Special thanks to the hard working people at The Printed Blog Magazine who have been featuring my work in a few of their issues.

If you fine people haven't checked out The Printed Blog Magazine, you should. They feature some wonderful photographers and bloggers, but on paper. I know, right?


You're probably dating a bitch if

You're with your friends and you say "hey is it cool if ________ comes over?" and all your friends suddenly make up an excuse to leave or there is a unanimous sigh. It’s probably because your girlfriend is a bitch.

And, you're probably dating a bitch if:

1. She makes fun of you in a non-cute, non-joking way. Direct jabs are unattractive, especially if she can’t reciprocate the same dishing.

2. You take her out to dinner and she doesn't eat and/or asks if you really want to order what you ordered and/or only orders chicken broth and vegetables. No one likes a bitch, and a starving, skinny bitch is worse.

3. She talks crap on her friends and/or your friends and/or the guy ringing up her groceries. I mean, every now and then, people need to vent, but when a toddler looks at her wrong and she gets all Lisa Left Eye Lopez on it, it's not so chill, dude.

4. She never offers to pay, unless she's buying something for herself, in which she doesn't ask if you'd like something. Rude.

5. She sits in the car or stands at doors because she thinks she is part of the royal family and should be waited on like the un-princess she is. Yeah, you should open doors for ladies for the first 19 dates, rough estimate, but after that, every now and then, it's cool if it slips. Let her sit in the car.

6. She always changes the song you choose. What a bitch.

7. She is checking herself out in the back of your iPod, a tinted truck window or her knife at dinner. She's so vain, and she probably thinks your iPhone is a mirror.

8. Instead of receiving text's asking your how your day is, it's her bitching about her work day or how some jerk parked in her spot. This will never stop. She's a bitch.

9. She starts stories with "when I was homecoming queen in high school..."

10. She has pictures of just herself in her room or around her home. If you walk in her house and there are glamour shots of her framed hanging over the fireplace or she has oil paintings of herself on a fur rug in the hallway, get the F out of there. She loves herself way too much.

11. When you mention your mom’s name or your best friends name and she says "who's that?" It's because every time you have ever talked about them, she's counting calories in her head. She's a bitch.

12. Whenever you mention a girl, she asks: "Is she hot? Did you date her? Do you want to date her?" But it’s perfectly okay if she hangs out with guys. Nine of them. And three are her exes.

13. She’s a cadaver in the bedroom. She gets hers and then she checks her blackberry. Either get used to it, or get rid of it.

14. She doesn't smile, ever. Not even at kittens or children. She's a coldhearted bitch.

15. She un-tags herself in any picture she is tagged in on any social network and only uploads pictures she looks good in. Even if it's detrimental to someone else’s reputation and possibly cause them to lose a job or a husband. Be weary. She’s a bitch.

How to deal with rejection

So you met some girl or guy at a bar, on the bus or at a friends quinceanera, whatever, and things didn't turn out in your favor. Or the person you were dating dumped you. Ouch. Rejection is not exactly a feel-good-past-time.

Speaking as someone who has been rejected (neck roll, eye rolls) and done the rejecting (snaps fingers), I know both sides of the story.

I know what it feels like to have your stomach drop when someone utters the daunting words you fear and loath, even if you do see it coming, as well as the feeling of having to let someone down, and hope they don't think you're the worst person to ever walk this earth.

I know you want to publicly berate a person over a 140 character status update, text all your friends that a certain someone has STDs and whine about how you will die a lonely cat lady, but fight the urge, my friends, because I have news for you: sometimes usually, rejection is a good thing.

Yes, it's an ego blow. Yes, it makes you feel like there's something wrong with you, yes, it makes you second guess everything you say or do, but, when it comes down to it, it's a momentary glitch in life that doesn't define you.

If you're getting bent up over the fact that you approached a hot guy/girl at a bar and he said no to hanging out, keep in mind it was a stranger. You knew the person for a few seconds. Maybe she was an ex-con with a raging drug addiction or the guy was a pathological liar. You are most likely better off.

If you got rejected because the other person is dating someone, married or a priest, you didn't get rejected. Hello! But, if you were having an affair or some unlawful and un-churchly encounters with one of the three, and you got rejected, well, yeah, that's rejection. So take that as a lesson: you shouldn't have been doing it anyway.

Maybe you got dumped by your girl/boyfriend because they don't love/like you anymore, or don't love you as much as you love them. It's not you, it's them, and guess what? They saved you from a world of hurt down the road when it would have sucked even more to get dumped after say, having kids! And guess what else? Earth is pretty populated with extremely good looking people, duhhh. So cry about it for a minute, eat an ice cream sandwich, and, if you have to, watch some really good/bad reality TV, then move along.

Sometimes you get rejected and it has nothing to do with you as a person, it’s totally the other party. Maybe you're both at different places in life or maybe you're just not the "one." What can you do? I'll tell you, take it all in, understand why it happened and that this is a sign you should be with someone else, accept it, and move on.

So next time you're about to jump to the conclusion that the person is a complete worthless jerk, simmer down girlfriend! You’re only hurting yourself.

Oh, and get off your Facebook, people. You're annoying all your friends with petty status updates about how "he aint no man of yours," or "women are all bitches." Thems fightin’ words, and not the good kind.

Seven girls walk into a bar. A bar consisting of a five to one male ratio. We were in for it. I know.

It's the kind of bar where there's a tiny dance floor playing reggaeton and Britney Spears in one corner and all 7% of the girls are dancing while about 70% of the men are huddled around nodding and doing up-down's on each one.

I gave in (this doesn't leave this blog)-for half a song-until I realized I needed more alcohol to turn me into the Saturday Night Fever that seemed to consume all my friends.

I back away with friend #1. We get drinks. We drink. We drink faster. We pray it gives us the momentum to get down with our bad selves.

We squeeze through grabby hands to get back to friends three through seven.

My drink gets spilt all over me by some girl who thought she was in a J.Lo video.

I stand still for a second until I realize the drink was two bucks. And life goes on. And I hate J.Lo.

My phone goes off so I reverse from waving arms and whipping hair.

As I'm standing against the bar, I feel a hand grab my waist and squeeze.

I knew it wasn't one of my friends, at least not this time.

I turn to my left.

Flat billed hat with sticker on it, check. Four inches shorter than me, check. Grinning so much I thought his eyes were going to explode, check.

I just stare. He just stands there...waiting.

(Insert disgusting look)

(Insert incessant grinning)


Of course, this shitty bar has one bathroom and every woman in the bar was in line for it.

As the door opens each time, all I can see are a mess of girls talking shit on their friends who aren't in the bathroom while others are putting makeup on each other and some are texting. All in a single bathroom. While the rest of us are ready to just die.

So we book it to a place that understands a one-stall women's restroom is the stupidest decision for any bar owner. Ever.

Time passes. What seems like an hour is only ten minutes.

Next bar.

Last bar.

Lines. Why? This isn't Hollywood.

We all get in. Only after a fight with a stranger in line about so and so's something or other.

We grab some booths. We get drinks. It's packed. It was like Club Deviate meets taco Tuesday.

Is the DJ wearing a Lucha Libre mask?

Why are there balloons here?

Did we crash a birthday party?

Confusion occurs. I wanted to click my heels. But they weren't heels. They were flats. And they weren't red. They were blue.

Some of my friends go to another table while I stay with one who came later. He (the "he" part is important shortly) gets up to get a drink and close the tab.

I look down for what must have been a second and five guys swarm in the booth.


"Please leave."


"Go away."


Friend comes back. Looks of more confusion. I know what this looks like, but help?

"Seriously, go away, this seat is taken."

"Okay, okay, okay. But can I get your number?"

So smooth. So debonair.

I wonder how many numbers are in this person’s phone as "random girl at bar who I think had blonde hair, I think."

They leave; pissed of course. Idiots.

I'm sure they prowled the room for more girls who would be left alone for a mere minute.

Last call.

Girls leave bar, at least what's left of them.



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