10 Best Things About Being Single And Living Alone

Posted by Rachel Hangover in sex

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Ahhh, February.  The shittiest, and thank God, shortest month of the year.  And to make this horrid month even more heinous, the assholes in charge dropped the worst excuse for a holiday right smack dab in the middle of it.  I hate Valentine’s Day.  Even when I was in a relationship with a man I was actually in love with, we both knew this ‘holiday’ was bullshit.  Instead of going out or exchanging stupid gifts, we would light every candle in our home, eat a bunch of magic mushrooms, drink red wine, and make love and fuck for hours.  We refused to ever give money to the bullshit corporations that feed off the lonely and insecure.

Now that I’m single, Valentine’s Day is only a minor annoyance, since I usually have to bartend on that day and plaster on a smile for the couples who are faking it even worse than I am.   But at least I get to go home and get off with someone who knows exactly what they’re doing (myself).  And I get to go to my favorite place in the whole world: my tiny studio apartment in Venice Beach.  That’s mine; my sanctuary; the only place I get to be fully ME.  So in honor of this fake corporate money scam holiday, and the absolute joy of being alone this February 14th, here are


10)  MY SPACE IS MY SPACE – My apartment looks like the color purple exploded all over it.  It’s decorated with a mixture of classic vintage pieces, punk rock pieces, and 80′s/90′s nostalgia.  Why?  Because all of those things make ME happy.  Gone are the days of staring at my ex’s ugly baseball painting.  Or that horrific chair he was obsessed with.  My space is mine completely and filed with things that bring me specific joy.  And that’s fucking delightful.

9)  BED ALL TO MY DAMN SELF – Holy fuck I love my bed.  Bed bed bed bed.  My bed is the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought myself and that includes cars I’ve owned.  And unless I choose to, I don’t have to share it with anyone.  No fighting over blankets.  No encroaching on my side (or arguing about sides).  No debates over the fan on or off or when lights out happen.  No getting kicked or whacked in the middle of the night.  No SNORING!!!  Just sleep whenever the fuck I want and for however long I want.  Which brings us to….

8) SLOTH- I can stay in my exquisite bed all goddamned day if I want to!  No one is even going to know, let alone judge me.  I can nap eight fucking times a day if I feel like it.  I can eat in bed.  I can do my taxes in bed.  I can write this fucking blog in bed which is exactly what the fuck I’m doing right now.  Being single means you get to be a lazy as you want to be.  And laziness is so gorgeous.

7) INDULGING IN DEPRESSION- While we’re on the topic of staying in bed all day, occasionally that goes hand in hand with depression.  Maybe not like clinical-you-need-therapy-or-meds depression but like the old melancholy-and-the-infinite-sadness.  You can wallow in it if you so feel like it.  You can listen to old Cranberries tunes and cry it out.  No one is there worrying about you or trying to cheer you up.  As a very depressive but also very creative person, I sometimes relish my dark moods.  A lot of creative energy comes from the sadness as much as the joy.  Being able to Just Be Sad is a fucking gift.

6) BEING A WEIRDO OR HERMIT-  It’s not just about staying in bed all damn day if I want to; it’s also about not having to leave the house for days if I don’t feel like it.  I can hole up and watch 36 uninterrupted hours of Netflix if I choose.  Or I can have an 80′s dance party in my underwear by myself.  I can work on my weird art projects or talk to myself or make up corny songs or do the billion other things that I secretly love to do that I’d be mortified if anyone ever found out.  And I can do all of it whilst I’m

5) BEING BUTT NAKED- When you are single and live alone, your nudity is your prerogative.  And I personally love being naked.  Fuck clothes!  Adios pantalones!  I love waking around my apartment naked.  I sleep naked.  I cook naked.  (Watch out for grease splatters!)  I work out naked.  I do just about everything naked because no one is around to judge my body.  I don’t have to look sexy or suck in my belly.  I can revel in my pale, cellulite and stretch mark ridden glory.  I am ready for my own jelly and I love every inch of it.

4) SEXUAL INDEPENDENCE (aka)  FUCKING WHOEVER YOU WANT WHENEVER YOU WANT – I mean, this is pretty self explanatory.  I’ve been deeply, deeply in love before.  But that sure as shit didn’t stop me from wanting to fuck other people.  Monogamy is so grossly overrated.  In fact most of my relationships end right around the two and a half year mark because I get an itch that only someone new can scratch.  Singledom means fringledom.  Ooops I mean freedom.  You can have as much (or as little) sex as you want.   You can have threesomes or eightsomes or whatever without worrying about jealousy or other pesky bullshit feelings.  And you can masturbate all day day to whatever weird porn you’re into.  You can leave all your weird sex toys all over your place if you so feel like it.  Your partners and your pleasures are entirely up to you.  Being your own sexual boss is legit.

3) GLUTTONY- Just like sex, food brings me great pleasure and it’s so so lovely to not have to have a fucking powwow before every meal.  Half hour conversations about where or what WE are going to eat are so tiresome.  My most recent ex hated the smell of broccoli so I as not allowed to cook or eat broccoli in his presence.  Fuck that shit.  Now I can eat whatever the fuck I want and whatever amount I want whenever the fuck I want.  Girl scout cookies for breakfast?  Fuck yeah!  If I’m on my period and I want to eat an entire box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, there is no one to stop me or judge me.  Ain’t no one gonna eat my leftovers.  And if I wanna eat some weird shit like putting sriracha on a tortilla and taking it straight to the face well then I can and I WILL!  Gordita feliz all day errrrrry day muthafukkas!!!  Which brings us to…

2) BEING A DISGUSTING PIG- you wanna pig out?  Do it.  Don’t feel like doing the dishes?  Don’t.  Don’t feel like cleaning?  You never have to unless you want to.  You wanna pick your nose or pick your wedgie?  Fucking go for it.  You can be as utterly disgusting as you want.  Ain’t nobody’s biz.  And while you’re at it your nasty ass can be

1)  FARTING up a storm.  Farting is vastly underrated.  Farting is actually delightful.  When I was in a relationship, I tried my best to Keep Things Nice.  In the mornings I’d creep into the bathroom and try to fart as quietly as possible.  But now, I can just let er rip.  I can blow ass like a trumpet if I feel like it.  I don’t gotta be ladylike.  Fuck being demure.  I can exorcize those butt demons whenever I want.  And what a release.  What freedom.  And really, that’s what it’s all about.  Love is great.  But freedom and self love are pretty fucking great too.


Happy Valentine’s Day, ya filthy animals.

I Ain’t Afraid of No GHOSTS

Posted by Rachel Hangover in advice, awkward moments, pussy contract, sex


Just in time for Halloween, today we are going to talk about that spooky phenomenon that has been the bitter taste on the tip of everyone’s tongue lately: GHOSTING.  You know what I’m referring to: you meet a guy, you hit it off, you go out maybe once or twice. Maybe you sleep with him, maybe you don’t. You think things are going well and then all out of sudden, he’s nowhere to be found. You try to text/call = radio silence. It’s like he’s disappeared into thin air. He’s vanished and all you have left is the memory of what could have been, haunting you. You’ve been ghosted and it fucking sucks.

It happens to everyone. It’s even happened to me and I know for a FACT I’m Totally Awesome. So instead of screaming “WHY?!?!?!” (it’s simple) and “MEN ARE THE WORST!!!!!” (well, that might be true) let’s go over some inconvenient truths.  The reason why you were ghosted is because He’s Just Not That Into You. It doesn’t matter how deep a connection you felt or how great a time you thought y’all were having. He’s just not that into you. If you call him out, he may give you some excuse like work has been crazy, or he’s dealing with some family shit, or he just needs time to figure out what he wants. Those things may all be true. But what he doesn’t want is you.

The fact of the matter is, men who love someone and want to be with that person, will do everything in their power to make that happen. If he’s not putting in the effort, he just doesn’t care. And he doesn’t really want to explain to you why you’re not the one.  He probably doesn’t even know why. He’s just not feeling it, and he wants to avoid an awkward or potentially painful conversation. So he just peaces out and leaves you wondering if you did something wrong. You didn’t. You’re fine. You’re lovely in fact.

Which brings me to my second point. Ghosting is lazy. It’s tacky. It’s rude and inconsiderate. It is not how a gentleman behaves. So why in the fuck would you want to be with someone who is not a gentleman and doesn’t want to be with you?? Never spend any time or energy on someone who doesn’t spend the same on you. Stop worrying about why it happened or whining about the fact it happened it all and move the fuck on. In the immortal words of two chill dudes named Wayne and Garth: “Get over it.  Go out with someone else.” Put your big girl panties on — hell, even go out and buy sexy new ones — and get to swiping, girl.

Because the unfortunate thing is that it looks like ghosting is here to stay. In a world where we can order up a person on an app and find out everything we need to know about someone online without actually having to get to know them, we just don’t need to waste time on someone who isn’t right. There are just too many other options. So explore those other options immediately. There are good guys out there. You’ll find one.  (You’re gonna need some extra luck and patience if you live in Los Angeles.  Godspeed.)

P.S.  The guy who ghosted you might try down the line to get back in your life. Suddenly he’s back from the dead.That’s when a ghost becomes a zombie.  And we all know what to do with zombies: aim for the head and destroy that motherfucker before he fucks your shit up or infects your friends. Happy Halloween, my Depraved Ones.  Do your tricks and get your treats.


Rule #64: Suck Harder

Posted by The Girl's Guide to Depravity in advice, blowjobs, sex


They say blowjobs are like pizza, even if they’re bad, they’re still good. But “they” have never gagged on an errant hair and ended up puking all over their partner.  Besides, why settle for giving a “good” blowjob when you can give a fucking fantastic one?

I usually hate giving BJ tips because it’s all subjective. What makes one guy shoot off like a rocket may leave another guy with failure to launch. However, there are a few things that will make any guy fall to his knees … in order to return the favor with some head for you! Because isn’t that really what it’s all about?

1) Fucking ENTHUSIASM! Go to town like a diabetic with a lolly and no matter how much teeth you accidentally use, you’ll still be a champ. There’s no bigger turn off than a girl who’s choking on a dick every five seconds. Except for a girl who refuses to choke on a dick at all.

2) Not every guy likes a finger up the ass, but they all like a little pressure above their treasure trail. Press down with an open palm just above the dick, make eye contact (if their eyes are even still open then) and slurp away.

3) Take your time! I know, ugh, it’s already hard work, why would you want to make it last ten minutes when you could make him cum in ten seconds? But most guys like to savor a bj, cuz they never know when they’ll get one again.

Happy blowing!

P.S. I’m A Squirter

Posted by The Girl's Guide to Depravity in awkward moments, sex


Way before I realized that there are literally over a million porn videos dedicated to the elusive female ejaculator, I was a confused middle-schooler who thought she was pissing her NKOTB sheets when she decided to explore her lady parts with the business end of an electric toothbrush for the first time.

Now, I’m not exactly known for having a strong bladder. Just ask the bike cop who busted me for Molly at a Groove Armada show. He had to throw those urine soaked shoes away and pedal barefoot the rest of the night. At least I assume he did, I don’t know, I was too busy grabbing my ankles and coughing in jail. Point is, it wasn’t crazy for me to assume in the pre-youporn days that I was giving myself a golden shower every time I had an orgasm.

Cut to my first sexual experience. I was so afraid of peeing all over my v-card puncher that I barely opened my legs. Finding out from my older, dangerous cousin who had already been in 3 rehabs at 19 that it was actually something called FEMALE EJACULATION didn’t make me any more relaxed. Like, what guy would want something like that to happen on him?

Turns out, EVERY GUY.

As I got more comfortable exploring my sexuality (and half the guys on my study abroad program) I started being upfront about my ability to get wet and wild while getting it on. When the clothes came off and the condom came on, I’d whisper “P.S., I’m a squirter.” They fucking loved it. They couldn’t get enough of my squirting. It’s not like you can fake an orgasm like that. Having sex with me was like buying a season pass to Raging Waters, but with less dirty diapers on the ground.

It was great for a while, but then the pressure started to get to me. I couldn’t perform every single time. With one guy, to whom I confessed my sitch early on, I couldn’t perform at all. He tried so hard that I started to feel bad for him. Then I started to feel bad for myself. Oral is no longer fun after an hour of rug munching. One night, after I had a little too much to drink, I just wanted it to end. So as soon as he put his finger inside me, I just let go.

Unfortunately, I let go of my bladder and peed all over him for reals. To this day, he still says it was the most intense orgasm he ever witnessed.

Three’s Company Too: The Three Keys to a Good Threesome

Posted by Rachel Hangover in threesome

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APPARENTLY, we need to talk about threesome etiquette. I’m an experienced unicorn* and just a very horny and experimental girl in general. Thus, I’ve had my fair share of threesomes. Some have been utterly fantastic and some, well, not so much. My most recent encounter fell into the latter category. This is because the girl I so kindly invited to share one of my favorite part time lovers and full time friends with (he’s a drummer – yum!) was experiencing her very first threesome. Thus, she was not aware of some of the unwritten rules. So I’m writing the unwritten rules. And here they are:


First and foremost:
No one likes a cock hog. The whole point of a threesome is that there are THREE people, and all three people need to be equally involved. All three people should be equally committed to getting their partners off. A cock hog deprives one person of involvement and NO ONE should feel left out during a threesome, or you’re doing it wrong.

Conversely, don’t ignore the cock either. I know some dudes who, post hookup, felt that the threesome was only offered so that the ladies could explore their lesbianism. And while they may have been making dreams come true by just letting the dude watch, leaving him with a raging boner or worse, blue balls, is some cold shit.

When dealing with a cock hog, don’t yell: “Get off, it’s my turn!”, like I did. Instead, go sit on his face and politely mention to your lady friend that you’re getting bored and maybe its time to switch.

And of course:
If you are receiving oral, you need to be doing something else. Don’t just lie there, basking in the glory. You have two hands and a mouth. You need to be using one of these body parts to get someone else off. No oral feels SO good that you can’t keep busy. RECIPROCITY IS KEY. Don’t be selfish.

When dealing with a pillow princess, go sit on her face. That will teach her.

And finally:
Whomever arranged the threesome, or more importantly, whomever’s bed it is, gets to be the one to call lights out. DO NOT, under any circumstances, continue to hook up when someone is trying to go to sleep. Even if you are being really quiet, it is just RUDE. And being rude to someone who arranged a threesome deserves a special place in hell. If you’re not done with sexy time, take it somewhere else, ya heathens.

And there they are. The most important keys to a quality three. There are more, but in general: keep it sexy, keep it safe, keep it classy, and keep it kind. Now get out there and get your freak on!

*If you don’t know, now you know: A UNICORN is a bi girl who is down to get down with an established couple without interfering in their relationship. Thus named because most people don’t believe they exist, but they DO! And when you encounter one it is a rare and beautiful thing and a truly magical experience.

The Morning After

Posted by Rachel Hangover in awkward moments, sex, Uncategorized

HangoverUgh.  That feel when you wake up and you know you shouldn’t have kissed him last night but you did.  And it’s done now and you can’t undo it.  And who knows if you even want to.  Who knows anything?  What the fuck WAS that?

The fact of the matter is you wanted him to stay.  Even though you were the one who pulled away and said it was weird and incestuous, you wanted him to stay.  And maybe it’s just because it’s December, and you both just really needed someone to snuggle and make out with.  And maybe it’s just because it felt so nice to snuggle and love on someone you actually give a fuck about.  Someone whose opinion matters to you.  Someone who roots for you and who – oh, goddamnit – makes you better.  Maybe it was just really nice to spend some time with someone who is more intelligent than you.

And maybe it IS weird and incestuous.  But who really cares if you hooked up with his brother?  That was years ago and you don’t feel anything for him anymore other than loving the fuck out of that whole family.  And who cares that he’s hooked up with more than one of your friends?  That’s what happens when you know someone for over ten years.  Maybe it’s not weird at all and you’re making a bigger deal out of it than you need to.  You are DEFINITELY over thinking it, like you always do, but you can’t help it because the contact solution and lens case that you got out for him last night are staring you in the face, forcing you to be honest with yourself:  You tried to get him to stay.  You really wanted him to stay.  But he didn’t because he’s more intelligent than you.

And you just feel weird because you don’t know what, if anything, you want from him.  All you know is that you want to create art with him and even though one of your best friends thinks you should also create babies with him, you don’t know if you want that ever and it’s all just very confusing.  So it goes.  It is what it is.  And you must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss.  And it’s been a long December.  Maybe this year will be better than the last.  The feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters but no pearls.  And the days go by so fast.  Who knows anything?  Snuggles and kisses are just the best, so no regrets.

Rule #63: Never Confuse a Fuckbuddy with a Snugglebuddy

Posted by Rachel Hangover in RULE, Uncategorized



A couple weeks back, on a lazy weekday evening, I was lying in my bed, feeling bored. I was watching Amy Schumer episodes and my insatiable appetite for carbs told me I would bleed in a few days. I suddenly had an overwhelming desire for company. I wanted snuggles. Cuddles. Some rubbin’ and some lovin’. Obviously this was not something I could call the rockstar in for, so I opted to reach out to a young pretty boy actor who I’d recently befriended and befucked. We were day drinking when we met; it turned into night drinking. It turned into going back to my place and having good sex several times. And then it turned into nuzzling and cuddling until we both fell asleep. And that was really all I wanted. The nuzzling and cuddling. But if I had to have some sex to get it, well so be it.

I texted him and he said he was busy, but would hit me up in a bit. A few hours went by, and he said he was still in the middle of stuff, but he could swing by later. Cool. A few more hours went by, and he said he’d be over soon. By now it was getting very late. When he finally arrived, he couldn’t figure out how to buzz himself into my apartment. I should’ve known something was up then, but I went to the front door to let him in. The door swung open to reveal him grinning at me sheepishly. “I’m SOOO drunk!”, He announced. Greeeeaat. I was completely sober and just wanted some damn snuggles.

So we proceeded to have really bad, fumbly, awkward sex. If you have to say to a girl, more than once, “it’s hard enough”, no, honey. It’s not. I would have been better off calling a platonic friend and snuggling up and watching a movie. But if anything, I blame myself. Because I wasn’t clear about what I wanted. You can never ever expect a man to know what you want; especially the young pups. You have to tell them. I shouldn’t have thought a guy I’ve never had anything but drunken sex with to have any idea that I wanted anything other than that. So I take the blame for this less than stellar experience and I was eager to give this pretty young thing a chance to redeem himself. He was very apologetic and is aware that he ‘made the blog’ in a negative way and from what I understand he has quit drinking. Awesome. I’m super stoked that I helped someone decide to make healthier choices. Something new and different for me. And I ended up being the first girl with whom he had sober sex. Ever. Something new and different for him. Yay for positive changes!

You have to always remember to be very up front about what your needs and desires are, with any partner, sexual or otherwise.  Why waste your time and/or end up getting frustrated when you can just be honest?  My experience with Pretty Young Thing just reiterated that no matter how well you know someone, if you’re being ‘intimate’ with them, then get intimate instead of getting disappointed.  I’m just happy we both ended up getting something that we needed and wanted.  Cheers to that.  Now excuse me while I go snuggle the shit out of someone.  You should too.

Fuck Your Rockstar

Posted by Rachel Hangover in sex

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So, my rockstar was in town for a spell. Holy Mother Fuck, it has been so fucking lovely; it’s been so lovely fucking. I encountered this particular rockstar for the first time over three years ago. He sang me a song looking deep into my eyes. I fell desperately in lust. Later, smoking a cigarette together, I was drunk enough to tell him: “Your voice is so beautiful; I get emotional every time I hear you sing.” He replied: “Aww, well aren’t you just a little sweetheart. Do you wanna come back to my place and get in my hot tub with me?” Obviously my response was an enthusiastic YES.

So that pretty much ended my relationship with the guy I had been living with for two years. And that was hard and it really sucked. But it is a decision I do not regret. However, a few weeks later, my rockstar promptly moved the fuck to New York City. Now it is three years later, and my rockstar texted me to tell me he’s back in town for a bit, and I should come over. I was offended; how dare he think he can just hit me up three years later and I would just come running. I told him I was busy fucking someone else. At first he told me to have fun, but then continued to beg me to come over anyway. So the next night, I went running over to his place. FUCK YES.

The thing is, he’s THAT GUY. It’s not just the great sex. It’s that he feeds me whiskey, cigarettes, and cocaine. He sings me songs. His voice sounds like the angels fell from heaven and are having a drunken orgy on your eardrums. His band is the tits. He introduces me to the coolest of the cool. His house is ridiculous. We go running naked back and forth from his hot tub to his enormous pool. We make love in the moonlight. And then we fuck all night in his big fluffy white bed. He eats pussy like it’s his calling. Oh, and he has a goddamned PUPPY for chrissake.

And I know I’m not the only chick he’s fucking. I don’t care. He’s hooked up with two of my friends, that I know about. I don’t care. He has dozens of model chicks and actress bitches at his disposal. I don’t care. He texts me at four in the morning. I don’t care. If I text him, he rarely texts back. I don’t care. He still has a pair of my earrings that I will never ever see again. I don’t care. All of my friends think he is a total dick. I don’t care. And in fact, his dickishness is exactly what I love about him. He doesn’t give a fuck about me other than to fuck me, and it’s amazing. He will choke me, spank me, pull my hair, and I fucking love it. He will also be sweet and romantic and tell me all sorts of things he won’t remember in the morning and I don’t fucking care.

Lots of girls get bent out of shape over dudes like this. Who don’t ‘respect’ them, who ‘treat them bad’, but keep sending them late night texts. And to this I say: Fuck It.
Who cares? Chances are he is not disrespecting you or trying to treat you poorly. He’s just not thinking about you at all, unless he wants you to come over right that instant. And I say, go over right that instant. When it’s good, it’s good, and when it’s great, it’s great. And don’t fucking worry about it. Get it while the getting is good and you will always have the memories of all those times you fucked that fucking rockstar and how much fucking fun you had.

He’s back in New York now. I might never see him again. Or maybe, in a few weeks, or a few months, or a few years, I might get a text thats says: hey its me come over. And I will fucking go. Because I love fucking him and I always will and I don’t give one single fuck about anything else. So go do it. Fuck your fucking rockstar. It’s worth it; I promise.

Just don’t leave anything at his house.

Rule #62: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Thinner

Posted by The Girl's Guide to Depravity in RULE

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One Large non-fat latte: 120 calories
One Small Pinkberry Plain: 140 calories
Four Xantinis (Xanax crushed into a martini): 500 calories

That’s what I ate every single day for a month after my last breakup. It wasn’t intentional, but I was on the best weight-loss plan ever. I was on the breakup diet.

Some girls might go the other way and gorge themselves on Ben & Jerry’s and Sex and the City reruns, but getting dumped would always give me that horrible pit in my stomach (which my friends and I simply referred to as “the pit”) that filled me up in a way that a large pepperoni pizza never did.

And it wasn’t just the lack of eating that was making me runway-ready. After my ex crushed my heart like he used to crush up his Ritalin, I started taking the stairs to work — not to get in a mini-workout, but just to avoid human contact for as long as possible. Misery may love company but depression just wants to be alone.

I would also unintentionally skip meals at night – when you take a sleeping pill at 8pm so you can conk out and dodge dealing with your feelings, you tend not to eat dinner.

I even started to crave the pangs of hunger that would lap up at me in the middle of my 300 calorie day. I’d rather feel anything other than a broken heart and you can control hunger – you can’t control your cheating boyfriend leaving you for a stripper who works at Cheetah’s.

It got so bad that one time a friend literally tried to force-feed me a Happy Meal. “You are what you eat,” she said as she shoved a fry into my mouth. I simply smiled, swallowed, then went into the bathroom and purged.

But my experience was nothing compared to my good friend M’s. I call her a yo-yo breakup dieter because whenever she was in a relationship, she would get comfortable. Really comfortable, as in elastic waistband comfortable. And imagine exactly how comfortable she got when she met the man of her dreams.

Her boyfriend would take her binge eating as a sign of depression, conclude that he was making her unhappy and unhealthy and breakup with her.

She’d then go on a diet of nothing but cigarettes and red wine and one apple a day and the pounds would just fall off. Within a week, she was not only fitting in to her skinny jeans, they were almost falling off of her.

Then she would invariably run into her ex at some mutual friend’s party, the neighborhood supermarket or the gym. He’d be so impressed with her weight-loss, take it as a sign that she was now happy and healthy (which was the opposite of the truth, but she wasn’t about to correct him), and they’d start dating again.

This went on about three or four different times until they decided they had to end the cycle once and for all. Naturally, they decided to get married.

My friend promptly ballooned up like Kylie’ Jenner’s lower lip. It took all of one year and 70 pounds for them to get a divorce.

She was devastated. I told her not to despair, that she’d find someone else, but she wasn’t ready to think about another guy so soon. Plus, she wanted to reap the one benefit that came with the dissolution of her marriage. “Divorce is the biggest breakup there is,” she told me over a bottle of red wine and a pack of cigarettes one night, “I’m going to be skinnier than Kate Moss!”

So are we destined to be skinny and alone or fat and in a relationship? Not necessarily. I met my current bf about three months and negative ten pounds into my last non-eating plan. I’m now happily ten pounds overweight. He says he loves my curves. But last night, when he caught me downing an entire half-gallon of Carmela’s dark chocolate sorbet, he looked at my fat cupcaking over the side of my pants and said, “Honey, tomorrow we have to talk.” I get the sinking feeling that I may be ready for bikini season a lot sooner than I thought.

Rule #61: Know the Difference Between LITTLE BOYS vs REAL MEN

Posted by Rachel Hangover in Boys, cougars, men

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A while back I wrote an article titled ‘Know the Difference Between Fuckable vs Dateable’. I stand by everything I wrote in that article, but I’d like to amend it. That is because recently, a Little Boy attempted to date me. And I got very confused. Despite his young age, he fit all of my criteria for dating, not just fucking. And he played it like he was trying to be my full time daddy, not just a fun time (which I would have been totally down for). But I quickly realized that he is not dateable. He is no longer even fuckable, because he is just a Little Boy.

Even if you are fucking for fucks sake, as in, you have no intention of actually dating the person you’re banging, you should still be fucking a REAL MAN, not a Little Boy. I used to love fucking little boys…. (wait. oops! DON’T CALL CHILD SERVICES! I of course mean over 18 years little boys) …because that’s all they’re good for. But now that I’m in my thirties, ain’t nobody got time fo that.

You see, age has nothing to do with it. Young twenty-something studs can be REAL MEN and some dudes in their thirties and beyond are still little boys. Since it can be difficult to know the difference, let me break it down for you:

because they don’t need to. If you’re not the only chick they are fucking, they will tell you straight up. Real Men don’t have the time or energy to lie and even if they did, a real man knows he’ll get respect, not just pussy, if he’s honest. So of course,

because they don’t need to. Real Men say what they mean and do what they say they will do. They don’t keep you waiting; they value your time as much as their own. And they don’t try to fuck with your head or your heart because

as much as they respect themselves. Real Men view women as equals, not objects. And last but definitely not least,

and they fucking love it. And they don’t give one single fuck if it’s bushed, bristly, bald, or bleeding. A Real Man will pull your tampon out with his teeth because a Real Man has tasted blood before and he ain’t scared of it. A Real Man doesn’t put the pussy on a pedestal, he puts it in his mouth where it belongs.

(If you still don’t know how – for FUCK’S SAKE LEARN!!! – Read THIS! )