Candle-tastic Voyage

Greetings, earthlings. I’m taking a break from my unmitigated thrash rantings to kick out a semi-instructional blog about one of my favorite past times, good old fashioned candle making.  If you’re at all crafty/artsy-fartsy and have a quarter of an ounce of patience on retainer, whipping up your own candle creations can be a lovely de-stressor which rivals the effects of my trusty benzodiazapines; of which I’m trying to phase out of my life entirely.  If some crazy earth-rocking shit happens to transpire in the coming months, I want to be having a panic attack because I’m about to get a meteor off the dome, not because I’m in the midst of a natural disaster and am withdrawing from klonopin. 

As many of you already know, this year I’ve been fairly consumed with further escalating my spiritual side and ‘raising my vibration.’  This was catapulted by a close friend’s passing, and though I’ve always identified as an empath, I started seeing auras sometime in early April.  Now part of my personal ritual practice (relatively undefined fusion of ‘religious/spiritual’ beliefs which I draw upon lacking both convention and doctrine, but centric to universal energy that happens to work enormously well for me) include candle ‘spells’ or candle ‘blessings.’  Candle spells are another subject entirely, but since I make candles for spell/ritual purposes, there will be some inclusion of these practices as I break down the relatively effortless art of candle making. Of course, there needn’t be any inclusion of religious ritual for basic candle making if you’re simply using them for ambiance, home decor, and/or practical purposes.

In my experience the best wax to use, with special consideration to candle blessings which should emanate from organic and natural supplies, are soy waxes and beeswaxes.  For the non pseudo-mystical witchy-poos out there, the benefit of both of these waxes is that they are natural substances and they burn cleaner; always a bonus, even if you’re not trying to channel a lottery win, a lover, or heightened clairvoyance. Beeswax is especially nice to use because it doesn’t require the addition of scent, as they naturally emit a mildly sweet honey fragrance that is fairly neutral and unoffensive to most people.  Soy candles typically require the addition of some kind of fragrance, which I restrict to essential oils [rose oil, eucalyptus, jasmine, tea tree oil, peppermint]; some body-grade oils, [sesame oil, rose oil, coconut oil]; and even vanilla or almond extract, though I don’t strongly recommend using scents which are heavy on the alcohol, especially alcohol based perfumes, because they can negatively alter the consistency of the candle and affect how it actually forms and burns [slow, fast, smokey, drippy, etc.]  As a rule, I stay away from paraffin wax because it just blows monkey balls. 

soy wax

You can purchase candle wax at craft stores, but if you’re not into financial rape with no lube, I’d suggest getting your wax online and in bulk to use over time, especially if you’ve committed to soy or beeswax candles (which you should!) 

Here’s what you’re going to actually need, without regard to the specific and often unnecessary bullshit they try to sell you in craft stores:

1. soy wax or beesewax [usually sold by the pound]
2. pre-based candle wicks [come in packs of 6/12/24 in stores/larger quantities found at online retailers]
3. a double boiler**
4. essential or body oils [if you want to fragrance your candles]
5. dye blocks for color [available online at far better prices than craft stores] 
6. crayons for color** [cheap and surprisingly effective when used in moderation]
7. candle molds**
8. parchment paper/foil
9. appropriate herbs/dried flowers [if making spell candles]
10. thermometer** [unnecessary if you’re at all sensory or have minor amounts of common sense]

The double boiler is created by filling a decent sized pot with about 3 inches of water, and placing inside that a ‘pouring pot’ (the ones they sell at Michael’s/A.C.Moore are overpriced crap that you don’t need) that you will actually melt your wax in.  I use my chicken fry pan filled with water, and an old medium sized pot (with a pour side) to melt the wax in. I have a gas stove, so I start by boiling the water in the shallow pan while the pouring pot is immersed in it.  Though some swear that this is a science, I’m not a slave to temperature.  Science and numbers aren’t my thing; I’m super right-brained and I employ intuition.  If you find yourself in a shit mess with shoddy candles after ‘winging it,’ break down and get the damn thermometer.  On the wax package, there will be instructions indicating what temp works for what kinds of wax.  Personally, I’m just not a fan of directions of any kind.  Even when I’m lost while driving, I try to smell my way to the desired location before I turn on my Garmin Nuvi. Hey, if I want some woman barking at me, I’ll call my mother. 

Once you get your water at a slight boil [medium heat] start adding a few handfuls of wax.  Again, this is a measurement-free zone. If I’m making 6 votives, I throw in a about 5 handfuls of the stuff and watch it begin to melt. This should happen rather rapidly, especially if your apartment is blessed with a glorified Easy Bake Oven of a gas stove (like mine) that makes it nearly impossible to get an accurate temp for anything you may be cooking (soup, stir-fry, cream sauce, pie filling, candles, crack cocaine, whatever.)

At this point your wax should be a little clumpy, but well on it’s way to becoming a smooth liquid.  Now you want to add your color, if that’s your plan. Again, beeswax doesn’t require color tinting either. Something to think about if you’re lazy as fuck, or particularly into that hippy shit. As I mentioned previously, you can color your candles by melting a couple of chunks of a standard candle dye color block, or, if you have Jew tendencies like me, you can take the used crayons that they give kids at my restaurant to draw with while their parents try to pound a beer in peace, and use those. Simply peel a crayon or two and break into even chunks. I usually break a crayon into 4 pieces, and depending on how many candles I’m bumping out and/or the intensity of color that I’m trying to achieve, I toss in 1 to 4 broken up crayons. If you retained any information that you obtained in Kindergarten about primary colors, this should be pretty easy. You can achieve most shades with red, yellow, blue, and green; i.e.;  if you’re making 5 pink votives, 4 good handfuls of [white] soy wax and 1 red crayon broken in fours will do the trick.  Some candle-creating enthusiasts completely denounce the use of crayons for tinting/coloring purposes, claiming that too much of the cheap wax crayons are made of will clog the wick. I have yet to experience this phenomenon, so don’t sweat it.

cheap ass mother funking crayons

Now your pouring pot should look something like this:

Onto fragrance. If you’re using essential oil, I’d kick in about an ounce of the oil of your choice; remember, essential oils are not diluted, so the scent achieved can be fairly strong.  I’m a big fan of rose [yes, I’m a 75 year old geriatric woman trapped in a super-hot 33 year old broad’s slammin’ body], but if I want a more subtle smelling candle, I opt for rose body oil [available at CVS/Rite-Aid]. Interesting side note: when you use body quality oils as fragrance in conjunction with SOY candle wax, you can make a body massage oil candle that you can light and use the skin-friendly wax to massage the crap out of the object of desire before you launch into the missionary position after a couple glasses of absinthe on the rocks.  [Insert cat purr here.]

If you’re not creating a spell candle -- which involves the mixing in of appropriate dried herbs and flowers -- you’re now ready to pour your wax into your votive molds. Again, these molds are available at inflated prices at craft stores. Though I have many of these myself, I’ve also used shot glasses, muffin trays (non-stick, or spray with cooking spray prior to the pour), old glasses/jars in various sizes, beer cans with the tops sliced off, Pringle cans cut in half, etc.  Be creative, this isn’t rocket science. I make sure that I prepare the votives/wicks prior to anything else. If you have to put a small amount of Elmer’s glue on the base of the wick to keep it firmly in place in the center of the votive mold, go nuts. Again, I usually just press it down hard and hope for the best. Get a tray or plate or a metal toaster tray ready and line that bitch with parchment paper or foil. Then line up your votives on the tray to prepare for the pour. This way, if there’s any overflow, or you happen to go into an epileptic seizure while pouring the wax, your entire kitchen won’t be ruined. If you’re feeling cocky and wish to challenge my advice on properly prepping your workspace, hit me up for some suggestions for removing wax from all of your appliances, pans, and marble floors. It only takes about five hours, six 10 mg valiums, and two psychiatric shock-therapy sessions. 

adding some herbs to the mix

Now if you are using herbs for a blessing/spell candle, do some research and add compatible herbs/flowers that are in symbiotic cahoots for your proposed intention. The candles I made this evening are for a love and protection blessing, and the herbs I used to create this candle included Damiana (love and lust), Mandrake Root (aphrodisiac), Rosemary (protection), and Pink Peppercorns (love and passion). When adding herbs to the candle wax mixture, I typically mix them together in a pre-Saged crystal bowl as I meditate on my intention. I then add the herb mixture to the melted candle wax mix post coloring and scenting.  I’m also a big fan of smudging my candle molds with burning sage smoke before pouring the herbed wax mixture into them. This keeps everything clean, pure, and in my opinion, maximizes spell potential. Now your votives should look like this:

now toss them bitches in the fridge

At this point, I take my tray of candles and pop them in the fridge for an hour, checking in on them periodically. This is  good opportunity to reposition your wicks if necessary, before the wax becomes too hard. I then leave them in the fridge [not freezer] for another hour. After an hour or so has passed, I remove them and place them on the counter for about 12 hours so they have completely solidified. Popping them out of the molds is easy, but remember, if you’re not using conventional molds, spray them with cooking spray prior to the pour. This will alleviate the likelihood of you throwing them off the wall in frustration, or cursing me out.

coolin' out for 12 hours

Now that your candles are out of their molds, you can ‘shave’ any irregular sides with a paring knife to achieve a perfect shape [if necessary] and then let them sit for another 12 hours before lighting them. This is especially important if you have scented your candles because the time allowed for them to ‘sit’ will potentiate their fragrance. 

                             And voilà, you're done :)

light 'em if you got 'em

I Don't.

I am painfully tired of having to explain my stance on marriage to women who have been planning their weddings since they were five.  There are two sides to my own argument against it:  the practical ‘I’d rather buy a boat than a wedding dress’ side, and the ‘I haven’t spiritually plateaued enough to even consider legally binding myself to another human being’ side.  Listen ladies, this doesn’t mean that I hate you and your marriage.  Believe me, I’m far too self-absorbed to give a shit about how you choose to define your relationship, or which social models you use as a guide.  Marriage works for some people, and it certainly means different things to different people.  I get this. 

Furthermore, I am not unreasonable; I realize that not all marriages emanate from personal insecurity or social competition.  Of course those people who require this type of validation certainly exist.  They reveal themselves to me daily on my newsfeed via Facebook.  But overall, the idea of marriage isn’t really a bad thing. However, many of the executions I’ve witnessed -- both the weddings AND subsequent lifestyles -- are about as ridiculous as Eddie Murphy putting out an album.

Speaking only for myself, I can’t subscribe to something that I perceive to be both limiting and unnecessary.  Nor do I require justifying my emotions with legalities.  Better yet, I don’t force my ideas onto anyone else, or try to ‘convert’ marriage-seeking twenty-somethings sporting Vera Bradley bags who are still ordering cosmos at bars in the hopes that the husband they haven’t met yet is going to buy their next one.  Realistically speaking, I can do everything you do in a marriage without the marriage. Well, except be gay.

For ME, I feel as though I have enough man-made bullshit to cater to, without throwing another complication in the mix.  As human beings entrenched in the third dimensional, highly physical world, we are constantly projecting physical attributes upon intangible concepts to make them palatable for us, i.e. ‘love.’  We’re uncomfortable with the abstract, and rely heavily on the forced physicalization of things we can’t wrap our head around otherwise, or successfully ‘own.’  Not to mention, life is cyclical; people grow and people CHANGE. It is inevitable. Much like a photograph, through marriage we try to capture the moment, the feeling, the emotion that we’re experiencing, and try to make it last forever. We spend less time actually enjoying people and more time figuring out how we can enslave them. We humans are such bastards.  

Doubtlessly, I’m not above consumerism. While you’re planning your $100,000 wedding, I’m bidding on an over-priced Michael Jackson stand-alone record player from 1983. Certainly I’m not a beacon of fiscal savvy, but I’ve never understood the motivation behind all of these lavish weddings, much in the way I’ve never understood those over-the-top fundraisers where they target the wealthy to drop $10,000 on a table at an event where a percentage goes to said charity. Why don’t they just give all the money directly to the cause itself, if everyone’s being so damn philanthropic? Oh right, because people love to show off. 

Additionally, I’m far too flighty for marriage.  I can’t even commit to a gender. Hell, I can’t even commit to a deodorant. Don’t get me wrong, we all know marriage today is a big joke, and about as disposable as a used tampon, yet the implied permanence is rather alarming.  The way I see it, anyone who has ever meant anything to me, I’ve been married to.  My relationships are always intense.  I’m intense.  Is it necessary to get the court system involved?  If I’m dealing with the court, it better be because I’ve violated my probation again -- not because I’ve resigned my life to someone else. Yet every day, in a cubicle not so far away, lies a twenty-three year old -- fresh out the university -- who’s holding down an uninspiring 9-5, aggressively flipping through a 500 page Bride Today catalogue on her lunch break; completely undaunted by the fact that she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.

Lastly, the final reason I find marriage so utterly intolerable is because divorce is so damn expensive, and I really love to shop.  As I write this, I can assure you I’m not at home burning my bra. Nor do I desire to throw a Molotov cocktail into your Japanese cross-over vehicle, or kidnap your children from their soccer practice and kill them. Ok, maybe I do a little.

Sincerely,

A girl who believes that even if you’re cohabitating with the object of your desire, you should maintain separate rooms and separate beds.

Anticipate crowd response:

“Me and Jimmy have been married for three years, and we were only motivated by LOVE! And we didn’t spend anything close to $100,000 on our wedding. My hairdresser’s aunt’s dog hooked us up with the venue. Now we have two beautiful children who are probably going to fix the hole in the ozone layer.”

“You sound bitter. You probably can’t get a date.”

“Tax break.”

"You're a dick."

A5s Be Wearin' Some Fucked Up Shit

As anyone who is not legally blind, or dealing with a current pepper spray situation, can attest to, A5s be wearing some fucked up shit. True, some great gems come from observing them in their natural habitat (the Asian gaming section of the RainMaker Casino @ Foxwoods), but some of the best displays of foo-wrong fashion are the random shots taken on the subway, at the food court in the Galleria, or in line at the bank (second to Jews, these guys LOVE their paper!). After scrolling through my phone and seeing way too many pictures of A5s wearing fucked up shit, I decided to dedicate a section of my blog to the phenomenon, and call it: A5s Be Wearin' Some Fucked Up Shit. 

I'm not gonna hit you with a barrage of imagery right now, nor will I include pictures of my family, but I'll start you off with this one prize -- the very first in my photo portfolio -- and post to this particular blog weekly. As it stands, I have enough material to get us through 2014. 

P.S.  This blog is my direct response to someone asking me to 'lay off' the A5 shit for a while. I can't help it; I love to watch people writhe in discomfort! Look for my next blog entry, I'm Not A Racist, I'm A Realist: Welcome To Reality, coming soon.

Konnichiwa, bitches!

Short month, short fuse: football, flowers, and booze

As my least favorite month of the year is looming, I'd like to take a few minutes out of my day, also known as 'your night,' to briefly highlight why this month totally sucks the farts out of bus seats.

it's the joy of the season!

1.  Once February rolls around, I'm forced to come to terms with the fact my Christmas decorations have to go. My collection of old fashioned St. Nick's, jovial-faced snowmen, the stockings, the strung LED lights, the oversized sparkle ornaments, my little table tree, the ice-skating penguins, my baby Jesus and his wise-boys, and the lighted villages above my kitchen cabinets that adorn my one bedroom shack, all start to give me, 'the look.' The Virgin Mary appears to launch into a 9 day novena for my sanity. Joseph petitions to be wrapped in swaddling tissue paper. The Advent calendar has run out of time. Even the Nutcrackers start to crack. The mistletoe ball that hangs from the doorframe separating the kitchen from my living room is now a wrecking ball; threatening to drop on my head at any given moment. The wreath on my door begs for a therapy session, or at the very least, a three day weekend. And the jingle bell that has spent two and a half months joyfully jingling every time I open my front door, begins to sound more like an episode of the Gong show. Now is the time. And sadly, I know it.


2.  February 1st is also the first day in Cambridge that all of the new faces in traffic and parking working as meter maids launch into their over-zealous ticket assaults on cars who are parked in resident spots with outdated 2011 parking stickers. Trying to attain All-star status at their jobs, they're unconvinced, unwavering, and unmoved by the 13 annual resident stickers that are overtaking your available window space on your car, indicating that you have every intention of grabbing a glove and getting in the game… eventually. This ruthless bullying is all over an $8 parking sticker, which of course you can't get until you pay off the $800 in tickets that you owe the city. Half of which you didn't have the time to contest; the other half a mixed bag of The Ticket Nazi who sees that you're running to move your car, but writes the ticket anyway, and the others, instances of defective meters. But hey, Cambridge doesn't have enough disposable cash, so keep kicking the little people while they're down - it's the American way! Enter: the daily ticket barrage. This typically fuels benzo dependency until I recover enough cash to pay off my existing tickets and obtain a new resident permit. This 3 week period is beyond stressful, and my tendencies toward violence and physical threats are tested on the daily.


3.  The Super Bowl. Fun for many, but for those of us completely disinterested in the game of football (or men in tights with glorified bags over their heads in general), this Sunday I'd rather be in Church. In this day's defense, I will be working hard. Harder than Mark Anderson, to take your money as you get sloshed and invest way too much of your cash, your vocal range, and your damaged soul, into a 'game.' I won't waste my time writing out the formal definition of the word, 'game,' however, I will say that words used to describe the definition include 'play' and 'luck.' Stuff definitely worth losing your March mortgage payment over, and/or testing the flexibility of the veins in your neck. A few years back, I remember reading an article detailing how instances of domestic violence dramatically increase on Super Bowl Sunday. Hey, last I checked, no broads were getting beat downs during the French Open.


4.  Valentine's Day. Hallmark Holidays go against the grain of my sardonic and generally pragmatic nature. Though I have a special place in my heart for the flowers and chocolates my daddy has been giving me out of sincerity for as long as I can remember, the overall hype and horror of the day makes me want to vomit. And we're not talking a couple dry heaves, here. We're talking head-spinning, projectile green puke. I buy flowers for myself all year long. I'm not impressed by the 20 long stem red roses that mean nothing more to you other than you might secure a blow job. All I can do is thank the Lord above that I am no longer in corporate America, where these kinds of displays monopolize the entire work day, as girls in Ann Taylor sweater sets giggle with delight as some South American delivery boy graces their cubicle with an over-priced arrangement that somehow negates the year's infidelities, the drunken speech he made at your sister's wedding, and his blatant refusal to do laundry. Not to mention, these cube-side antics make the majority of single girls in the office contemplate abandoning their Prius on the Tobin during rush hour and taking a swan dive off the bridge.


5.  In addition to the aforementioned, February offers some amazing if-you're-gonna-off-yourself-do-it-now weather. As a nordic bitch who has to bust out the prescription deodorant once the thermometer hits a whopping 60 degrees, it's not the actual temperature I take issue with during this month of nothingness. It's the gray, depressing, Chronicles Of Narnia-esque bleak days that usually send me to Hollywood Tans. I typically counteract this dreary bullshit by sleeping my days away, and rising only to go to work at 4 PM. This way, it's like any other winter night: dark and cold. Nonetheless, it's night time. And night time is the right time. As a nocturnal creature, this inherently appeals to me. Not to mention, rising when it's already dark out not only allows me to escape this daytime depression, but now the possibilities are endless. (Not so) realistically, it could be an October night. A November night. A December night. A New Year's Eve could happen on any given February night, if you let it. Yes, this is active denial, but I eat active yogurt cultures, so I consider it a wash.

However, allow me to end this negative rant on a high note, with a big hit of the old ganja, and a small reminder that this bullshit has an expiration date of 28 days.

Dear Peaches...

Every once in a while I get emails from cute girls in leggings and tunic sweaters asking me if I would consider dishing advice on this blog; basically turning it into an Advice Column. Unfortunately, I don't have industrial levels of advice to dispense within this kind of platform. I mean really, would I be working at a bar and writing this blog if I had even half of the answers? Not to mention, I'm sure there would exist some kind of conflict of interest between my recent Psych Eval and attempting to guide others in the right direction. However, after receiving an email from one of my favorite A5s, l've been inspired to leave you with one suggestive blurb regarding women interacting with other women, coming from a woman** who has historically been hated on by other women.***  If you're like me, and sincerely trying to keep your Assault and Battery charges to a minimum this 2012 calendar year, take note of the following simple advice:

Be funny first, smart second, and pretty third.

When entering a room full of these piranhas, launch into a quick couple lines of self-depreciating humor. Give it about 20 to 30 seconds to allow their panties to soften and gradually release from their anal cavity.  Then watch in disbelief as their liquid eye liner becomes a little less taut.

Hope this helps. And if it doesn't, just remember the order of operations: 1. Put hair up 2. Take earrings out 3. Remove heels.

Cheerio, bitches

** bad ass chick 
*** mentally under-developed douchebags

Year of the Dragon Resolutions

It's that time of year again. Time to start making lofty lists of things you probably won't accomplish in an effort to harness some kind of self-improvement in the face of one too many Lindor truffles. Since making lists of shit I will never do happens to be one of my guilty pleasures, here we go:

1. Stop giving complete assholes the time of day. No really, when the neighborhood junkie asks me if I know what time it is, I'm just going to keep walking.

2. Buy less wife beaters. Sometime in early October I realized I owned 9 of the same color pink Victoria's Secret beater. Like Steve Jobs, I have unconsciously created a uniform. I spent 11 years in a uniform to satisfy the Archdiocese of Boston. This is either a symptom of PTSD, or sheer insanity. In any event, it must be stopped.

3. Love myself more than I love you, so I can eventually love you more than I love myself and I can practice loving me again next year. Hey, it's called 'anticipation.'

4. Go back to school for something that actually justifies the loans. Here's a hint for all of you recent high school grads: it's not English! But hell, if you decide to ignore this warning and commit yourself to 'your passion' as an undergrad, you better learn how to make a damn good martini. Oh, and bankruptcy doesn't get rid of your loans, just the flatscreen you charged in 2001.

5. Get Zuki down to twenty pounds, and get the pet psychic based out of Quincy to determine if Yoshi has lost weight due to poor self-image and/or body dysmorphia caused by watching too much Animal Planet. (The vet said he's fine.)

6. Continue not penciling in my eyebrows. Doing the aforementioned is false advertising - no better than a padded bra - but you'd be amazed by the amount of social pressure and actual recommendations to do so by people I don't even know. Refuse and resist.

7. Figure out the difference between Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez.

8. Fix the Kanji symbol on my back that I was led to believe means 'the bull' (astrological reference) but probably means 'stupid round eye.'  I plan on 'feminizing' it with random peach blossoms since the options for artistic repair on this permanent aesthetic tragedy are fairly limited. 

9. Finish my memoir, Growing Up Stuck: A Pit bull Ate My Panties and Other Tales

10. Avoid death via apocalypse at all costs.

Drop the Zero and Get with a Hero. Even if it's Yourself.

Due to the plethora of experience I have with dating losers, I felt obligated to write an abridged field guide. Though I'm 32 years old and my best decision-making days are behind me, I felt the least I could do is warn girls in their twenties of the perils that lie ahead. I remember composing a similar list when I was in my early twenties, keenly aware of the losers that abounded me. Unfortunately I paid no mind to my own advice, and here, ten years later, I am lost in regret. Take heed, young rellies.


1. Be forever weary/leary of the guy always dating broads ten years his junior. Sure, it may seem sophisticated and exciting to be dating an 'older' man now, especially in your early twenties, but remember this: men age like fine wine; women, like raisins; hence the booming medical cosmetic industry. Unless, of course, you're blessed with great genes, like me. But you're probably not. Most of you mutts these days look like you're 40 before you're 25. Hey - I blame the tanning industry and trans fats. So remember, ten years down the line with Sir Pedophelia -- if you even make it that long -- you're gonna get dropped like a hot flat iron. Then all of a sudden you're going to find yourself dating your peers, and with limited experience in the field ('I don't think you need Just For Men; your grays remind me of my daddy issues..') you're gonna be fucked. Do yourself a favor: spare yourself a whole bunch of psychological compromise, and avoid these creeps like the plague.

2. Date people who actually SHARE YOUR INTERESTS. You working a 9-5 as an office admin and him being in a band isn't a common denominator. It's a recipe for hurt, disaster, and a whole lot of expensive therapy that probably isn't covered by your health insurance. Sure, you may get a charge when 'your man' is on stage, but remember this: while you're nonchalantly sipping a vodka tonic at the back of the venue playing cool, he's banged more than half of the broads in the front row. You're not special, you're just dumb enough to offer him food and shelter while he screws everything with a pulse and a vag within a 3000 mile radius.

3. A wise woman (or gay man) once said: 'the last time a woman changed a man was when he was in diapers.' Truer words have never been said. Another cliche comes to mind: 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks.' Well girls, men are dogs, so do the math. The dude jerking off on your couch to HBO free-bees on On Demand while eating Cheetos and drinking Pabst, isn't gonna roll up on a white horse any time soon. He's not gonna start paying bills anytime soon, either. Run, Lola, RUN.

4. When the thought of introducing said subject to your parents inspires pangs of nausea and bouts of anxiety, move on. The 'officiality' of many of my relationships has been contingent upon my parents' death. This is never a good thing. All of a sudden you'll be 35 and your mother will be asking you if you're a lesbian over Yellow Tail Chardonnay. Avoid this awkward conversation by dating people you don't have to excuse to your immediate family. You haven't found an amazing man who is complex, complicated, and 'misunderstood.'  You've found a fucking loser.

5. Never forget that you're the balls times three. If you're anything like me, a series of heartbreaks (though typically self-initiated -- hey, I don't get dumped) can be more than psychologically damaging. Sometimes we forget that we're actually better than the losers we loathe, but we mustn't forget. Remember, YOU have your shit together. YOU are smart. YOU have great taste in music. YOU can cook. YOU are funny. YOU have the thing between your legs that bleeds for 7 days, doesn't die, and drives men nuts. Use it to your advantage, and stop letting assholes take advantage of YOU.