The Breakup

It was so great in the beginning.

I was excited when I knew we’d see each other, which was basically every day. I was proud to tell people about it, and it felt like the first “real” thing going on in my life in a while, if not ever.  

It started out well. And I was good at it *hair flip*. Creating marketing campaigns and problem solving and dazzling customers with my boyish charm and finesse? This job was my bitch lover.

When things come easily to me, I work hard at the difficult things to make them come easily, too. I don’t take lightly to not being the best, so any threat of that was eradicated pretty quickly (like, I didn’t kill anyone, but I got sick pleasure out of proving some of the long-time employees wrong and convincing my boss to do things my way aka the correct way. LIFE’S TOUGH GET A HELMET). Needless to say, I have zero sentimental value attached to any participation trophy I’ve ever received.

Of course, the months turned into years, and it got a bit...monotonous.

Here’s the thing about long-term relationships: if they start to get stale even in the slightest, you’ve gotta freshen them up real quick, or they’ll dry out faster than Irish soda bread. You do the same thing every day because that’s what you’ve always done, and that’s what’s always worked. Everyone else was fine with working this way, but I require constant and varying stimulation.  

Because, inevitably, I know what’s “always worked” will stop working.

Boredom creeps in. Your eyes glaze over. You care less. It’s a tedium takeover.

I wasn’t excited anymore. It was just part of my routine. I showed up, took care of the same problems, had the same phone conversations, complained about the same issues to whoever wasn’t sick of hearing about them yet (Guess what?! Everyone was!). It was turning me into an asshole and I knew it.

Like I said, if something is difficult, I do whatever I can to make it the opposite. Failure and I don’t get along. And so, I was convinced it could get better. I would make it better. I was lucky to have this job! So many people didn’t have jobs! This was fixable!

Of course, then it got worse. Big changes occurred, and not necessarily of a positive nature. I know that love is blind, as I’ve ignored the shortcomings of many guys simply because I “cared about them” or some shit. The same disregard applied here. I wanted everything to work out so badly that I shut off the part of my brain that said, “Hey, this sucks, actually. Maybe do something that, you know, doesn’t suck, instead.”     

It felt like the people in charge of the big changes were doing their darndest to get me to quit so they wouldn’t have to fire me. It’s similar to when a guy treats you like shit but won’t break up with you so they don’t have to be the bad guy and you’ll dump them on your own. Yeah, people actually do that. I have their phone numbers.

Whatever the case, as things got more stressful, less organized, more illogical, and generally more clusterfucky, I became more of a monster to be around, both in and out of the office.

If someone asked me to add something to my already 50-point To Do list, they were issued a formidable death stare.

If out with friends, I complained about work the whole time.

If hanging out with my boyfriend, I was tired and pessimistic.

I was cognizantly becoming consistently cranky and negative, which was a huge jump from my typical obnoxious peppiness, and I couldn’t shake it.

It took crying every day in the office bathroom; getting ready for bed already dreading the next day; double dosing on sleeping pills only to still lie awake with my anxiety; and waking up feeling horrible to hit my breaking point. It was a fun journey, clearly.   

I had far too much on my plate, and my bullshit tolerance looked like a cokehead in a Yeezy sweatshirt: extremely thin and heavily distressed. I finally established a deadline by which time I would have either [hopefully] found another job, or I would quit.

Well, that date came and went. I had too much to do to leave. As much as I openly despised my job, my penchant for self-destructive diligence held strong. So I set another date. And another. And one more.

The problem was, I was making that money but also letting it make me, which went against everything the Ying Yang Twins had ever taught me.

Quitting meant being unemployed meant not having a paycheck meant not buying $6 Peanut Butter & Co Cinnamon Raisin Swirl like it was no big deal. And that shit is a very big deal to me.

It came down to one fateful horoscope in the back of the January issue of a random fashion magazine that ended up making all the difference. It might as well have been the rejected plot from The Devil Wears Prada 2.

My horoscope said that if I survived the first part of the month (due to planets being out of line or whatever astronomical fuckery was taking hold of my life), my luck would be improving near mid-January, with significant changes occurring during the last week which I should not question and just roll with.

Hmmm, continue thoroughly hating my life or let Star Jesus take the wheel? I opted to give it up to the universe. I really didn’t have much else to lose.

Well, Star Jesus stepped up, guys.

The first part of the month, as the horoscope outlined, was met with so many stressful situations that I almost completely empathized with 2007 Britney (didn’t shave my head, might’ve thrown an umbrella across my apartment).

In the middle of the month, I scored a phone interview. I took this interview in a secluded corner of Penn Station with a homeless man to my left cheering me on the whole time. He had several gold teeth, so I’d like to think he was a good luck charm.

I secured an in-person interview with this company the following week. It happened to fall on a day that I was planning to be out of the office anyway. Quite a convenient “improvement,” if you ask me.  

As if you couldn’t guess, the “significant change” that took place was me getting this new job. I also bought a new brand of mascara around this time, but I highly doubt that’s what the stars were referring to (Smashbox Full Exposure, by the way. Life changing).

And now, here we are.

I’m actually pleasant to be around again, something I appreciate more than anyone else because I had to live with me 24/7.

I get an extra hour of sleep every night.

   

Instead of spouting it off multiple times a day, I now reserve the phrase, “Are you fucking kidding me” for special occasions, like holidays with the fam.

Ultimately, though, I learned two tremendously important life lessons:

1. It is extremely possible to be smarter and savvier than people twice your age. Stifling how smart you are so that someone else doesn’t feel bad about being awful at their job helps no one. Don’t be a smartass, but use your smart ass to get shit done in the best way.
2. Paying your dues when you’re young is fine. Working hard to prove yourself is standard. Working harder than everyone else makes you look good. Working so hard that other aspects of your life suffer for it is not worth it. I don’t plan to ever make that mistake again.

So, am I at my dream job? No. Life doesn’t work that way.

Am I in a position that could lead me to my dream job? I have no idea, but maybe. Hopefully.

Am I excited again? Yes, about the jar of Cinnamon Swirl Peanut Butter I’m about to dive into headfirst. And everything else, too.

The 6 Things Every Woman Should Actually Have in Her Closet

Every woman’s magazine has published a list of all of the necessary items a lady needs in her closet to make it “complete.”

These lists typically include some kind of ballet flat, a trench coat, a little black dress, and well-fitting jeans. All of these classic pieces are supposed to give you a well-rounded selection that makes getting dressed “a breeze” and will keep your wardrobe “timeless.”

I’m all for it, but at the same time, these lists missed a few key pieces that real women need in their real closets for when real life goes down.

1. Black pants that look professional but feel/fit like sweats - You wake up on a Wednesday at 8:15 am hungover as shit because last night’s catch-up drinks with your friend Alexa got way out of hand, per usual. You have to leave for work in 15 minutes. After emerging from a cloud of dry shampoo, you will technically need pants (I don’t make the rules, girl). You’ve been trying to make leggings-as-business-casual happen, but it’s not going to happen, so you need another option.

Enter: the black jogger. Preferably high-waisted and a polyester-spandex blend, you can pair these with a button-down or any decent top and generally pull off looking like someone who’s not getting a little old to be fucked up on a Tuesday night.

2. Throwaway flats - Different from their timeless, structured variety, these life savers are the difference between strutting through the club crowd to the bathroom like a vixen, or bambi walking it out of the building at 12:30 because you literally can’t stand any longer. As a rule, you cannot have spent more than $9 on them at a Payless BOGO sale.

The key is to wear these until the last possible second before arriving at your destination, switch into your heels, and then immediately put them back on when you’re out of sight of anyone you’d like to bang. So, you’d walk to the train in the Throwaways, stash them in your clutch (yep, they’re typically pretty flexible) when you change into your sexy shoes, and whip them back out at the end of the night.

Sound lame? You’re not going to look any cooler hobbling along in the 4-inch heels you never learned how to properly walk in anyway. Take the advice.

  

3. An oversized, thick, long c...ardigan sweater - If you’re always cold but don’t have enough clout in the office to control the thermostat, an article of clothing that’s essentially a blanket is crucial. Sure, you’ve got the boho-hipster-chic thing working for you, but you could also curl up under your desk and take a nap at any moment. AT ANY MOMENT. That’s the kind of freedom we’re marching for next, ladies.

4. Red Pants - I’m not going to sit here and say, “Everyone looks great in a high waisted trouser cut!” because if you don’t feel good in that cut then what’s the fucking point. Go with whatever style makes you feel the most fabulous, I’m not Stacy London/God. The most important thing is that they’re bright red. Two reasons:

1. If you’re having a bad day, these pants will help you fake it better. Bright colors have power. Red is a powerful color. You’re really just doubling up on your strength here. Like Dragon Ball Z.
2. Everyone needs a pair of last-day-of-period pants after wearing black all week. You triumphed over your uterus yet again, you deserve to celebrate while still being aware that all bets are not off quite yet.

5. A Boob Shirt - Save it, feminists. Boobs are magical and make things happen. It’s science and history all wrapped into one (er, two).

Going on a third date and have already convinced the other person that you’re an intellectual with multi-faceted interests and ample artillery in the witticisms department? Well done. Unleash the money makers!

Seeing an ex after several months of not speaking to see if you guys can work things out? Remind them what they’ve been missing. Even if you don’t end up getting back together, you three made a very significant final impression.  

Boob shirts need be three things: extremely low cut, not a crop top (pace yourself), and able to tearfully bring a grown man or woman to their knees. Try Express.

6. Emergency “No It’s Part of My Outfit” Jacket - Your boyfriend invites you to dinner. Perfect! He forgot to mention that his parents whom you’ve only met once would be joining you. Not the right time to wear the sexiest LBD you own!

Luckily, you grabbed the “Just In Case” jacket on your way out. This can be conveniently left on and still look like an intentional element of your get-up. Leather jacket, army jacket, bomber, drape coat, all will work. I once misjudged the length of a skirt and worked in an office almost exclusively of middle-aged men. Didn’t plan on wearing my lightweight trench coat all day, but didn’t want to give Chet in Accounting another reason to corner me in the kitchen, either, so that was my outfit that day.

This jacket will also come in handy for beating your boyfriend with once you’ve “so nice to see you again!”’d the parentals away. Really? Not even a warning?

Hold on to your crisp white shirts and plain black turtlenecks, but add these items into the mix. A boob shirt with red pants? Are you a member of an early 2000s girl band? Try again.

How To Give The Perfect Gift

I'm not gonna sugar coat it: I judge people who give bad gifts.

Yes, this goes entirely against the spirit of the holiday season, and maybe I'm just an exceptional Kris Kringle (hair toss), but I really don't understand people who wrap up a copy of WINE for Dummies, laugh when you open it while explaining, "Everyone knows Skylar can't say NO to MERLOT" (for the thousandth time, I like Cabernet Sauvignon, you thoughtless piece of trash), and sit back giving themselves a pat on the back for half-assing it through yet another birthday party for Jesus.

This is avoidable. You don't have to be the dud who everyone prays doesn't pick them for Secret Santa/Mysterious Maccabi! A few easy tips are all that stand between you and a genuine, "Wow! Thank you so much!" or this:

Step 1: Get your head out of your own ass - The holidays are not the time to change someone; we reserve that for 30th birthdays, interventions, and serious relationships. Giving a friend a box set of Josh Groban's best duets because you yourself are a Grobanite is not a gift, it's sadism with a bow on top. If you attend aerial yoga four nights a weeks and think everyone should attend aerial yoga four nights a week and cornered your petrified sister-in-law after dinner to discuss the overwhelming calmness brought on by swaying savasana, you're just being a holly jolly jackass when everyone unwraps silk hammocks and nods at you with thinly-veiled contempt.

Step 2: Listen, Linda - I am an elephant--I forget nothing. I still remember a guy I was seeing in 2010 mentioning that when he got home from school as a kid, his mom would make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye while he watched Captain Planet. I literally have zero use for this information now, but it's stuck in there for life. The key to being an excellent gift-giver is not to rely on what the recipient mentions they want between November 29 and January 1; it's reaching all the way back to May when they talked about how much they loved boudin sausage on their recent visit to New Orleans and signing them up for a Cajun cooking class. How can you not get the warm and fuzzies from knowing you gave the perfect gift they didn't even know they wanted?

Step 3: Stand and Deliver - The above being said, if a loved one asks for something specific, don't go nuts trying to outdo yourself when there wasn't even a competition. Your cousin wants a book on Moroccan culture? Don't buy her a plane ticket to Marrakesh, just give her the freaking book. Most people, myself included, feel like this is the one time of year they can express their want for something without coming off like Veruca Salt; don't make me feel even more unnecessarily guilty by going completely overboard with my simple, "if it's not too much trouble" request.

Step 4: Change it up - We get it, your dad is a Packers fan. How many DVD's can he possibly watch highlighting their 1967 season? How much Green Bay barware can he really drink out of? What is the man going to do with a chunk of grass from Lambeau Field?! You have to realize when enough is enough. While he may be thrilled with end zone seats to the Packers vs. Bears game (duh), if you give him a Fat Head of Jerry Kramer - SURPRISE! - you're paying off your own student loans from now on, fucker.

Step 5: Enjoy it - If you view holiday shopping as a chore, you're 99% of what's wrong with the world (the other 1%: the fact that American Idol is still on the air. What the hell are we even doing). I'd venture to guess that the children of the middle-aged mom I witnessed viciously scream at a Foot Locker employee over the lack of color choices for Nike Hyperdunks would rather just receive a plain old basketball and call it a year. If you're getting bent out of shape over a 20%-off coupon, you need to shred your credit cards and check yourself. Hard. This season is supposed to be fun; don't ruin it for the rest of us just because you didn't manage to snag the last Nerf N-Strike Elite Nerf Cam ECS-12 Blaster. The BOOMco. Rapid Madness Blaster will suffice.

 

Kasually Kidnapped, Part 2

[cont'd from Part 1]

"Wait, turn the cab around, I think I left my phone on the table."
"No you didn't, I checked the table before we left."
"Can we please just turn around and check? I need my phone."
"It's not there."
"Can we PLEASE just turn AROUND to get my PHONE. PLEASE. PHONE. PLEASE."
"We'll find it."

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck, I was stuck in a cab with a full-blown sociopath. I was digging in between the seats when the cab stopped in front of a place that was not where my friends were.

"Where are we?"
"My place."
"Okay better question: Why are we here?!"
"I thought we could hang out and watch a movie."
"I need to go back to my friends right now, you need to take me back to them right now."
"Let's just chill a little longer."
"My phone is gone and I have no idea where I am or any way of telling them where I am. They're going to be worried, we need to go back there."
"Eh."
"No. No 'eh.' Take me back to where they are right now."
"Do you wanna play with my dog?"

I wanted to cry but couldn't. This had gone from bad to way, way worse, and I was desperately wishing I had attended that Krav Maga class with one of my friends a few years ago. I knew how to break someone's nose (shove up with the heel of your hand), but that was the extent of my self-defense training. Why hadn't my brothers and I held Wrestlemania in the living room over Christmas for old times' sake so I could brush up on my skills?

I quietly stood/sat on the arm of the sofa while Gavin obliviously played tug-o-war with his dog, Griff. Griff kept shooting me looks as if to say, "The back door's unlocked, save yourself." I shot looks back saying, "Please be gentle when you gnaw on my freshly-murdered flesh."

I asked Gavin if I could use his phone to call my friends (forgetting the fact that memorizing phone numbers is a thing of the past so I was still screwed), but his was conveniently dead. I was visibly defeated.

"I hate it when you're upset like this."
"What do you have to compare it to?"

I told him that I just wanted to sleep, clarifying after his eyes lit up that I would be doing this relationship activity by myself on the couch. He said I could take his bed and he would take the couch, once again being sure I realized how much of a gentleman he was. I ignored him and walked back to his room to lay on top of his covers and stare at the ceiling. Of course, he followed me and stood in the doorway.

"Yes?"
"Is this our first fight?"
"Yes it is."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Please go away."

Trouble in fucking paradise. I'm typically a pretty good problem solver and quick on my feet, but this was a situation. I laid there for a while, going in an out of sleep, not worrying about Gavin coming in and attacking me because I had locked the door. At one point I got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw Gavin and Griff canoodling on the couch, probably plotting which section of my body would be buried in which part of the yard. Gavin had taken off his sweatshirt and thrown it to the side, and there was something sticking out of the pocket.

Yep.

"Is that my phone?"
"You're awake?"
"Did you take my phone??"
"Oh cool it's here."
"ARE YOU CHARLES FUCKING MANSON WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?! I'm leaving, you need to drive me to my car."
"I thought we were gonna chill?"
"You hid my fucking phone from me you psycho, nothing is happening here. Let's go."
"I can't drive, I've been drinking."

Nice try, Beyonce.

"It's four in the fucking morning you idiot, at this point you probably have half a buzz but you are not drunk by any means. Get up and get your fucking keys, you're driving me to my car. I can't believe this."
"I have a company car, Skylar, I can't get a DUI."
"You told me yesterday you drive the truck given to you by the construction company, Gavin, it's not a fucking Rolls."
"You know my name?"
"Jesus Christ."

This exchange went in circles for the better part of ten minutes until he finally begrudgingly got up and put on shoes.

"Babe, I hate it when you're this upset."
"You've known me twelve hours. Stop talking."

He insisted on bringing Griff along, so the happy little family climbed into the truck together. I felt exhausted, guilty, and extremely stupid, and this was only amplified by Gavin continuing to speak to me as if "this" would continue past him dropping me off.

"Babe I'm sorry."
"Do not call me that."
"But we're dating."
"No we're not."
"Didn't we have the exclusivity talk last night?"
"Stop."
"You have my number right?"
"Sure."

Praise the Lord and His miracles, we made it to my car and I still had all of my toes. As you can imagine, he definitely tried to kiss me good-bye, to which I shoved Griff in his face and jumped out of that truck as fast as possible. I know that most people struggle the morning after Sunday Funday, but I think I beat anyone's hangover by leaps and bounds today.

Moral of the Story: Stretch Armstrong might've looked like a circus freak, but at least we can guarantee he loves Creatine more than he'd ever love me. Better safe than sorry.

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Holiday Movie Drinking Game: A Christmas Story

Whoever the genius at TBS was that came up with "24 Hours of A Christmas Story" better get a massive bonus every December. It is one of my favorite Christmas movies, if not one of my top ten movies of all time, and the fact that I can watch Ralphie whale on Scut Farkus as many times as I want is a true Christmas miracle.

If your holiday is anything like mine, the A Christmas Story drinking game will be a life saver, as sometimes you really do need to be wasted for an entire day. For Jesus.

• Ralphie asks for an "official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle" - Drink!
• Someone curses, or yells out jibberish that's meant to be an extreme profanity rant - Drink 2!
• An adult in costume is legitimately frightening - Drink!
• "Bumpuses!" - Drink 2!
• Scut Farkus "haw haw haw!"'s - Drink!

• You think Ralphie's mom might be on a cocktail of painkillers - Drink 3!
• Randy whines and/or cries - Drink!
• Someone's nose bleeds - Drink 2!
• Ralphie has one of his fantasties - Drink!
• Someone says, "You'll shoot your eye out!" - Drink 2!
• The furnace acts up - Drink 2!
• Randy refuses to eat - Drink 2!

• Ralphie breaks his glasses - Drink 2!
• "Hey, that's mine!" - Drink!
• The Old Man makes a thinly-veiled sarcastic comment - Drink!
• "Oh my God I shot my eye out!" - CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

 

 

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The Five Commandments of Legging Season

Let us remember in this transitioning season of cooler weather and not having to shave our legs (except on weekends) that although leggings are both comfortable and cheap ($8.80 at Forever 21, cha-ching), there are certain rules that we need to be mindful of.

And Skylar spake all these words, saying, "I am the Fashion Police, who has brought thee out of the land of unfortunate highlights and quesitonable trends, out of the house of ill-fitting clothes."

1. Thou shalt not wear leggings as pants - If they were supposed to be pants, we would call them "pants." It is that simple. They're spandex and/or cotton and are basically a step up from actual skin, the world would really rather not be forced to experience your inevitable camel toe. Buy longer shirts.

2. Thou shalt not reveal a VPL - Do you know why guys lose their minds over legging season? Because of unadulterated views of our bootays. If you're going to offer it up, have some respect for yourself and for your audience and make the event run smoothly, aka without visible panty lines. 0.00% of people find granny panties sexy, therefore the line dissecting your donk is an immediate boner killer. Channel your inner Sisqo and invest in some thong tha-thong thong thongs.

3. Thou shalt not get colorful - Story time! Once, at the beginning of my senior year of college, I was walking to class on a particularly warm September morning. Technically Legging Season had begun, I guess, but it was like 85 degrees before 10 a.m., so clearly Skirt Season was still alive and well. A particularly shapely girl was walking in front of me, and had embraced the season full-force. Unfortunately, she had done so in light grey leggings, and hustling across the street before the walk sign timed out was particularly stressful. This led to back sweat. And crescent moon sweat (a delicate semicircular patch right below the tush). And I could see it. Had she been wearing leggings in the standard and universally acceptable hues of black, navy, and daaaark grey, my eyesight wouldn't have been accosted, but as it was I was made involuntarily aware of the fact that her leggings had never been worn for athletic purposes. Don't be like Betty McButtsweat; stay on the dark side.

4. Thou shall stay in thy legging lane - Let's get this straight: ladies of all shapes and sizes are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. There, that's done. Now let us all agree that leggings in a size 3XL might not be the most responsible decision by society. We can refer to commandment #1 for the main reason why this is a bad call. If you question whether or not you should be wearing leggings, chances are the answer is, "Nuh-uh." Spandex is a privilege, not a right.

5. Thou shalt not expect a miracle - If you've gained fifteen pounds and put on your black leggings with the hope that they'll suck everything in, you look like you stuffed fifteen extra pounds into a very unwilling sausage casing. If you're trying to abide by commandment #2 but overstep your boundaries and go commando, thinking no one will know the difference, you're overestimating the opacity of stretch cotton. If you have zero butt whatsoever and put on your leggings with the hope that you'll all of a sudden reach Kim K status, you not only need to aim a little higher, but you're also going to be extremely disappointed. Leggings are like the guy who has a fun sense of humor, a great job, and clean fingernails: he seems perfect in theory, but there's definitely some underlying cocaine addiction or toe fetish happening there. Too good to be true.

So that's that. Break out your leggings and your boots and your infinity scarves, but do so properly. Skylar said to the people, “Do not be afraid. Legging Season has come to test you, so that the fear of VPL will be with you to keep you from looking truly heinous.”

Amen.

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Save Me Jeebus!

Tact is something I lack.

 

When my friends and I are getting ready to go out and the skinny girl keeps returning from her room with a different outfit complaining, “Does this look okay? I am so FAT!” and everyone else is like, “You’re gorgeous!” “You’re tiny!” “OHMYGODSTAHP you are beautiful!” I’m the douche in the corner saying, “Yeah you look awful, ya tub o’ lard. Now shut up and chug because the cab will be here in five minutes.”

 

When I do P90X Plyo and Tony Horton says, “Alright, you’ve got two legs, let’s do Hot Feet on the right,” conveniently forgetting about Prosthetic Leg Eric in the back who he introduced us to in the beginning, I start laughing. At Eric. And his one fake leg.

 

However, my lack of sensitivity is most evident at Easter. There is just so much that is prohibited and deemed “unacceptable behavior” that it’s pretty much inevitable that at least three members of my extended family will be offended and our Easter dinner prayer will primarily discuss forgiving sinners while everyone not-so-discreetly gives me the eye.

 

 

Unfortunately, and unavoidably, Jesus is the reason I have so much trouble around this holiday.

 

First of all, I love me a good Jesus joke. Anything is funnier when Jesus is involved. Pouring Merlot at my winery job was particularly difficult yesterday, because all I wanted to do was say, “This is the blood of Christ” and have everyone reply, “Amen.” Am I wrong for that? I didn’t mean it disrespectfully; I was just trying to bring some life back into the room (ba dum chh).

 

 

Secondly, I feel compelled to make up for the fact that I haven’t been to church in over a year and a half by dedicating every action to the Big Guy.

“I’m off to my internship…FOR JESUS!”
“I’m going to sleep in until 1 p.m.….FOR JESUS!”
“Let’s go to Margarita Monday…FOR JESUS!” (pronounced hay-zoos)
I have caught on that maybe this isn’t okay by the reactions I receive from those who don’t know me well enough to tell me off, aka an uncomfortable half-laugh and a shaking of the head while they look down at their feet hoping I’ll just leave. Who am I supposed to devote my life to, Bradley Cooper? ….I’m not opposed.

Finally, any time I get chastised for performing a task improperly, my immediate reaction is to say, “What?? I’m pretty sure it’s what Jesus would’ve done.” And, if we’re having honesty hour here, I’m kinda right.  

 

So is my lack of discretion really that bad? If so, which level of Hell am I going to, exactly? Someone let me know; I need to figure out which SPF will provide enough protection while still giving me a healthy glow.  

Three Ways Pandora Can Win Back My Affection

Dear Pandora,

 

You’re great, you really are.

 

You’re always there when I need my fix of 90-00’s pop music, busting out classics like Nivea’s “Don’t Mess with My Man” and Willa Ford’s “I Wanna Be Bad” in the clutch. When I’m having a particularly angsty day and all I want to hear is Eminem screaming about drugs and Kim with increasingly murderous rage, you somehow sense this and throw all of his comedy hip-hop by the wayside in favor of the emotional disaster that was The Marshall Mathers LP. You have a sixth sense in this way, and for that I am eternally grateful.

 

However, sometimes you really suck. If we were dating, I’d have the, “It’s not you it’s me” talk (when we’d both know it was really definitely you). If we were friends, I’d suggest you lay off the juice and get your life back in order. If you were my mom, I would’ve gotten emancipated a la Macaulay Culkin years ago.

 

You have a tendency to do me wrong in the dirtiest of ways: throwing a cog in my morning routine of getting ready while jamming out to volume eleven-level tunes, and even worse, leading others who happen to be enjoying my excellent taste in music to believe that I ‘liked’ a Creed song. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

 

If you want us to remain friends, here are the three ways in which you need to check yoself:

 

1.       Stop assuming I like JLo as much as you think I do – Sure, I had a tap dance to “Let’s Get Loud” in my sixth grade recital, and I love to imitate the Ja Rule rap in the “I’m Real” remix, but that’s about the extent of it. Why oh why must every other song on my Christina Aguilera radio be Jennifer Lopez, especially the most recent, god-awful dance mixes? Sure, I’d love to “be it on the floor” tonight, but right now I’m five minutes late for work and I simply don’t have time. Furthermore, if I am forced to follow being “it on the floor” with “doin’it well,” I’m most definitely going to drop too low and pull something and then my plans are shot to hell. Stop forcing me to channel my inner Latina, it’s strenuous.

 

2.       Don’t pigeon hole me into a decade – I like Madonna. I will give a hearty thumbs up to old-school, “Vogue”-era Madonna. I’ll even give “Hey Mr. DJ” Madonna a few minutes of my time. Keep her comin’. But it is musically racist of you to believe that just because I like Madonna, I all of a sudden want to be bombarded with the shittiest music of the 80’s. I’ve also liked Pat Benatar, Cyndi Lauper and Queen, but then you come at me with Flock of Seagulls and it’s the equivalent of telling someone a story for twenty minutes only to have them respond with, “Wow, that’s crazy.” At least pretend like you’re paying attention.

 

3.       Learn to take a compliment – “Are you still listening? I mean it’s whatever, I’m just paying for everything you hear and you haven’t liked or disliked anything I’ve played in the past hour… No it’s totally fine, I don’t mind footing the bill; you’ll get me next time right? LOL. It’s just, you know, I’m paying for all of these songs and I feel like you’re not even appreciating them. You could always upgrade and actually pay for the same exact service without Vistaprint commercials popping up every fourth song, but it’s okay because I’m totally fine with shelling out for this music!!!” Hey asshole, maybe you’re just not fucking up for once and I’m actually enjoying every song being played. Way to ruin the flow.