I like to think I invented the thing of snapbreaks, but honestly we live in such a rotten world (CONGRESS! Am I right!?) that likely people are getting dumped every day on Snapchat.
Well if you’re one of these savages, then boy did your life just get awesome! With the recent launch of Snapchat Stories, you can bring your boo-thing to a screeching halt, AND all your friends can be witness to the disaster for 24 hours!
Like maybe you snapbreaked your boo, but he was drunk when he opened it. So he woke up the next morning oblivious to the fact that he’d been snapped to the curb. Maybe he texts you and asks for brunch. “NOOOO,” you think. “I thought this break was supposed to be a snap!” Now with Stories, your boo can’t blame the booze because your snapbreak will be there the next morning, taunting him and letting your friends know the good news. Honestly, this is an improvement, I think. Think of all the “Yeah, I ended things with Bradley…” texts you’ll save!
Apologies for the two days in a row of snap selfies.
If there is one thing I hate, it’s eyeliner without mascara. If there’s another thing I hate, it’s when boys say something something, “I got scared.”
You know… you’re dating a boy and things are pretty good and you’re doing a bunch of boo-loving and SDOAs, etc., etc. Then one day he freaks out and falls of the face of the earth. Why, he tells you?
"I got scared."
Scared of what, you idiot boy?!
Being scared is when a robber comes in your home in the middle of the night and points a gun at you and steals your Roku and 3D TV. Scared is when a crazy man on the subway nearly pushes you onto the platform. Scared is closing your eyes in the shower and when you open them a bug has appeared out of nowhere.
Scared is NOT when someone tries to have a meaningful relationship with you and shower you with affection and treats and time and sex and dinner and drinks and attention.
What you’re actually feeling is a classic case of the I-want-to-sleep-with-lots-of-people-who-aren’t-you. Or perhaps the common I-still-kind-of-have-a-thing-with-my-ex-going-on. Or maybe even the crowd favorite I-hate-commitment.
Whatever you got going on, boo, it’s not fear.
Grow up and learn how to use your big boy words, ya dummy.
One week from today I will be 25 years old. I have been dreading this moment for months because 25 feels like the age where you need to start acting like an adult human being. I mean I’ve been pretty, pretty busy these past 24 years being employed and avoiding pregnancy and marriage, so it’s like give me a break if I haven’t gotten around to yoga or “long-term financial security.”
But yes, 25 means it’ll no longer be funny when I drunkenly take a tumble on Ludlow. I should probably “exercise,” and my bloody mary intake might need to adjust to mid-20s-appropriate levels. 25 also means I should probably start volunteering or get a savings account.
I fully intend to do all those adult things this year, but there are other, more important things, I hope to accomplish. Here’s my 25 for 25:
Break up with someone at a communal table.
Buy a real leather jacket.
Have a darling breakfast with Eliza once a week before work.
Get into the whole “biking” thing.
Date an older (33+) man.
Wear more crop tops.
^^ Lose 10 lbs.
Continue to push my pro-fried chicken agenda.
Learn more about whiskey and wine.
Find a new series to fill the gaping hole in my heart that Breaking Bad will leave come Sunday.
Something something kale.
Develop a better subway attitude.
Travel to Europe.
Remember to send birthday cards and presents.
Eat less bacon. Maybe.
Or eat more bacon…
Continue to push my pro-Bushwick agenda.
NEVER BUY ANYTHING FROM FOREVER 21 AGAIN.
Bring lipstick back into my life.
Petsit a puppy for one week so I can go ahead and get that out of my system.
Learn how to make a flawless over easy egg.
Find some sort of exercise that doesn’t fill me with anxiety and dread.
Give up trying to make maxi skirts happen. They’re not going to happen.
Develop a “five year plan.”
Defy the laws of physics and fall in love on the L train.
The key to getting someone to like you, and I mean like like you, is to trick them early on into thinking you’re super cool/hilarious/witty/emotionally stable/insightful/intelligent/kind-hearted/clean/happy/ambitious/you-know-all-the-things-you-want-in-a-potential-partner-in-sex.
This means you have to be terribly strategic in the timing and positioning when you reveal your not-so-awesome traits. Everyone has weird things about them, and it’s like just get over it already. But weird things can kill a good boo-love if revealed too early on. These traits typically fall into five categories, and here’s my take on when you can begin slowly lifting the veil on your crazy.
We like different things
So when y’all first met, it was all “OMG I love this bloody mary!” “No way me too! Let’s drink 100 bloody marys together!” Now this particular bloody mary may have been too spicy or too had much horseradish sediment for your liking, but because this super cute, super new boo was into it, well shit, you were too! About two months into your boo-thing, I think it’s appropriate to begin to backtrack (or merely clarify!) your tastes for bloody marys, movies, music, and NPR podcasts. Hopefully by this point you’ll have other things to bicker about, like your ex-boyfriend randomly texting you every weekend, and a difference in preference for Planet Money vs. This American Life won’t seem like a big deal.
I don’t always look this way
The first few weeks of spendthenights are WROUGHT with inner turmoil. Should I wash my face? Do we brush our teeth before bed? Should I assume we’re doing a sleep over before we go out and plan ahead by packing a mini-spendthenight bag in my purse? Should I fix my makeup in the morning? WILL HE NEVER LOVE ME IF HE SEES ME WITHOUT MASCARA???????????
The answer to all these questions is chill the fuck out. But when you’re newly booed-up, it’s easy to feel like the entire relationship is hinging on whether or not your boo believes your eyelashes are naturally that luxurious AT ALL TIMES. I say after the first few weeks, it’s cool to act like a normal human being and wash your face before you go to bed during spendthenights if that’s what you’re into. Plus your 53-year-old self will thank you.
Sometimes I’m crazy
I’ve made, and subsequently had to retract, the following statement to every boy I’ve ever dated:
"I’m not a jealous girl at all."
This is just a dirty rotten lie. I am jealous. I am super jealous. It might be because I’ve been systematically lied to and cheated on by most of the boys I’ve dated. But honestly I was a jealous brat with my 5th grade boyfriend and no one had had the chance to break my heart then, so I will blame it on genes. Or something.
Anyway the point is, you’ve got to keep your crazy in check for AT LEAST three months before you let your boo know that you’ve obsessively stalked his ex-girlfriend’s Instagram from jump street or that every time he gets a text it takes every ounce of self-control in your tiny body to refrain from asking, “Oh, who’s that?”
You’re annoying me
It’s amazing what you’ll overlook when you’re in the throws of early boo-loving. Poor tipping etiquette, wrinkled shirts, snobbery, and weird jokes are all just part of your boo’s charm in the beginning. But eventually that shit will get on your nerves, and it’s okay to be an adult about it a month or so in and kindly say, “Why don’t you let me leave a 20% tip for the cab driver if you’re unwilling to.”
I try really hard to be cool
In addition to striving for permanent perfect-makeup-face, you’ll want to make all aspects of your life seem super fun and super cool when you first meet your boo-thing. Whether it’s sending your boo 100 super provocative NYT articles or making sure you wear your best I’m-sexy-but-I-don’t-care-what-I-look-like outfit every time y’all hang out, eventually that shit gets exhausting, and it’ll be revealed that you’re pretty cool, but not as cool as your three-weeks-into-a-relationship self would suggest.
About two months in, I think it’s totally okay to admit that you only read part of Maureen Dowd’s column this Sunday and that for a little while you thought A$AP Ferg was just A$AP Rocky’s name before he got famous. Oh and you frequent McDonald’s at least once a month. Just be understanding when your boo also reveals that he has a secret love of Princess Mononoke and plans to go as Si for Halloween.
Okay, just kidding, Duck Dynasty is actually really cool.
In case you weren’t obsessively reading CNET’s live blog of the Apple event, let me boil it down for you:
There is a new iPhone 5S, and it will change the way human’s stalk their boos forever.
The home button will have a fingerprint reader, called Touch ID, that unlocks the 5S. The implications of this are many, but what the folks over at CNET are neglecting to report is HOW IN THE WORLD ARE WE SUPPOSED TO CREEP ON OUR BOOS’ IPHONES?!
In the olden days, after a couple stealthy glances while watching Mad Men, you could figure out your boo’s passcode and enjoy unlimited access the treasure trove of texts, snaps, emails, and FB chats that lay behind those four pesky digits. But now in the age of Touch ID, how in the blazes are you supposed to do this?? Cut off your boyfriend’s index finger? Buy some sort of flesh-like glove with his fingerprints?*
Sure this new technology will make it more difficult for thieves to hack your phone and babies to accidentally email on your behalf, but what about the millions of people whose boos are cheating on them? This technology is actually setting us back 50 years when you had to discover your partner’s infidelity through clues left in his coat pockets, à la Betty Draper. I really wish the hotshots at Apple had taken that into consideration before they went around putting technology into things.
So on behalf of crazy people everywhere, I say shame on you, Apple. Shame on you and your fancy, anti-boo-creeping iPhone.
*I swear there is a market for these gloves, so if you know anything about “making things” or “investing,” let’s discuss further.
I’d like to take it to church for a moment and sing the praises of Lena Dunham’s insta from Wednesday. Preach, bebe.
This obviously reminds me of the Girls episode where Hannah lets her coworkers give her a TERRIFYING eyebrow makeover. She then goes to Adam’s apartment and delivers a speech that hits hauntingly close to home. Preach again, bebe.