Photo by Juampi Bonino
Guys, never trust a girl who:

Has every guy in a bar around her as if she were Jenna Jameson. Trust me, she's not and whatever they’re talking about isn't politics.

Is still close with her ex or ex’s: they aren't just friends, they don't just have dinner and they’re not going to stop "seeing movies" anytime soon. She wants more of him, but she also wants you, so you better be cautious and wear a rubber. You don’t know where he's been.

Only talks about herself; seemingly, humility is not one of her strong points and she's never heard of the art of conversation. The layer of Aqua Net that's clouding her vision will soon cloud yours.

Is flirting with all of your friends; no she isn’t just being friendly, she is flirting. She is definitely one of those: keep your boyfriend close and his friends closer. You know, in case something goes wrong.

Requires you to ask permission when you want to hang out with your friends. No one needs permission to do anything. Hang out with your friends and if there is a problem with the old ball and chain, set your sail, otherwise you may end up a Sid and Nancy story.

Won't kiss you in public; damn it, she should be proud to grope you whenever and wherever, so when she holds out until you're behind closed doors, she clearly has some issues.

Thinks she sounds exactly like Whitney Houston when she is doing karaoke, hence why she has been requesting her every time you guys go out. Put her in her place by pulling a Simon Cowell, then get the check.

Has white powder in her nose (I said in, not on). Unless Amy Winehouse is your thing, she will most likely start beating you in the streets around 4:00 a.m. in a pair of ballet flats, all in the name of love of course.

Call’s you immediately after the date--the first date, not the sixth—and just wants to talk. She's got it bad. Sometimes rules can be broken; however, you just answered the phone call to Fatal Attraction 2. I hope you don't have any rabbits.

Says her last boyfriend is serving time in jail. The bottom line is, they aren't together because he is serving time in jail and most likely doesn't know about you. I'd hate to be there when he does find out because you can bet your Sean John jeans he's coming for you.

Has nothing nice to say about any of her friends, your friends, strangers or even birds that stare too long. Negativity is out like press on nails. Yes, sometimes things are said about people, but when they are her friends or people she doesn't even know, it's not okay: red flag.

Upon claiming she is fine, she cries during sex and then continues to sob after you're done. It's not you, it's totally her.

Don't say I didn't warn you.
Photo source: unknown

Remember that person you used to call up around 1:00 a.m. because you had something funny to tell them and only they would understand? How about those friends you had the best spring break of your life with even though you don’t remember much and spent the majority of the time praying to the porcelain gods? What about those kids you have known since grade school and are so close with, silence is unquestionably okay when you hang out? Ah, memories.

Now you're all grown up, you're in a serious relationship and friends are petty, immature even. Friends are for people who don't understand the value of soul mates and enjoy silly things like laughing and having inside jokes.

Life is just so much better when it's just the two of you, every day and all day.


Everyone has been one of the two: you’ve either been the neglected friend of someone who is now on the back of a milk carton after they began dating their current love interest or you've been the friend who quit without a two week notice when you started dating your soul mate. Maybe you've even been both, in which I suppose you felt you had to get back at someone which is partially understandable (if you've been neither, I applaud you and say, just wait).

"It happens," isn't an excuse and neither is “you just don't understand.”

This type of behavior isn't acceptable. It doesn't matter if you're dating Jake Gyllenhaal—apologies for numerous blog references about him, he’s just so fine—take five minutes from staring into his blue eyes and use that cool Blackberry of yours to text a friend; you don’t even have to call.

You’re not only hurting your friends but you're hurting yourself in the end. Simply meaning: you better have a great relationship with your Grandma and at least a few four legged pet's because they will be your wedding party. Start training your cat now because I hear they hate it when wedding bands are tied to their backs on frilly pillows.

Friends are privileges; people say they come and go, but not true friends. Not the ones who know the only thing that makes a bad situation better is your favorite pizza which happens to involve Skittles and ranch dressing (it’s disgusting, but no one else will know that). They like you for a reason and if you've forgotten, you liked them too at one point.

Besides being dubbed a complete jerk, there are a few side effects to this type of behavior:

Believe me when I say this: nothing nice is being said about you at this very moment. Each time your name is brought up, there is a guaranteed sigh of disgust, name calling and claims of smaller than normal genitals.

The saying your friends will always be there for you isn't true because it's 2010 and this society is really into instant gratification. We're adults and fully capable of replacing you with someone who cares and quite possibly makes a better Skittle covered pizza with ranch dressing. No one will be waiting around for you and when you need advice or the relationship is over, cats are great listeners.

Care for another side effect? People will start wondering. They wonder what you do if you no longer talk to your friends. They wonder what you could have left to talk about if it's just the two of you all the time. Wondering leads to accusations and no one wants to be some sort of fantasized rumor.

It's a simple concept: multi-tasking. You can date and still have friends. It’s understandable your quality movie quoting time will be cut down a bit, but it doesn’t have to vanish. It’s the one time you can have your cake and eat it too. Don’t be a statistic.

Photo source is unknown.

Fiona Apple via Criminal via VH1

John, Paul, Ringo and George were regulars in my house growing up. They were present for everything: birthday's, teenage anguish and revolt, even the one December my mom decided to celebrate her heritage by putting a Menorah right next to our Christmas tree.

So it was no surprise she began acting out when I brought a new man into the house at the rightful age of 12: Kurt Cobain.

She quickly reminded me he died from drugs in which I rebutted by pointing to the Magical Mystery Tour album.

Growing up, I was into a lot of different music. Some of it was good while some of it was really, really bad. By bad, I mean someone should have changed the radio station to preserve my youth at least until I was ten.

My biggest musical influences were those around me like my older brother who introduced me to rap when I was eight. Looking back, a white kid wearing MC Hammer style fluorescent orange and green pants mouthing "Gangster's Paradise" wasn't so cool. It was the 1990s.

"Gangster's Paradise" was my stepping block into music that wasn't age appropriate. Take Fiona Apple for instance: I was ten years old singing "I've been a bad, bad girl," while watching her half naked emaciated body strewn over men in bed and rubbing on body parts in a bathtub. Most kids were watching Nickelodeon; I was watching Pop up video on VH1.

Then there was this song by Dynamite Hack called "Boyz in the Hood." My Mom and Dad thought I was in bed but really, I was in my room listening to my totally awesome Girl Talk radio waiting for the song to play on KROQ's countdown at 9:00 p.m. Oh, you bet I was walking around singing "jockin’ the bitches, slappin’ the hoes" and telling people that "I reached back like a pimp and I slapped the hoe."

(Insert Courtney Love, Marilyn Manson and Eminem here)

High School was a whirlwind of mortifying phases, but then again, it wouldn't have been High School. I went through every stage imaginable. The most noteworthy had to be that of Linkin Park. Singing--screaming--“shut up when I’m talking to you,” meant nothing to me at the time, but now explains my sudden bout of dark eyeliner and being grounded all the time.

Then came rap thanks to my surroundings; no group of friends is quite complete without the token white girl who is into hip hop (no, not me). I'm not talking about underground freestyle Brooklyn beats, I'm talking about get on the ground and make like Pamela Anderson songs such as: "How Many Licks" and "Shake it Like a Salt Shaker." The titles speak for themselves. This type of total request live music isn't really my thing, but I was like a chameleon in that adapting to my surroundings was the only way to survive.

So I shook it like a salt shaker and in the words of Naughty by Nature, I acted raw and gritty.

Where were my parents you ask? Well, my mom's affair with Black Sabbath and my Dad’s youth of Peter Frampton spoiled their hearing a bit, so when I was in my room raging against the machine, no one noticed.


RollingStone Magazine

It's safe to say there are a lot of things that don't impress me. I'm all for the vital force of principle when it comes to showing off. Tell me you helped an old lady cross the street and I'm pudding in your hands. Tell me she gave you $100 for doing so, in which you put towards a diamond encrusted money clip to tame your cash wad's and I’m walking away.

So it's no surprise I’m going to write about the things guys do--ignore a terrible country song reference by Shania Twain—that don't impress me much.

When a person goes into a frenzy of showing off, I do a few things: zone out and start thinking about what I’m going to have for dinner, question if they were neglected as a child, count ceiling tiles, and wonder how interested my face looks because I'm clearly unresponsive.

There's a vast difference between being reserved about your attributes and advances in life--be it they were achieved or given--and boasting to make you appear sexier, manlier and all around better, or so you think.

Mentioning your Hollywood connects like Jake Gyllenhaal--in which I would have to kill you and call him from your phone to coax him into meeting me in a dark alley--doesn't impress me. I don't need you to build up your resume or lack thereof. In fact, I asked what your friends were like, not for a list of actors at Paramount.

I'm not impressed by how many touchdowns you scored in High School. Why? I respect talent when it's apparent, or in this case present, not when it's rubbed in my face for one's own betterment. If that's all you have going for you: four years of touchdowns, four years ago you need a hobby. I hear boating season is coming up.

Try refraining from showing off the number of girls you have been with. Invoking jealousy isn't a good trait. Your exes aren’t anything of interest--I barely know you as it is--and therefore spending good portion of our time talking about them isn't fun. I like to live in the present anyway.

It's not impressive when you act like you're the greatest thing since the invention of the Internet. It doesn't matter how many big words Yale taught you or how many times you have to silence your phone because you're on such high demand. Do what you do best and that is stay quiet...the world won't like you for much longer with your head that big.

Your snazzy car: it's one thing to drive it and be aware of its dollar worth or bitchin factor and it's another thing to make sure I'm aware that you're driving daddy's wheels (like you could afford a Lamborghini). Muscle cars are cool, just not when you ask continuously if I "dig the ride." I’m there to hang out with you, not your hot wheel’s collection.

Along with fast cars comes money. I'm not into wearing, drinking, or eating my money--unless it's fashioned into a cake that looks like a dollar bill--so when you come in wearing Gucci, Dolce, Versace, Chanel, Vuitton and whatever else you can fit on your body, I may not only think you're a show off, but also a gay fashionista from overseas that's lost.

Making someone feel belittled is never appealing; saying my life is meaningless until I go to Brisbane is demeaning. Not everyone is as fortunate as you--the most interesting man in the world--so when you talk yourself up like you're Carnival cruise lines, I am cruising on out of there (mind the bad pun).

Remember boys: it's not the quality or the quantity, it's modesty.

Cheating is hard. You have to sneak behind people’s back’s, make inconspicuous phone calls from blocked numbers and make up stories for coming home late; talk about work.

Fortunately, the advent of TigerText--a new application for iPhones--allows adulterous behavior to easily occur leaving no trace of evidence on your cell phone. Finally right?

As Tiger Woods scratches his head wondering why he didn’t think of this, the dawn of this stupidly useful device—for you cheater's out there—was debuted on February 25 and has taken the pressure off of many paying customers.

The application allows users to set a time limit on sent text messages to remain in an inbox after it has been read. The time limit can range from minutes to a few days and once it’s gone, it’s gone.

The message can’t be forwarded, saved, or for Wood’s sake, sold to a tabloid and used for black mail or making oneself famous.

How on earth can this be you ask? Well, the fine creators of TigerText invented a nifty server allowing text messages to never be sent to the phone itself. They are opened on the TigerText browser and stored in that until prompted to vanish into technological waste forever.

Therefore, when someone with such public stature as say a politician or athlete decides to embark in a raunchy affair and sends a text message, the recipient will be asked to download the application immediately. Once the task is complete, no message will ever be sent to the actual phone leaving no trace of a text in an inbox, outbox, sent folder or drafts.

Ah, what a relief.

You can also use a “delete on read” feature allowing you 60 seconds to read the message once it has been opened.

Now cheating is as easy as downloading music illegally and entering exam answers into your TI-83 Calculator.

Don’t think this is the first of its kind either, just last month an ad aired during the Super Bowl for

“Unlike Craigslist's plain-Jane listings, AshleyMadison lets cheaters customize profiles, chat anonymously and trade messages about adulterous preferences — all in an effort to make cheating as simple as using,” TIME magazine said in June 2009.

Of course, AshleyMadison seems like an advertisement for cheating—an argument for another blog—let alone a place to seek guidance and feel remorseful.

Regardless, this is a growing trend accommodating the fortunate; like celebrities who oddly don’t seem to think twice about cheating. What do they have to lose anyway (money, dignity, sponsors, work, family, friends, more money, and God forbid their spouse)?

Oh, and don't worry, the application wasn't named after Tiger Woods. Jeffrey Evans, TigerText founder and former headhunter, claims the name was chosen before the Woods scandal.

More on this at TIME Magazine



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