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OKCupid: A Love Story

This words are majic (bom shaka laka bom ) say it next to your vagina and the jenie will come out to make your wishes come true

- an actual message on OKCupid

Even now, I can’t recall whether it was the soft accent on the word “majic”, the rhythmic onomatopoeia of the bom shaka laka bom or the tender advice to whisper to my vagina so that a mystical “jenie” would come out that made me fall for you, Rider911.

But I fell hard. 

I studied your provocative beach picz with a hookah in hand for hours. 

What I wouldn’t give to be a grain of sand on that beach!


Your glorious room, where the real majic would happen…


But then I tried your request, Rider, and nothing happened.

No majic!

No jenies!

Just me alone in sweatpants whispering to my vagina.*

Waiting for an answer that would never come…


I see now that the jenie was a metephor.

You’re the jenie; the jenie who broke my heart.

So why don’t you and your chic oversize black coat and XXL vespa helmet go toy with another woman’s emotions and leave me here.                          

I hope I never see your hauntingly sexy blurry face again.


Also, cute dog.



*It was, after all, a Tuesday

Filed under okcupid dogs love sex lust cheese the pit nyc ucb girl funny dating just eat the food foodporn

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Life In Tha Dirty B

Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.


I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.

I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*





They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*

I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.


Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:

  • removing dogs from each teet
  • taking a shower (I know)
  • packing a healthy lunch (I know, again)
  • power-walking to the L train in sensible flats to the husky overtures of an elderly meat factory worker grunting: “Looks goooood on ya, snowflake.”

(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)

Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”


*Names have been changed for privacy

*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison

Filed under drake male model zoolander comedy ucb the pit okcupid funny girl werk twerk girls hillary clinton justeatthefood food foodporn

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Hello old friends!

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted for a while.

Perhaps you assumed that I had finally contracted Type II Diabetes and had died face down in a child’s birthday cake somewhere.

But guess what?

I’m back, baby

And I just put some delicious nachos in the microwave…









They’re ready.

Let’s do this

So, the reason for my departure isn’t that I’ve been busy, or overwhelmed with success, or lost my sh*t like that KONY 2012 guy who ran around screaming and masturbating on the streets of San Diego.*

I’ve just been lazy

Eating for me has recently become less of a source of humor, than a crippling and systematic assault on my metabolism and well-being.

For example:

Right now I’m hunched over my computer in a dirty bathrobe simultaneously ordering delivery from two different Chinese food restaurants.*

I haven’t gone grocery shopping for four months, and have recently taken to ordering double lunches and double dinners so that my refrigerator now resembles the bomb shelter of a neurotic, indecisive, salt addict.

In order to feed the monster, I’ve perfected a way to cheat the system so that I get 25% off each time.

Surprisingly, people aren’t as impressed with this as I thought they would be…

THE SCENE: House party, two twenty-something girls standing at the table next to the chips and dip

Me: Mmm… Love these Naked chips, right?

Cute Girl in Jumper: Oh my god! Obsessed! They’re the best.

Me: (quietly) So I like to eat alone in my bed off of my stomach sometimes…

Cute Girl in Jumper: Sorry, what?

Me: (hyperventilating) Like just after work! Ha! It’s not weird! Ha! Like I’m not spending all day alone in my apartment!!! I love daylight!! Anyway, You know them right?? So, they have all these points, I’ve redeemed a lot of them and gotten mugs and stuff! But the other day I found this great way to save money on…. Wait, where are you going?

And so the story goes…


*Alright, that was me.

*In other words: it’s your typical Monday night.

Filed under the peoples improv theater the pit nyc CollegeHumor just eat the food sad funny

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White People Love Chicken

Editor’s Note: Since I posted this, multiple people have informed me that it is “platanos” not “plantanos.” I’m leaving this in as a prime example of my whiteness. Maybe this was why the waitress smiled at me when I asked for more…

My boyfriend, James, lives in Harlem and every night he eats at a little chicken and rice restaurant down the street from his apartment.

It’s $5 for a whole plate of food, and he speaks about it with the reverence that devout Catholics have for Jesus or the excitement that Kristen Bell feels when a “sloth is near”*

I went there with him the other day, and it went something like this:

(We walk in, greeted by a smiling Dominican woman behind the counter)

Woman: (to James) Hola papi! Lookin’ good! How are you?

James: I’m great, darlin! Got that ill mondongo today?

(they both break out in a chorus of laughter)

Woman: (laughing) Oh you!

Me: (hovering in the background in my puffy coat, laughing loudly, clearly confused) HA! HA! Right??

Both: (stop laughing and look at me as if I had just farted)

James: (pause) So anyway… Can I get the lunch special?

At this point, I feel like I should mention something to you.

I’m white.

Alright, pasty.

Alright, borderline translucent…

And I don’t just mean skin color. I’m talking country-club going, khaki-wearing, socks with sandals white.

If I was a genre of music I would be smooth jazz.

I used to try to pretend I wasn’t as white. I went tanning, dyed my hair dark brown, and wore hoop earrings. But it just felt weird, like that time Christina Aguilera was brunette and did a music video with Lil’ Kim*

I wish my life was like one of those Old Navy commercials with the black dad and Asian mom and Native American children all dancing in the sunlight, throwing snowballs and wearing knit hats.

But alas, I am sorely, painfully, Caucasian. 

James is white too. But I don’t think anyone has ever told him this, and sometimes I literally have no idea what he is saying.

The other day we were walking down the street and he pulled me aside whispering, “Yo, everyone be sleepin’ on Harlem son.”

“Yeah, son…” I whispered back, “They mad tired!”

Judging by the sad look on his face, I feel like this wasn’t the correct response.

Back to restaurant: at that point I wanted to yell, “Hey! I can dig it! Chicken is the ill na na!” but I restrained myself and instead climbed onto one of high stools on the counter with my hands in my lap, like a five year-old waiting for din din.

James quickly ordered two lunch specials. As the waitresses were dancing to the radio, flirting with the regular customers and dipping ladles into different spicy sauces, I sat there tapping my foot to the beat in my J. Crew turtleneck.

Then it came: a heaping plate of morro rice, kidney beans, plantanos and roasted chicken breast with crispy skin glistening.

It was over. I dove in, forsaking all cutlery, face in the plate, eating bite after bite of delicious chicken with rice, kidney beans, and plantanos.

I alternated between James’s plate and my own, stealing his chicken skin, to which he promptly responded, “What the f**k son??”

"Sorry daughter!", I joked. He didn’t laugh, but I know he liked it.

Then with crazy eyes and chicken grease on my face, I grunted to the woman with maroon hair behind the counter, “More plantanos please!” She gave me a nod and spooned six extra fried plantains on my plate and smiled. We finally understood each other.

"Food is colorblind", I thought, downing a 22 of Budweiser.

Then a second thought came to mind, “This beer tastes like sh*t.”


*This is actually really cute:

* Still not sure what the f**k that was about:

Filed under chicken and rice CollegeHumor comedy funny the peoples improv theater the pit nyc weird fat girl yum

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The thing about salad…

Here’s the scenario:

You’re out at dinner with a friend.

You’re excited to eat a real meal because let’s face it, you can only order delivery from Zen Palate so many times before the delivery man just laughs in your face when you open the door.

"HAHA! Oh miss! You again!”, he smiles.

"Yes, ‘me again,’" you growl, hastily pulling the bag of Chinese food back into your lair.

The exchange is quick and filled with guilt, like a crackhead getting his next fix.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got those good dumplings tonight?”, you whisper, scratching your neck furiously. “Give ‘em to me! Here’s $5! Now scram!”

This is troubling.

But back to the scenario:

You sit down to a lovely white tablecloth setting with your friend Tammy/Holly/Krystal and look at the menu. “Pork belly! Duck confit! Perfect!” you think. You like this place. You commend yourself for having chosen such an excellent restaurant and feel proud of yourself for 3.2 seconds before the waiter comes over and asks,

"Would you ladies like bottled water or tap?’”

Now this bothers you for a few reasons:

A.) You know he can just look at your stained shirt, crumpled jeans and H&M shoes and deduce the answer to that question himself.

B.) When you do finally mutter, “Tap works,” the waiter looks at you as if you’d just said: “Oh boy! You be fancy folk! I kin just go an’ suck on the faucet behin the barn, like I do at Pa’s house!”*

He quickly brings you your “poor people” water, and begins to take your order.

It is at this moment that Tammy/Holly/Krystal f**king does the unthinkable,

"And what would you like, Miss?"

“Oh! Me?”, she says, as if surprised he would even ask. “I’ll just have a side salad! I’m not that hungry.” and then turns to look at you.

"WHAT??!!! Who the f**k are you?", you’re screaming in your head, a frozen smile cast over your face.

Now when you order a “real person” meal*, you look like an obese monster. Like, “Hide your kids! I might eat them too!”

You know she’s just going to stare at you while you eat three full courses. And you’re a gross eater. No one wants to see that.

The waiter turns to you and asks you the same question, to which you mumble sheepishly, “Stkerrrtwo.”

"Sorry what was that ma’am?", he repeats.

"Stakrtoooo," you mutter, a little louder this time.

"Ma’am I can’t understand…"

"STEAK FOR TWO! I’M HAVING THE MOTHERF**KING STEAK FOR TWO!", you shout at the top of your lungs, a wild look in your eyes, your hair sticking out in every direction.

The waiter runs off and you turn back to your friend who is now looking at you like you’re some kind of zoo animal.

"What?" you say, "I’m hungry."


* Honestly who actually orders bottled water at dinner? I just imagine some old British lady in a fur pantsuit like, “Daaahling! I only drink Evian made from ice-cubes hand-melted by orphans in Latvia. But do make sure they’re real orphans! I want to taste their tears!”

*Like two whole chickens, extra fixin’s, drizzled with butter


Filed under salad CollegeHumor the pit nyc the peoples improv theater funny humor bitches