I Can’t, Vol. 42

What can’t I with at this juncture in my life? Well. I’ll tell you.

I can’t…

seem to fill up off breakfast protein shakes. I’ve always hated shakes. Like, always. I’ve always found them dumb, too light, and a waste of time, calories, and swallowing. However, I found some recipes online for breakfast shakes to incorporate into my morning routine to make a fast, filling, on-the-go breakfast, and I have to say — STILL HATE ‘EM. They taste good and look pretty and are so fun/easy to make. But fuck me if I’m not ravenous by 11am. I fill them up, too. Don’t get me wrong. There’s like a FULL ass banana, greek yogurt, and other stuff in there. I guess I’m just a difficult person.

I can’t…

stop singing the lyrics to “Down in the DM,” and it’s really fucked up. Specifically, the part about snapchatting him that ‘gina. It’s starting to make me uncomfortable with myself.

I can’t…

that Facebook alerted me last week to the fact that I’ve been on it for 11 years. 11. Eleven. Not 10, not 5, not even 2. 11. I literally can’t with that. I can’t do it.


I can’t…

with passive dudes on Bumble, and I speak for all women on this one. Whether you’ve been on it before or are on it currently, you know what I’m talking about. Here’s the deal: Yes, it’s a dating app that requires the girl to initiate conversation. But that’s it, y’all. That’s as far as us initiating anything goes. It’s not a free pass for you males to be passive AF. To essentially sit back, hands behind head, waiting to be doted on. FUCK. THAT. Bitch, grab your cajones and ask a dame out. Keep the conversation flowing. You think girls want that passive crap to have and to hold for the rest of their lives??? You think that’s gonna get us going and WANT to continue speaking to you and meet you? Maybe some girls, but not legit ones. I can assure you that much. 

I can’t…

imagine having to cook or do laundry for more than just me, and that is how I know I am nowhere near ready to have children. I get so worn out just from making simple ass dinners and doing my own loads of laundry, that the thought of cooking for three or even four and also doing others’ laundry gives me hives. HOW. HOW DO MOMS OR LIVE-IN GIRLFRIENDS OR PEOPLE IN GENERAL DO IT? Clearly, I could never be a chef or own a dry cleaning franchise.

I can’t…

believe how much easier life becomes for an avid online shopper when your place of work has UPS and USPS pickup. Like. Do y’all KNOW how much time this has saved me from having to visit a brick and mortar UPS store and pay them $1.11 to use their computer to print off return labels? It’s the little things. Truly.

I can’t…

decide what’s harder to dress for: casual or cute. It’s something I struggle with and go back and forth on all the time, it seems. Sometimes, the process of finding a “cute” outfit for something seems next to impossible while, other times, I just wish I had more clutch t-shirts that hung just right and looked amazing with jeans and kicks. BASICALLY, GETTING DRESSED IS THE WORST SOMETIMES.


I can’t…

handle work anxiety dreams. I just had my first one last night and woke up in a cold sweat. I guess that’s how you know shit’s getting real.

I can’t…

with every Dallas girl’s complete and total freakout over SoulCycle coming to town. Granted, I have a separate BBG Instagram account, so I’m sure this is why I’ve noticed such an intense influx of SoulCycle conniption fits. I mean, IT’S A SPIN STUDIO. THERE ARE A LOT OF THEM. What’s SO different and great about this one? (Watch me try a class there and become obsessed) (I’m willing to put money on myself that that’ll happen). Here’s an impression I posted on Snapchat of every girl ever re: SoulCycle:

I can’t…

take one more model posting about food and how much she loves it and her baking/cooking/devouring of it. Look. I get that some of these models are naturally that thin, but COME ON. I just don’t buy it. I refuse. I refuse to believe that you’re actually ingesting any of the things you bake yourself or order from a restaurant. Stop living this lie and attempting to appear “normal” to your followers. It’s not right. In fact, it’s insulting. Do you think we’re daft enough that we truly believe you “just ate SO many cookies,” and your hip bones continue to protrude so far out, you have to say “ON YOUR LEFT!” like bikers on a running trail when you pass by others? NOT BUYING IT.

I can’t…

handle when people have Chipotle leftovers. Oh, is perfect deliciousness wrapped in a flour tortilla or spooned ever-so-delicately into a bowl too much for your precious stomach to handle? It’s blasphemous, really. To not force yourself to put down every last bite when it’s fresh. These people sticking their HALF EATEN bowls in the fridge for later… I fucking can’t. Expand your stomach for the sake of the game. Speaking of Chipotle…

I can’t…

that someone I dated once HEATED UP HIS BURRITO BECAUSE IT WASN’T WARM ENOUGH. I don’t need to tell yo that it was completely ruined. I think a part of my soul died that day —at least part of our relationship did, FOR SURE.

I can’t…

handle some girls’ beauty. Not a lot, but some. Examples: Olivia Munn, Emma Watson, Olivia Culpo (literally had to stop following her on Instagram because I couldn’t take it). I dunno. I thought I had more, but I guess that’s it. Two Olivia’s and an Emma. 

I can’t…

urge you guys enough to PLEASE COMMENT ON THIS BLOG AND LET ME/WHITNEY KNOW IF YOU LIKE/WANT TO HEAR MORE OF OUR PODCAST. I don’t mean to yell, but I’M BEGGING Y’ALL. I need to know. No feelings will be hurt, I just would like to get a general temperature of whether you all prefer my writing or the podcast more. We get next to no feedback about the podcast, so anything will help. DO ME A SOILID, READERS.




My Mortified Performance

On May 14 and 15, I got on stage in front of total strangers to read journal entries I wrote at 14 years old. Fortunately for all of you, my dad went old school and came to the show clad with a tripod in order to record my reading. I will preface what you’re about to see with two things: 1) everything you hear is 110% authentic. Nothing was made up or embellished, and I am basically the same person 15 years later and 2) I actually feel I delivered a stronger performance the second night, but my dad only graced me with the tripod once so I have no evidence of that. So, without further adieu, I give you Emma at 14:

Slow, Fast, And Everything In Between: A Piece About Commitment

In this day and age of Netflix and chilling, ghosting, breaking up over text, having heartfelt conversations over text, flirting via Instagram likes and comments, and God-knows-what going down in the DM, dating has gone from being annoying to downright depressing. Even with easy access to the opposite sex via dating apps like Bumble and Tinder, no one’s actually willing to commit. They treat the apps like games, swiping left and right with next to no intention of acting on anything. They’re window shopping at best, which is why you don’t hear back from your matches half the time, and that, my friends, is the bleak reality of the dating situation today.

HOWEVER (and that’s a big however hence the all-caps), every once in a very blue moon, someone on these apps does have intentions and good ones at that. They’re not banking on anything; in fact, they’ll most likely be flabbergasted if they’re to meet anyone of superior quality. But the point is they want to. They desire to. And, sometimes, they do. 

HOWEVER (another big however), if they do meet someone worthwhile and things seem to be going so well, they still have the big C to deal with. No, not that big C. The other big C — COMMITMENT. Just because this person was on this dating app to maybe meet someone by no means insinuates that they’re any different from the rest of our generation when it comes to actually pledging to take responsibility for something they very most likely started in the first place. That’s something we struggle with and will most likely continue to struggle with for the unforeseen future because we’re selfish assholes but at least we admit it.

Commitment. Fucking commitment, man. The idea seems simple yet implies so much and can so easily scare off the best of them. My personal belief is something Aziz Ansari actually wrote about in his book, Modern Romance. I don’t have the actual quote on hand because I don’t tote the book with me wherever I go, but he spoke to the idea that we almost have too many options. That these apps, with their seemingly never-ending line-up of potential matches, might actually be doing our generation more harm than good by bombarding us with choices. I think, by nature, humans are easily overwhelmed. Before these apps, you didn’t know when or how you’d meet your next romantic prospect. It was more of a mystery, which made the mere idea of it more exciting. Will it be the guy buying carrots and jarred minced garlic (gross) at Kroger? Or perhaps that cutie in the baseball cap you ended up sitting next to on a plane ride? Of course, that never actually happens. Before apps, you were probably meeting people via work or of friends of friends of friends of cousins of friends. Now, with these apps, you can sit at home in your rattiest fat girl clothes with 4-day old hair and go through potential mates like water because, if you don’t match with this one, you’ll probably match with the next one. 


But the kicker is that having more options via these apps haven’t provided us with any greater results with finding love. In fact, it’s made it worse! And more complicated! And HAS CAUSED SO MUCH MORE SWEATY, TEAR-FILLED ANXIETY (no? just me?). 

HOWEVER (they just keep coming, don’t they?), let’s say you get past all the anxiety and upset and end up finding someone you really hit it off with. You’re going along, dating, kissing, sexing. You’re owning the new, butterfly stages of this courtship — basking in the glow of where it might go and what it all could mean for your (up until this point) abusive relationship with dating. 

Then, commitment comes up. Committing. You want to commit. You want them to commit. You want the god of commitment to rain down upon whatever-the-fuck “this” is and get it on lock. Someone needs to commit to something soon because you’ve realized… you don’t DO “slow.”

And that’s the entire point of this post (I realize it’s taken me about 650 words to get there, but I got there). I’ve realized over the past few months that I can’t go slow with dating. But I’ve also realized what that means to me; that is, what it looks like. And it’s probably different than what you’re assuming. Because when I state that I don’t do “slow,” I mean that when something as miraculous as meeting a great guy with whom I click with on all levels happens to me, I can’t act coy. I can’t be blasé about it. Sure, I can play that card for the first little while as I’m trying to figure out whether or not this guy is spongeworthy, but once I’ve decided I’m in it, I’m in it. In it to win it. I’m committed because I don’t know how else to be.


I bet you read that and think “Oh, so she gets needy, attached, falls too hard, thinks he’s the One, and expects marriage by year’s end.” No. That’s not at all what I’m saying. I’m simply stating that, as someone who has been through the ringer with dating and knows how very seldom you meet someone that makes you stop and go “Oh,” I find it very hard to be casual. But not being casual doesn’t mean being so serious that we’re getting engaged tomorrow. It simply means just being committed to finding out what this could be. It means not wanting to play the field or continue to keep my options open because why would I want to if you have my attention? It means that slow is casual and casual isn’t enough when you like someone a lot. Moving “slow” is just another way of avoiding commitment. I move fast because all fast means to me is we’ve committed to commitment. No more, no less. 

Commitment doesn’t have to be scary, but our generation has made it as such. It doesn’t insinuate “for life.” It doesn’t imply any sort of guarantee. It doesn’t even mean we’ll make it a solid six months. It just means that, for now, you’re in it and willing to see how it pans out. We can talk slow, have slow sex, kiss slow, take our time having dinner — I might even let you be slow to text if you’re a busy person. But slow is just a copout for the terror of committing, and we’ve all got to GTF over it.




Using Your Dog As A Scapegoat (Or That One Time I Threw Up A Bottle Of Wine)

I don’t create great stories; great stories create me.

It was early December. I had been very, very casually fraternizing with a guy who I won’t refer to as a gentleman because he doesn’t deserve the title. At the time, though, he seemed magical (don’t they all?). Learned, cultured, put-together, and had more on the ball than most. The fact that he opened our first date with broadcasting to me how many outfits he had gone through before deciding on what he had on was overshadowed by his overall charm. The fact that the following list was what he shared with me in regards to what he first notices in a girl was also overlooked because I’m dumb: eyebrows, teeth (not smile), denim, shoes, and presence. In that order. I don’t know, guys. Sometimes I’m just blatantly unsmart.

On our (what I didn’t know at the time to be but was) final date, poor decision after poor decision was made. No dinner, just drinks. But not just any drinks either — wine. Two bottles of it. That’s one bottle per person in case you needed clarification. All this lightly coated with a meek artisan cheese board. If you’re reading this and scoffing at my weakness re: finishing one bottle of wine to myself, I apologize for not being more of a lush but one bottle of wine ingested into my system is enough to give me the spins while out in public with my eyes wide open. And that’s exactly what happened.


Spins. Across the table from this guy. In public. Completely conscious, sitting in the upright position. These are the moments in which I thank whoever’s in charge of my reaction to copious amounts of alcohol because whoever’s in charge blessed me with the ability to not be an obvious drunk. At least not to someone who’s only been out with me a few times. 

So there we sat. Me spinning. Him probably fine because I picked up on some low-key alcoholism from this guy early-on. I breathed a quiet yet heavily-coated-with-wine sigh of relief when he asked for the check and wondered to myself how the hell I was going to not die or embarrass myself between getting up from the table and going home. And there was no way I wasn’t gonna make out with this guy, so feigning a functioning level of drunk was imperative.

We get back to my home. I let Cece out to pee while he makes his way inside to settle in for what he doesn’t know is going to be one of the most drunken necking sessions in United States history. Things ensue. Sexy things. Said sexy things come to an end. Him spending the night is an unspoken mutual decision. Goodnight’s are said. Lights are turned off. Bodies are laid down to rest. And that’s when I realize…



And not your expected, run-of-the-mill vomit either. It was one of those waves of nausea you know is going to end really poorly for you and anyone witnessing. It was the type of nausea that overtakes your soul, seizing you in its unrelenting grip and letting you know who’s the captain now. 

It was I-just-drank-an-entire-bottle-of-wine-on-an-empty-stomach-then-engaged-in-low-level-cardio-activity nausea.

Remembering that this douchelord had once lamented about having a weak stomach for anything blood, vomit, or injury related, I bolt upright realizing there’s no way I can make out with the porcelain throne since he’s within earshot. My bathroom vent is weak and barely muffles farts and no amount of running water is going to cover the noises that are about to explode from my body. Thinking on my brown-out feet, I throw on my robe and initiate operation: USE CECE AS A SCAPEGOAT TO GET OUTSIDE, NOW.

“Cece! Cease!” I panic-whisper into the black hole of darkness that is my bedroom.


“Cece. Outside? Pee-pees?” My whisper is growing more panicked as I feel the wine and Manchego start to creep their way upwards.

Still nothing.

“I think she’s passed out,” offers Sir Idiot.

“CECE. OUTSIDE. NOW!” I barely get out the “now” as the vomit enters my throat, full throttle. She hears the desperation in my voice and snaps to, jumping off the bed.

We run to the front door together. I throw it open, Cece trailing right behind me.

“MOVE!” I demand of Cece. This isn’t about her and going pee-pees. It never was. 

I fling my body off the front porch, landing on all fours in the grass. The scene that follows is what I’m sure inspired “The Exorcist” in another lifetime. What makes the situation even better is the fact that underneath my robe was nothing but me. So there I was, a young woman at 1am, crouching down on all fours in the dead of night, in front of her house, spewing vomit, with her entire backside and all that comes with it hanging out for any neighborhood night owl to behold. It was a scene, man. 

Of course, once it’s over, I feel almost sober and like a woman rebirthed into the world. Cece (who, by the way, never actually peed) and I head back into the house. I wash out my mouth and clean the streaks of wet mascara off my face and re-enter my bedroom business as usual.

“You okay?” Prick Face asks. 

“Yeah! Cece just had to go.” Good girl, Cece, I think to myself. Good girl.

The morning dawns. Life is brighter. The world is sober as am I. I awake refreshed, ready to forget the horror of just hours prior. As Shit Head redresses himself and sits down in my living room to complete the ever-exhausting male task of putting on his shoes, I take Cece out to actually pee. Her and I head outside, not a care in the world before I spot last night’s incident staring at me in the light of day.

A PILE of neon pink. Neon. Pink. A miniature mountain of it. Just sitting expectedly in the grass where I left it, waiting to be dealt with. 

I gasp as if I forgot last night happened or, at the very least, it did but the wine-vomit had somehow cleaned itself or been eaten by a stoned Raccoon overnight. I panic. The guy is right behind the front door of my home and could walk out any second once he’s gotten his shoes tied right.

In a moment all-too-similar to the previous night, I’m back down on all fours (this time fully-clothed and at least half-sober) and begin to tear up the Earth. Dirt, grass, twigs, leaves — I yank it all out of the ground with my bare hands like a rabid caveman trying to hide his hidden treasure. Except this isn’t treasure I’m covering up — it’s a small pile of neon pink wine vomit. My hands are covered in dirt and my fingernails resemble those of a miner, but the evidence is buried and that’s all that matters. I collect myself, walk back inside, casually wash my hands acting as if it’s just something I do every morning before I leave the house, and it’s all over. We’re safe. 

The moral of this story? Eat before you drink and always remember: your dog is your best scapegoat.

That’s all she wrote.