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"Not My Cup of Tea"

It was Saturday night and I was eating a full pasta dinner by myself at a restaurant where my friend works in Williamsburg.*

As with most of my solo-dining experiences, I was more than a little buzzed, frantically typing “Harriet the Spy”-esque notes on my iPhone with traces of marinara sauce on my face.



“It’s my birthday, bitches!” a 30-something year-old man in khakis slurred to an old couple at an adjoining table.



Followed by:

"I need to buy my pants bigger because my dick’s so big. Like I need more room for my balls."


(to the older couple) “Why didn’t you guys and my mom and dad just get a room at the Wythe Hotel and kick it Brooklyn style?!”

Soon another bro with black slicked-back hair and a paisley pocket square walked outside accompanied by a cheetah-print clad woman in her late 50’s.

"Ooh maybe I’ll join her!”, he full-voice whispered to his frost-tipped companion, motioning to me, to which she replied loudly, “Yeah, not my cup of tea.”

"Come on, Mom!" he said.

Now I was intrigued.

"No, I just don’t like women," she continued. "I’m a woman. I know how they are. I really don’t fucking like them. I really disdain them."

"Hey Tina/Tammi/Bernice!", I wanted to say, "Hey. Yeah, you. Come over here. Wanna ‘Lady and The Tramp’ this pasta with me? I swear we’re not all bad…"

Just then, my friend Asher showed up with some of the birthday boy’s stolen party favors including a pedophilic melange of Bourbon-flavored lollipops, Chinese finger traps and Play-Doh.

After watching full grown men lick lollipops for 20 minutes I ran to the bathroom where, as fate would have it, Tina/Tammi/Bernice and I met again.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask her like:

"Were you at Woodstock?"

"What actually is a placenta?"

”Where’d you get that top? TJ?”

But instead I said, “Is that your son over there?” motioning to the paisley bro.

"Yes," she smiled, "I have some magic ovaries."

And I said, “I bet you do Tammi, I bet you do.” 

And she said, “What?? My name is Evelyn.”

And I said, “Shhhh. You’re all the same.”


* Much like this man, only not as endearing:

A Nightly Dinner Out That’s Like Therapy

Filed under bros brooklyn the pit nyc justeatthefood food porn harriet the spy

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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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Naming My Fupa: A Journal Entry from May 10th

I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.

I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.

I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.

My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)

You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.

I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.

My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.

Eh well, Master Chef is on.



Filed under collegehumor fat food girl humor indian food justeatthefood sad the pit nyc vegetarian