Category Archives: life

The Bachelorette Does Questionable Things With a Horse – Episode 7 Recap

Last night on The Bachelorette, we were promised that this week was going to be “HUGE” by Jojo, when really, the outcome was obvious two weeks ago after she handed out two pity roses to both Lord Farquad and Shrek the friendly giant, only to cut them both this week. GASP.

Chris Harrison starts off by blabbing some BS that I didn’t really listen to about Jojo having a really hard time choosing who’s going to meet her family… maybe because she’s dating like 6 guys.

Chris: “Jojo’s so torn between which guys her brothers won’t want to go straight OJ Simpson on next weekend, so bear with her, but you’d probs be better off getting the fuck outta here.”

Alex gets the one-on-one date of this week, because the producers are sick of hearing him constantly bitching, and it was evident he was getting the boot right off the bat after he stuck Pringles in his mouth, acting like a fucking duck. #FriendZone

He then tries some freestyle rap about him and Jojo hitting up a liquor store, or a “Lick-Oh Sto”. They arrive at some ranch where the gauchos actually laugh in his face, probs because he’s lacking like 3 feet. Alex and Jojo change into gaucho-inspired clothing, but instead Alex steps out looking like the wicked witch’s munchkin.

The rest of the guys, along with the hotel slippers Robby jacked, take a summer camp bus to their next hotel, where they also sing idiot raps about Alex, which is actually kinda funny. I wonder if they all think about the fact that they’ve all felt up the same girl…

Jojo: “I’m so glad I had this one-on-one date with Alex, because it reassured me that we have absolutely nothing in common, except our height.”

Meanwhile, PETA is shitting their pants after the real gaucho practically performs a live sex show with the horse. The poor horse is pinned to the ground when Alex and Jojo lay on top of it and start making out.

Alex: Yo soy tu goocho.
Jojo: I’m not going anywhere near your fucking goocho.

But really though, gaucho man has more chemistry with the horse than Alex and Jojo.

During dinner, Alex, who’s never even had a solo date with Jojo, pulls the “I love you” card because obvi he’s in the shitter at this point.

Alex: I’m falling in love with you.
Jojo: I’m good, thanks.

Alex doesn’t even look her in the eyes after saying goodbye, but tbh Jojo gives zero fucks.

Jordan gets the next one-on-one date, so we can watch them bone against a wall the entire time. They go to a vineyard, where they squish a bucket of grapes with their bare feet, skipping like 12 steps and 4 years in the fermentation process, and eventually ‘cheers’ over a glass of squashed grape juice mixed with sweaty sock residue.

After going to second base in a random jacuzzi, Jojo and Jordan talk about who she would meet if she were to go home to his family.

Jordan: You’ll meet my older brother Luke, and my mom, and my da-
Jojo: K, but like what about your rich NFL brother?

Jordan talks mad shit on Aaron Rogers on live television, saying that he doesn’t get along with the family, also leaving no subtlety in the ‘jealousy’ department.

“I could’ve kept playing, but I felt like football didn’t define me” – says every guy ever who gets sacked from the NFL.

Something’s telling me it was Jordan who fucked their relationship up.

Jordan also pulls the love card at dinner, and Jojo wets her pants on the spot.

Three guys get a group date with a rose on the date, so James Taylor, Chase and Robby meet in Jojo’s hotel to eat junk food and play truth or dare because ABC was probs sued for the disturbing horse-fucking date.

James Taylor tries to amp up his sex appeal by deep-throating a plateful of fries, only it backfires when he projectile voms all over the bathroom.

The slumber party-turned massage party quickly escalates to three dudes and Jojo laying on a bed together. Sick.

James Taylor tries the whole ‘get ahead by throwing everyone else down’ act by saying that Robby looked at another girl the other day, which probs means that James Taylor masturbates to his mother.


Robby reassures Jojo that he’s actually a shady fuck and that he’ll probably cheat on her because he promised his ex half his paycheck.

James: Why aren’t you attracted to me?
Jojo: I’m just not into guys that could potentially love me forever and not cheat on me.

To nobody’s surprise, Jojo gives Robby the rose, because he reassured her that he’s totally in this by saying, “I’m totally in this.”

I honestly think I fell asleep during Jojo’s one-on-one date with Luke, but it had something to do with horses and shooting things. They probably made out and she was also reassured by him with some sappy BS.

During the rose ceremony, Jojo tries to ease the tension, claiming that she totes remembers this ceremony when she was fighting for Ben’s heart.

Jojo: I remember this day because it was the day before my brothers fucked this whole thing up for me. Good luck.

America was TOTALLY speechless when Jojo dropped the two people we NEVER EVEN SAW COMING. We’ve officially learned that Jojo’s type is tight pants with a questionable career choice and a side of douche bag.

Best of luck James Taylor, keep doing what you’re doing… those poems ain’t gonna Bumble bio themselves.

Roses Are Red, That Much is True, I Auditioned For The Bachelor, ‘Cause I’ve Got Nothin’ To Lose


Throughout my countless humorous attempts (but mostly fails) to conquer the treacherous hurdle that is dating, I always seem to be stuck between the notion of “putting myself out there” and that 8-word phrase I want to strangle and throw off a cliff, “waiting for a guy to come to me.” Um NO. Unless you’re the pizza guy delivering a large pizza, a 2-liter soda and bread sticks to my door at 10 p.m. on a Friday night, I have no reason to believe that sitting around and waiting for Prince Charming, otherwise known as Jake from Papa John’s, actually works.

I’d like to think I’ve done my fair share of “putting myself out there.” So much, that in the literal sense, I have actually “put myself” halfway out of my car window on a freeway to mime my phone number to a guy. Turns out a 2-lane freeway is packed with eligible hungover bachelors who were seeking to continue their weekend of questionable decisions, like calling a stranger hanging out the window, while stuck in traffic post-Superbowl. But now I’m just digressing (and kinda bragging).

But the burning question still remains: How much is too much when it comes to putting myself out there? You’d think my car stunt was enough for me to take a step back and evaluate my own questionable life choices, but no. This weekend, I went above and beyond, and did something every girl has only NEVER dreamt of doing: I auditioned to find love on The Bachelor.

As many of you unwillingly know, I am a Bachelor/Bachelorette fanatic. I annoyingly live-tweet the show every Monday night, while making fun of the dramatic production, the cast and Chris Harrison’s “Ladies, this is the final rose tonight,” obvious and repetitive statements (my chances of moving forward in the process have probably gone to shit now). While watching the show one night, I saw a casting call in Costa Mesa, CA. Oh my God, what if I actually went to the audition? Turns out, a few of my friends also saw the casting call because I started receiving texts telling me I needed to audition. Although I wasn’t sure if their suggestion was to get me to shut up about my non-existent love life or to get me to stop blowing up their Twitter feeds every week, it only took about five minutes until my mouse just magically double-tapped the “Sumbit Application” button. Woops!

The audition crept up on me and was here before I knew it. My friends texted me nonstop throughout the week asking things like, “Do you know what you’re going to say yet?!”
“Ehhh, I haven’t really thought about it much,” I’d reply, when in reality, I had been frantically texting my mom the past week straight asking what to respond to questions like, “Are you genuinely looking to get married now?” UH, F*CK NO, I can’t even commit to making my bed every morning!

The morning of the audition arrived and I figured the only way to justify feeling the slightest bit OK about myself for doing this was to get pampered. I made an appointment at DryBar, glued on my fake eye lashes and even bought one of those sexy body chains that went straight down my cleavage (as if the twins needed any more attention). Not gonna lie, I felt good.

I got to the hotel where the audition was held, and as the elevator doors opened to the second floor, I was bombarded by the overbearing scent of perfume, hairspray and a flashback of sorority recruitment, except the chosen house at the end of the process would be inhabited by one hunky bachelor instead of 85 vocally-challenged women.

As I walked down the much-shorter-than-anticipated line to check in, each girl and I casually looked each other up and down, however, every glare ended in a guilty smile, after we both assumably thought to ourselves, “Look where we are, we’re clearly in no room to judge each other right now.” While in line, the girls behind me broke the awkward silence by asking what we all thought of the final two remaining men on the current season of The Bachelorette. Although I thought what every girl was thinking when they took their place in line that day (you’re not here to make friends, Alex), I couldn’t help but chime in with my two cents because these girls were genuinely nice people, who eventually agreed that it would be a fantastic idea to snag a seat at the hotel bar together after this process was over (my kinda friends!).

I get to the front of the line, where I was handed a thick packet of questions. Acting like I didn’t already have a pen in my purse, I asked if I could take an official The Bachelor pen with me, seeing that the only souvenir I would be taking home at the end of this process was either this pen or an engagement ring, which, if we’re being honest here, is probbbbbably not the latter.

I began filling out the lengthy questionnaire:
Do you drink alcohol? I questioned how I should answer this, like the times you feel completely judged at the doctor’s office when they ask that question.
Only on weekends, I swear!
What is your favorite alcoholic drink? When I’m trying to get hammered, or when I’m trying to be classy?
Do you have any special talents? Uhhh, I can spit a mad rap inspired by Blackstreet, Nicki Minaj or A$AP Rocky…?
List three adjectives that would surprise people about you. WTF? Awkward, emotional, vulgar?
What were your past relationships and why did they end? Uh, how much time do you guys really have?

Come and get it, Ben.

Safe to say my chances after filling out this application were nearing slim to none.
As I turned my packet in, I felt like a college student who hesitantly handed the professor my final paper, knowing that there was zero possibility I’d receive anything higher than a big fat “F”. But then it came time to take my picture. I was handed a whiteboard to pose with, showing my name and phone number. The photographer, who was probs getting a kick out of my revealing outfit that screamed “trying too hard” and awkward sorority pose, took about 800 pictures of me from a head shot to an “above the waist shot” to a full body shot… Uhh, can I edit those on FaceTune real quick…?

After my comical photo shoot, I waited in line with a few other girls for the on-camera interview. Making nervous small talk with them, I felt better knowing that most girls felt just as weird being there, and many, like myself, would make the excuse, “I’m just doing this as a joke,” when in reality we wanted nothing more than to be drunkenly accepting a rose from a stranger we hardly even knew at the end of a long and tedious ceremony.

Then came my turn for the interview. Don’t you dare say anything awkward or stupid, Alex. This is your chance. I entered an empty room with a video camera and a male producer awaiting my arrival. What is this, a taping for a porno?

I sat down in front of the tripod that was holding up the video camera. The producer picked up a small microphone with a clip on it, and nervously asked, “Can I clip this on you?” It was like a game of Operation, where the guy had to clip the mic on my blouse without touching my boob and making the awkward silence even more unbearable. He then began by asking me general questions like, “Name, age, what you do, where you live.” Then he got a little more in-depth and asked about my hobbies and interests. Uhhh, I work full-time, does Netflix and balancing a wine glass on my boob while nobody is home count?

“I blog, in the winters I snowboard, oh and I cheerlead.” Cheerleading? WTF Alex, you haven’t stepped foot in a pleaded skirt in three years… Let’s see you try doing the splits now…

Cue the MIC DROP for that winning answer. No but really, at that split second, my microphone somehow managed to pop right off of my boob in the middle of my interview. UGH, you had one job, producer man. I awkwardly laughed and bent down to pick the mic up and clip it back onto my low cut top. The rest of the interview was a blur and I walked out relieved that my audition was over.

BUT here’s the real kicker, guys (because obvi I try to preach what I learned from every experience).

When I first decided to audition, I, along with my mother, was terrified that this was process was going to squash any ounce of self-esteem I had worked so hard to build up the past couple years. “Just remember there will be a lot of pretty girls there, and you don’t know what producers are looking for, but just know that any guy would be lucky to have you,” my mom sent me off with (such a mom thing to say). But as I left the hotel that day, I felt ZERO negative thoughts in my head about myself or the other girls. It was quite the opposite, actually.

Shockingly enough, I left feeling better about myself than I had in a long time. I was able to laugh at myself throughout this entire process and I felt so proud that I not only felt like I was just as beautiful and as smart and nice as anyone else in there, but everything I wrote or said in my audition was 100% real and just me.

Although everything I had just written about this process seemed like it would’ve tore me to shreds, auditioning for The Bachelor helped me realize just how much I had grown. I was surrounded by hundreds of stunning and genuinely nice women, who any guy would be lucky to have. We all auditioned that day with a little bit of faith and a lotta bit of vulnerability, and I realized that no matter how blonde, skinny, curvy, tall, awkward, shy, damaged, confident or whatever these girls and I are, we are ALL equally capable of finding love and being loved.

I’m sure every girl in the audition walked out questioning something they had written or said (I’m still kicking myself about saying that I cheerlead), but the beauty of it is, is that we all took a chance that day. It was the chance of a lifetime, the chance to “put ourselves out there” and the chance that might just take us ONE step closer to someone who will also realize we ARE capable of a lifetime of love.

That Time I Risked My Dignity For a Blog Post


If you were to take a quick glance at my most recent Google searches, you would most likely find, “Nearest ice cream store in Hollywood,” “Sad quotes about breakups” and OH YEAH, the cherry on top of the slowly melting ice cream, “Things to do in Los Angeles by yourself.” At first glance, one might think these searches belong to an unstable, emotional mental patient, but in reality, let’s be real, that’s like, half true.

But before I really begin my story, I just wanted to clarify that this blog post won’t be about me proudly preaching that we should all “love being by ourselves,” or that “we can’t love someone else if we don’t love ourselves first,” because it’s a lot easier said than done and 9 times out of 10 after I write stuff like that, I wind up sitting in a bathtub mixed with lavender scented oils and mascara-infused tears, while T-Swift’s “All Too Well” is playing on full blast. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am capable of being by myself, but I just prefer not to be, because well, I do questionable things like spending the evening at a bar alone. But whatever, do it for the blog, right?

Life is all about taking the baby steps. I’m not one to voluntarily spend a day with myself, so I figured I would try easing into it throughout the years. And naturally my first step was taking a solo trip to Target. Mission accomplished. Easy. Bring it on. Next step: Plan a movie date with myself to the local hipster theater, but try and sneak in incognito so that nobody thinks you’re THAT girl.
“One ticket for Forever Alone at 8:30. My friend should be coming soon,” I tell the box office cashier. Lies.

But come to find out, solo movie theater dates are my absolute favorite because I always get to choose the movie, I can cry throughout a sappy cancer scene without any judgements AND I can plow through a large popcorn as half the box ends up in my cleavage by the end of the movie… WITH. NO. JUDGEMENTS (AND a midnight snack for the ride home).

So apparently this all really got to my head, and since I’ve been generously spoiling my solitude lately with extravagant Target trips and movie dates, I figured It was time to take our relationship to the next level. That’s when my best friend called me on Friday night and asked if I wanted to meet her and her boyfriend for a drink in Santa Monica before they had to leave to attend a concert. Since I was only about 5 miles away, I agreed, thinking it would be the perfect amount of time for one drink until I, too, had to leave for a date with whiney Meredith Grey.

Thanks to LA traffic I get there right about when my friend has to leave to go to her concert. Since I had just come from a work happy hour, I was already feelin’ my two beers, and my friend’s boyfriend bought me a glass of wine upon my arrival. As they began walking out of the bar, I was just about to chug the rest of my Chard, when she suggested, “Why don’t you just stay? It might be fun?”

I’m not sure if it was the instant boost of confidence in distinction to the last painful chug of my wine, or if it was the fact that I would just be going home to drink more wine while being judged by Netflix’s “ARE YOU SERIOUSLY STILL WATCHING?” reminder, but I thought to myself, “It’s only my dignity that I have to lose, let’s do this.”

As they bid me adieu, I was off. I suddenly felt like my parents had ripped the training wheels off and I was forced to balance on my own (and this time it had more to do with my slight buzz and less to do with my bicycle). I felt like Bambi learning to walk after his mother had suddenly disappeared. Where do I go if I eat face or say an awkward comment to someone like I usually do? I had no base camp. But nonetheless, I prevailed.

Empty handed, I began walking to the bar, where I was stopped by the first guy. In between the gods above hysterically laughing at me, they must’ve realized I needed some sort of starting line. So I started talking to someone who, come to find out, works one floor above me in the same building. So we bonded over work, and I told him what he does sounds really tedious and boring. At least I got the first awkward comment out of the way, right?

As I tried to hang on to that conversation for as long as I could (because remember I had NOBODY), the conversation fizzled and I was getting thirsty. I walk up to the bar where I grab a glass of wine and start contemplating if this was really worth it when I met a second guy. We talk for a little, he asks who I’m here with, I say nobody, he probably feels really sympathetic toward me at this point, so we talk some more, and he finally brings me over to his group of friends.

There was one other guy and about three girls, and ladies, we all know that when a random girl tries to enter our squad territory, the bitch looks start flying faster than the Golden Snitch (Harry Potter reference). Needless to say, I was hesitant at first, but when you kill the female species with kindness and compliments, it’s like you’ve been best friends all along. So my new friend group decides to do PG Bombs. After my first thought, “Am I old, since I don’t know what the hell a PG Bomb is?” I thought about every possibility it could be. A shot with less alcohol since it’s PG, a shot with no alcohol since it’s PG?

Come to find out, a PG Bomb is the simple act of chugging a glass of Pinot Grigio AKA the worst idea ever, which also meant that the only thing I was making out with at the end of the night was a beautiful porcelain-skinned toilet. As we all chased back our PG Bombs, I had to have a pep talk with myself, “Keep it down, Alex. If this shot comes back up all over your new friends, you are pathetic.”

I felt the headache slowly creeping up, and that was when I knew it was time to migrate to the next group. I then came across three guys, a black guy standing in between two white guys, where I believe I called them an inside-out Oreo (I warned you about the awkward comments). At least they were getting a kick out of me, and I felt like I was on top of the world, but mostly because I was talking to them while standing on two steps of higher ground. I ended up nicknaming one of the older white guys “Magic Mike” so you’re welcome for the ego boost, Magic Mike. At one point, I also recall getting mad at him because he didn’t remember my name, but he proceeded to call me “hot” to make up for it.

I said good-bye to them and began walking out. That’s when I met the actual God of all gods. “Hey, wanna grab some pizza with me?” I heard a voice say. Oh sweet Jesus. Now, I can’t tell you what this guy looked like, but I was starving. So a drunken pizza date with a total stranger seemed like the logical thing to do. I couldn’t even tell you what we talked about at this point, but hey, free pizza in exchange for a cookie-cutter “get to know you” conversation was A-OK in my book.

We finished our pizza and I offered to take him home in my Uber since he lived right down the street. As he was getting out, instead of just sparing me the awkwardness that I already can’t handle, he says, “Sooooooo, like should we exchange numbers, do you think we’ll hang out again?” Who asks that? I literally said, “I don’t know,” and that probably pissed him off because he then asked if I even remembered his name. Shit. My immediate honest thought was, “Look bro, you mentioned ‘pizza’ when we first met, so your name was the least important thing on my mind. Let’s not make this more awkward.”

Mind you, I had just gotten pissed at Magic Mike for not remember my name. Apparently, it’s that easy. Long story long, we exchanged numbers just for pity and that was the end of that story.

So usually I like to end my pointless rants with a sappy lesson to be learned, just so I have the slightest sense of validation for sharing this story. We’ve all been torn up and damaged and “lonely,” but the only way to really get to know ourselves is to veer of our own comfort zones and continue to put ourselves out there no matter how uncomfortable it may be (I’m not saying hang out at a bar every weekend by yourself). And like I’ve stated countless times in the past, give people a chance, because you may be lonely, but you will NEVER be alone.

Also, never chug Pinot Grigio.

That’s it for now.

Dear Future Me…


Ok, so it’s been a while (actually, so long that I almost forgot my WordPress login info… Eeeesh), and I haven’t written in what seems like forever because things just seem to get in the way, like life. And I’ve been really trying not to only write in times where I just crave a good vent sesh but, well, life.

Anyway, you know how everyone always seems to warn us about the most liberating but seemingly dreadful years of our lives, AKA the 20-somethings, and they say things like, “Life is only gonna get harder,” and, “You’re gonna wish you were back in college,” and you were like, “Yeah, sure, ok, I’m 23 and done with school and free and am totally gonna find myself this year!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Well, for all my Friends fanatics out there, I turned 24 about a month ago (yes, I know I’m still an infant), but life has been just kick-me-in-the-crotch-spit-on-my-neck fantastic, and the answer to that “Who am I?” question has been scribbled, erased and bullshitted more times than a calculus midterm word problem.

Alright fine, it’s not that bad. In fact, it’s not bad at all, but the 20-something little brat in me likes to get down on herself once in a while about what is arguably nothing, so I had a mini epiphany to write a letter to my future self, and read it during the times I think I’m completely “lost” and in a life rut, whether my “future” self is me tomorrow, next week, next year or 5 years from now. So here goes nothing, friends.

Continue reading Dear Future Me…