The Definitive Guide To Male Archetypes Based On The Season Premiere of The Bachelorette

The Southern Comfort: Blonde hair, blue eyes, that’s about it.

The City Slicker: Ambiguous ethnicity in a Shark in the original production of West Side Story kind of way. He’s appropriate until he touches your butt.

The Say Anything: Holds up a sign that says “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. I AM SO NERVOUS.” on a sheet of looseleaf. His bros at home fist bump and shout “Booya!”

The Pearl Jam: The Samson of the dating world, his only power is in his long dark hair which he pushes behind his ears so frequently you’re not sure how his fingers don’t blister.

The Goofball: He dresses up as your grandma! He loves potty humor! He gets too drunk at parties and embarrasses you in front of your friends!

The Too Much Too Soon: This large ostrich egg symbolizes our delicate yet boundless love.

The JFK: He flies in on a helicopter. Later we will see him on a white horse. He is the bane of the other contestants’ existence and will spend the rest of his life rationalizing everything with the mantra “They’re just jealous.”

The Shouter: Jazz Hands. He says “Alright!” a lot, like when Austin Powers has difficulty controlling the volume of his voice.

The Single Dad: He loves his son more than most things but less than being on national television with a surgically enhanced you.

The Danielle Steel: His name is Alejandro. He exclusively speaks Spanish, loves warm baths and rose petals, and hopes that you do too.

The Jersey Shore: Spiked hair, boom box, and a business card that reads “Dancer-Slash-MC X-TRORDINARE.”

The One Liner: “The name is charming. Prince Charming.” “I’m a high school biology teacher but I’m here to see if we have chemistry.” “Have you ever been to Sandals Resort & Spa because JA MAKIN ME CRAZY!”

                                When someone’s bothering me, this is what I look like in my head.

                                                              This is what I actually look like.

Electric Typewriter

On my way to dinner last week I happened upon this typewriter. Someone had thrown it out their window. It was sad enough just lying there, but sadder still that I didn’t get to witness the relationship that ended with “Well fuck you and fuck your fucking typewriter!!!!!” I took it home and fixed it up.

The Time I Dog Sat For My Boss, or, In Defense of Cats

In my ongoing quest for the most emotionally draining work schedule possible, I agreed to house/dog sit for my boss for six days this week. Since I grew up with cats, I thought it would be a great opportunity to convince myself that I actually like dogs. I was wrong. Here’s why:

1. Dogs are incredibly needy. I want to emphasize this. I can’t untie my shoes without having my hand forcefully pushed away by three smushy noses. I respect cats because they let me live. Dog is not man’s best friend, man is dog’s best friend. Think about it.

2. Dogs breed such sensitivity in humans that 97% of people who started to read this stopped and unsubscribed after #1. No one is ashamed to say they hate cats. But I have to feel so bad about not loving dogs I feign enthusiasm when it’s just us. I act really excited to see them and then go to the bathroom and roll my eyes. I’m sure they know. 

3. The chihuahua brought me a piece of his own poop last night. 

4. A relationship with a dog is heavily weighted in the dog’s favor. You stay home and love them, they bring you poop. With cats, it’s a level playing field. You’re never fooling yourself. They don’t really care if you go out with your friends every night and don’t check in on them during the day. They let you do your thing and you let them do theirs and sometimes you chill and watch CSI together. 

5. I don’t like the whole “cat lady” stigma. I think it’s gendered and unfair. Why is there no “dog man” stigma? What’s scarier - a single, aging woman who watches CSI marathons in her pre-war full of cats, or a fat, balding, unmarried man who watches Cops reruns in his camper full of dogs and ends up being the murderer in CSI? You decide.

Disclaimer: This post can be read as a metaphor for why I don’t have a boyfriend.


Fairy Tale

I met him last night. I was rolling a large suitcase of laundry back to my apartment. I mustn’t have heard him come in behind me over the loud thumps of the bag hitting the stairs. The chinese food delivery man saw me coming from inside the lobby and decided not hold the elevator, smirking as he stepped inside. As I fumbled for my keys to open the second door, emphatically mumbling, “fucking douchebag asshole” he asked me, “Do you need help with that?” I guess sometimes when the hottie from the 6th floor finally comes around, you’ll just be mumbling fucking douchebag asshole in an echoey vestibule.


Breaking News

The HOT BIRD billboard is back above Hot Bird! I guess the “WE BUY CASH” billboard was confusing to people.

Things I Don’t Particularly Like About Brooklyn

1. How when people move here, they’re all like “Yeah I exclusively take the L and live in Canarsie. You’re from where? Bay Ridge? That’s so far.”

2. The Bon Iver looking career barista who tells me they don’t have coffee, only americanos. Adjusting his suspenders he dismisses me for the couple next in line, extolling his pretentious French cafe proprietor boss as a “visionary” for the next twenty minutes.

3. The fact that harassment is considered a social norm. When you walk down the street, work your retail job, or even if you’re in the movies or at a bowling alley, no recognition of general human courtesy is stopping some slimy creep with a chinstrap from shouting “FATTAYYYYYY” from the window of his Camry.

4. The untimely but inevitable death of stoop life. Maybe it’s just that I’m 22 and it’s not okay to sit on stoops and drink 40s anymore, but I’m pretty sure there was a distinct shift in June of 2006 when people started coming out of their houses and telling us to get off their their “property.” I don’t even want to imagine a world where my children couldn’t find a bodega that illegally sells malt liquor they could hide in their north faces and roam the streets and parks of New York in search of adequate private property on which to congregate for a little old fashioned fun. 

5. When anyone acts like Brooklyn is somehow new and exclusive. Save ridiculous rent inflation and surrounding problems (See: Pro-Cro), Brooklyn is a borough of massive history, adaptability, and acceptance where the ultimate currency is keeping it real. And maybe brunch.

Two women came into the store yesterday. They we marveling over a 1950s dress for its femininity. One of them, Susan, told the other she should wear it to the symposium their organization was hosting to explore women’s innate power and the possibility of a female creator. They bought the dress. As they were leaving the store Susan looked me deep in the eyes and said, “Find your own magic.” I signed up for their mailing list.

On Scraping Wallpaper

                                   This is the photo I sent to my mom. She replied, “This is art?” 

On Party Mix

The problem with party mix, chex mix bold party flavor - any kind of mix really - is apparent in its name. With normal food, you pretty much know what you’re going to get with every successive bite. With party mix, you are under the illusion that the next bite is going to be even more harmonic and awesome than the last. You believe this so wholeheartedly, that you eat handful after handful, rapidly taking in the cornucopia of flavors, until a small duplicitous pretzel gets lodged in your throat and you come face to face with the prospect of suffocating while hemming your jeans. All I’m saying is, I really don’t want the words “She really liked party mix” uttered at my funeral.


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