but THREE of my exes, of no fault of my own mind you. This happens all of the time. It’s as if they hold a convention, and decide exactly when they are all going to just FUCK MY SHIT UP.  Here is an idea of how their convention might go:

Ex #1: “Alright ladies and gentlemen, we are here to make sure that Sarah’s mental health is always a bit shaky, when is everyone free?”

Ex #2 and #3: “August works for us! Anyone else?”

Ex #4: “Dammit, I have a vacation planned, but I can angrily DM her on instagram completely unprompted in July if that helps?”

Ex #1: “Great idea! Okay the rest of us will take August and use all social media platforms to make her feel things such as guilt, anger, and maybe even sorrow if we’re lucky! Great meeting! See you again in 2018”

I wonder where all my exes meet. Probably in a McDonald’s somewhere, they’re all pretty cheap. ANYWAYS.. maybe the one lesson I’ve learned is that no matter how horrible a breakup was, time really does heal all wounds. Even the ones left on your ear after one ex bites your earlobe WAY too hard when trying to be kinky.  (Pro tip- nibbling is always welcome, but when you’re starting to draw blood maybe take a step back and think about whether YOU would like to be gnawed on like an overcooked steak)

So there it is folks (Corinne and Nicole), my mistakes from the past month. I can say though, that it was pretty worth it, I have a somewhat better handle on my sexuality, confirmed that my gag reflex really is just gone forever thanks to some pretty thorough conditioning with a tooth brush in my teen years, and spent some amazing nights wandering around NYC wildly intoxicated with some amazing friends.

Thanks summer 2017,  in the fall I hope to increase my self confidence to maybe a 6/10 and limit my bathroom hookups and the incidents in which I dunk my new Iphone into an entire cup of cheap champagne to 0 (even though the new Kesha album still absolutely KILLS IT even when submerged in Andre).

Who the hell do I think I am

I mean, a blog? I live in Brooklyn now so I guess I should have seen this coming. I basically signed off on having a blog and wearing overalls when I signed the lease for my Williamsburg apartment. Not that I am complaining though- overalls make it quick and easy to pee after drinking one too many beers in the park.

I am well aware this will be read only by myself and someone who finds this post accidentally while searching DIY brunch recipes, but I look forward to throwing my embarrassing moments and horrific drunk decisions into the void.

If there is someone out there who has accidentally opened this site and made it past the pee comment, hello! Welcome!  I’m sure you’ll come to realize I will be musing about peeing in parks more often, so I apologize in advance. I also apologize to the NYC parks department- but honestly you need more bathrooms in parks, c’mon its 2017 and god dammit if I’m gonna chug 14 beers out of a McDonald’s Sweet tea cup in Central Park that is my right, as an American.

I have one and three fourths dogs. What I mean by that is by one of my little chubby angels is missing a leg, although she is blissfully unaware of this fact and quite often falls on her fat little face. My other dog looks like a cross between a croissant and a wart hog, and I would love to tell you I am being dramatic but MAN is she unfortunate looking. Both of my little misfits were adopted from the ACC in Brooklyn, and make my life 100% more hilarious every day.

How would I describe myself? Well I am one of those people your friend introduces to you at a party, and within 5 minutes I have either spoken to you about a time I threw up on myself, or have touched a part of your body in some way while telling you I’m jealous of your olive skin tone. That being said- not many people are fond of me right off the bat. Someone I just got out of a relationship with described me as, and I quote, “a bit much.” BUT I am also very persistent, and manage to worm my way into quite a few amazing friendships with people who quite often act as my confidant, wingman, or babysitter.

I’ve been told I should write a book, but DAMN who has time for that. Or the attention span. So here we are. You (a confused reader thinking this blog would be about the top 10 funniest brunch fails) and me (a girl sitting in her underwear and a shirt stained with mac and cheese powder trying to keep her dogs from drooling on her freshly laundered pillow cushions).

Well I’ll keep writing into the void, and reminiscing about the times I have ended up lost in the London Subway system or had to explain to my father what a “Queef” was during a game of cards.