Hey, Jeff! It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that I must cancel our date tonight. Yes, the one at 7. That you are already on your way to. That you rescheduled ‘Dude’s Night’ for. Sorry. But, don’t
Hey. You. The girl with the obnoxious wedding hashtag and disgustingly sappy engagement photoshoot pics. Yeah, I’m talking to you. Your engagement ring can’t hide you now. GET THE FUCK OFF MY NEWSFEED.
If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ll know that I make terrible life decisions on an all-too-regular basis. Have sex with a college sophomore? Fine. Black out on a first Tinder date? GIRL, WHY THE FUCK NOT.
Hello, fuckboy. Yes, Brian (or Brad, or Brett, or Ben) – I’m talking to you. You’re sitting across from me at the bar you suggested we meet at, conveniently located in your neighborhood. Your hair sits high and tight, as
You may wonder why I don’t often write about second dates. Is it because I’m heartless and use men and then drop them like a hot potato? Sometimes. Is it because I have the texting-response speed of a elderly sloth, which
Context: I know I only blog about my romantic escapades via dating apps, but this does not mean I don’t get out and meet boys in public! Much to the contrary, I LOVE talking to strange men at bars. This weekend
I’ve given up on Mr. Chicago. Now, before you’re like “WTF J?! Stop cutting perfectly good men out of your life! You’re going to die alone with 15 cats and a half-complete tear-stained latch hook project of Liz Lemon on