My Second (and even more mortifiying) Mortified Performance

Performing for Mortified back in May was the best. I didn’t think it could get any more fun, but then the producer asked me back to perform another, new piece for the show in August, and I was all “UH YEAH OK.” The thing is, I just had so much material. My first piece was barely skimming the surface of the pages and pages of rambling, dramatic diatribes from my adolescent journals of silly situations throughout my teen years that I deemed life or death. So, this past weekend, I performed a second piece that focused entirely on my first high school boyfriend who ended up serving as my rite of passage into heartbreak and getting over your first real someone. Enjoy!



If Only


I’ve been single on and off for the last fiveish years. I’ve had “boyfriends,” yes. One that lasted a good while, but most that lasted a few months at best and probably should’ve never been dubbed the term to begin with. Being a perpetually single woman in her late 20s (okay, literal last year of my 20s), there comes a point where you can very easily start to turn on yourself, and it’s harder to avoid than you’d think. After an egregious amount of let downs and disappointments, you start to wonder: am *I* the problem? Am I just terrible? Am I more insane than I already think I am? Am I just a horrible, awful person to be with in a romantic sense? What in the literal fuck is wrong with me?

So, in an effort to understand my self-inflicted questions better, I decided to dive in. To be honest with myself and try to perhaps see something I keep missing over and over. Some shitty behavior I’m exhibiting with no self-awareness. Shortly after I started this exercise, I realized the majority of the trysts I’ve participated in over the years could’ve at least lasted longer than a few months, if only. If only these men hadn’t done or said so many of the things they did and said. 

If only… 

(and in absolutely no kind of sequential order whatsoever)

I was willing to watch ESPN and movies from the late 80s/early 90s for the rest of my life.

I stayed with someone who loved me much more than I loved him.

He hadn’t asked me, “Wanna buy me a burger?”

He hadn’t shown up at my house, unannounced, after one and a half dates while I was very ill with a care package so meticulous, it showed signs of possible psychopathy.

He hadn’t begged me to be vulnerable and open with him, then use it against me by frustratingly stating “You’re so sensitive.”

He hadn’t posted an Instagram picture on a 7am flight, showcasing his morning beverage of choice — cough syrup over ice.

He hadn’t TOLD me I was picking up the bill (it was the first dinner we had ever shared together).

He hadn’t acted alarmed at the idea of giving oral sex on a 3rd date but quickly followed it up with, “What are your thoughts on butt sex?”

He hadn’t sexted me after our first date before a second one had even been mentioned.

He hadn’t taken me to Kona Grill at the mall in his powder blue sports car, guilt tripped me into ordering a cheap drink from the HH menu after, and during the movie we saw (“Ted”), covered my mouth with his hand every time I laughed out loud.

I was up for making love to a legitimate micro penis for the rest of my days (not just a smaller penis. A micro penis. It’s a condition; look it up).

He hadn’t written in his diary about me and texted me some of the entries before we ever went on a date.

He didn’t try to invite me over for crockpot leftovers and call it a date after he had only taken me out once.

He hadn’t asked me if dinner was on me next time immediately after the first dinner he ever took me to.

He didn’t get debilitating migraines mid-orgasm, basically traumatizing me for life.

He didn’t scoff that Amy Poehler and Tina Fey aren’t funny at all.

He hadn’t sat there, completely stone-faced while I cried tears of hysteria as we watched a Bad Lip Reading video.

I was okay with a penis that didn’t ejaculate. Ever. For anyone or any act.

His reply wasn’t, “I don’t do oral because I’m unfamiliar with the area and I don’t like it.”

He hadn’t gone through my text messages while I was asleep, take screenshots of texts I had sent my friends about him/us, send them to himself, delete the evidence off my phone, then take me out to dinner two nights later so that he was safe in a public setting to admit to me what he had done, then tell me it was really honorable of him that he was even telling me and he wasn’t going to sit here and watch me get upset about it and we could get our dinner to go if I was going to be that way and somehow made it so I ended up apologizing to him.

He hadn’t proclaimed, “All p*ssies taste and smell gross.”

He hadn’t been a boyfriend who made love to me but then was too tired to drive me home, so insisted I get an Uber but did not offer to pay for it nor text or call me to ensure I had gotten home safe and sound.

I could deal with passivity and the sweeping of real issues under the proverbial rug.

After openly expressing I would like more sex in our relationship, he didn’t choose to take the rest of that day to himself to workout and sit at home alone on his couch when I fully expected him to jump on the ask and come over to f*ck me until I saw stars.

He hadn’t threatened that if I were to “defy” him, I’d be sorry.

He had been able to handle being called out on his bullshit rather than responding with, “I’m too old for drama.” (We were the same age).

I was okay staying with a man who despised sushi and coffee.

He hadn’t audibly sighed and grimaced when I asked him for oral after not receiving it for over two weeks when we were averaging sexy time 4-5 times a week.

He hadn’t been a literal nomad who lived out of the back of his car.

He hadn’t handled being aggravated with me by ignoring me for an entire weekend, then texting me Sunday: “Hey, sorry for being a dick this weekend :-/” :-/. :-/. SIDEWAYS FACE.

He wasn’t a narcissistic dark lord who judged girls by the “denim” they wore and lived to have week-long standoffs of who would text first.

He didn’t ask me, “Oh you gonna cry now?”

He didn’t keep trying to justify his shitty behavior by claiming he was “scared” and “didn’t expect me” and “was trying to deal with how much he liked me.”

He didn’t agree to be exclusive and get off all dating apps… and my friend saw him on Bumble (alive and active) a week later.

He wasn’t a master manipulator who somehow convinced me to give him four chances.

I didn’t consider phrases like “Don’t get moody” degrading and unacceptable.

Getting him to go on an adventure with me wasn’t like pulling teeth.

He didn’t snap at me any time I tried to take a picture of us, then would always see it and say “Aw, that’s actually a really good one. Sorry, babe.”

He didn’t get right up after anything sexual and run to the bathroom to wash his hands/face/self.

He had opened doors for me and, when I called out this subpar behavior, didn’t claim I “always get in front of him” before he has the chance to do it (I tested his theory shortly thereafter, making sure to walk behind him and stop before the door. He stopped, too. We just stood there).

So, to answer my own question of “What’s wrong with me?” — Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. Nothing so bad that I don’t deserve to be treated and loved the way I want. Nothing so horrifically unacceptable that someone couldn’t love the shit out of me in spite of it. The truth of the matter is that I’ve been the one to call off most of these dating ventures because of everything you just read. I could be with a lot of someones right now. In fact, I could very well be an engaged woman right this very moment to one of my past boyfriends — I’m almost sure of it. I could be on my way to marriage or at least in something mega serious that’s been going on for years. I could be but I’m not because of so many horrifically valid reasons, but most importantly because I refuse to settle for anything less than what I know, without a doubt, I want and need from a relationship. I could be but I’m not because none of what you just read was worth putting up with. 

I could be, if only.



I’m So Tired

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being let down.

I’m tired of being disappointed.

I’m tired of being horribly misled.

I’m tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’m tired of the other shoe always dropping.

I’m tired of allowing myself to become vulnerable.

I’m tired of being made to feel like it’s safe to become vulnerable.

I’m tired of first dates.

I’m tired of deciding on first date outfits.

I’m tired of first kisses.

I’m tired of best behavior tricking me into believing it’s long-lasting and real.

I’m tired of believing intense complements and deep proclamations.

I’m tired of wondering if I’ll hear.

I’m tired of not being sure.

I’m tired of trusting the process.

I’m tired of the in-between stage, before it’s official.

I’m tired of being made to feel like I’m too much.

I’m tired of being made to feel like I’m not enough.

I’m tired of being gaslit.

I’m tired of being made to feel crazy.

I’m tired of getting excited about anyone.

I’m tired of feeling fleeting happiness.

I’m tired of everyone around me having what I want.

I’m tired of wondering why I don’t have it.

I’m tired of being where I am.

I’m tired of everything I ever have being so short-lived.

I’m tired of looking.

I’m tired of meeting.

I’m tired of searching.

I’m tired of hoping, wishing.

I’m tired of being put on a pedestal and swiftly knocked down by the same one who put me there.

I’m tired of feeling bitter.

I’m tired of feeling sad.

I’m tired of feeling safe enough to open up.

I’m tired of thinking something’s wrong with me.

I’m tired of letting myself believe it’s me.

I’m tired of doubting myself.

I’m tired of wondering if it’s just never gonna happen for me.

I’m tired of crying.

I’m tired of trying to laugh when all I want to do is sob.

I’m tired of pretending I’m not affected by letdowns.

I’m tired of pretending I’ll be fine if I end up on my own.

I’m tired of acting strong.

I’m tired of not having a partner-in-crime.

I’m tired of feeling so close to what I want, but it being further away than I thought.

I’m tired of my friends feeling bad for me.

I’m tired of having so much to give.

I’m tired of dating apps.

I’m tired of swiping.

I’m tired of sleazily sexts before a first date.

I’m tired of calling bullshit.

I’m tired of resolving that they’re all probably terrible anyway.

I’m tired of wanting to give up my whole heart, but the right person not being around to claim it.

I’m tired of hiding my upset with jokes and brush-offs.

I’m tired of being willing to take the bad with the good but not having it reciprocated.

I’m tired of having to exchange things you left at each other’s places.

I’m tired of having to regret ever posting anything about them.

I’m tired of having to explain what happened.

I’m tired of needing time to lick my wounds.

I’m tired of having to build myself back up.

I’m tired of starting from square one.

I’m tired of it all.

I’m so tired.



I Can’t, Vol. 43

Whoa, y’all. Whoa. I know I always say this, but it’s truly been a hot, long minute. However, I went through a breakup in July and albeit we were only together for two months, those were an involved two months so it stung. I needed time to not be funny on here, so I gave myself that. But now I’m back WITH A VENGEANCE and ready to rant about things I just can’t.

I can’t…

wait to stop focusing on my damn gums. As you might know, I got gum graft surgery in July and today marks a month post-op. It’s been fine for the most part, but having to be so mindful of what’s going in my mouth has sucked balls (something that I definitely haven’t been able to do in the last month). In another month, I can bite into a burger or thick Italian sandwich with abandon. I can go back to my normal dental hygiene routine, crunch down on a chip loaded with queso, and most definitely S a D. CAN’T WAIT.

I can’t…

sell-in the Trader Joe’s Peppercorn-Garlic Pork Tenderloin enough. Yes, I am a Jew but it’s more so culturally than religiously (i.e. I fret, I worry, I have extreme neurotic tendencies, I love musicals), so I will get down with pork from time to time. My best friend has been making this particular hunk of meat for her husband for a while, and I finally decided to try it out for myself last night and O.M.F.G. Not only is it magically delicious, it’s also easy AF to cook. The possibilities with this pork are endless. You can: serve it with sweet potatoes or a cauliflower mash, throw it on a salad, put it on bread, Netflix and chill with it, invite it over for drinks, take it to a movie, introduce it your parents. AMAZING.

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I can’t…

help but wonder about a guy I went on a few dates with years ago who has had a very serious girlfriend for some time now, but was one of the worst kissers I’ve ever experienced. Like, I just wonder if she fixed that? Or maybe she’s bad too? Or she just accepted it and deals with it on the daily? These are the things that keep me up at night.

I can’t…

with the dream I had last night. It involved a work outing that was an annual thing, but all my best friends were there. And the outing consisted of basically doing every drug under the sun throughout the entire day and just seeing what happened. So kind of like a Fear and Loathing situation, I guess. A Christmas-themed party was involved, and mangled cars, and people vomiting, and bridges with water. Seriously, weaning off sleep medication is a real bitch.

I can’t…

that I saw my ex on Bumble (for the 3 seconds I decided to sign back up before promptly deleting my account) describing himself as a “generally nice” person… Just. Ok.


I can’t…

imagine how incredible a Gilmore girls trivia night could be if done right. Wait, yes I can imagine it. Miss Patty’s Punch as the main cocktail, gin martinis, red vines galore, pizza, Chinese food, biscotti, burgers, fries, broccoli tarts, Norman Mailer iced tea, whatever’s on special from Al’s Pancake World, and coffee. So much fucking coffee. If anyone hears of a GG trivia night in Dallas, PLEASE TELL ME. It would almost be as amazing an experience as the Seinfeld trivia night I participated in years ago. Almost.

I can’t…

decide whether or not I truly love my phone case. It’s one of those that holds your credit cards in the back of it, which results in you not having to carry a big purse around at all times therefore making you feel like a low maintenance, chill chick. But also, if I ever lose my phone, I lose my license and main credit card. So, that’s something to think about.

I can’t…

stress how good Jessi Klein’s book is. Jessi is a comedy writer (most known for working on Amy Schumer’s show and being her good friend). She’s Jewish (duh), brunette (duh), real cute (duh), blunt as hell (duh), and fuggin’ hilarious (duh). I don’t typically love non-fiction books, but I devoured Jessi’s. In fact, I have one chapter left and am so unhinged about the book ending that I purposely haven’t read it yet. She’s just… so relatable and so funny and her recounts of 20-something and early 30-something struggles with men and life give ME life. She got married at 38 and had a baby at almost 40, so obviously I’m over here like “THERE IS HOPE YET!” Buy it and read it (the picture is a link, so click it!).


I can’t…

love Club W anymore if I tried. It’s so reasonably priced, and the fact that you get to CHOOSE your wines each month is a treat. Yeah, they already have four lined up for you, but you’re more than welcome to go in and switch things out if you like the sound of a different wine more (or, let’s be real, if you spot a label that’s way cuter). Also, it helps transform you into one of those seemingly “put together” adult women who always have wine at the ready in their home, which is a fun pretend game to play. One of my favorite fashion and style ladies loves it, too and has a discount code you can use for your first month! Just hit the hyperlink and use the code “shejustknows.” Also, follow her on Instagram and shit. She’s so cool and pretty and her and her boyfriend are goals AF.

I can’t…

with this.

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I can’t…

wait for fall. I know I write about this at the same time every year — I’m so predictable. But for real, this summer’s heat was so brutal, I question whether or not it aided in my unsuccessful summer dating trysts. Meaning, the amount of sweat I produced throughout June to now was so offensive, perhaps my pheromones were out of whack? I wouldn’t be surprised, honestly. I just need fall to get here so I can be adorable in layers and booties and smell like my normal self and have completely healed gums and S some D! AMIRIGHT? HOO HOO! But seriously. Mama needs to sport some jeans and a light sweater before she sets her entire summer wardrobe aflame and walks away from it while it burns in the background as she smirks and takes a swig out of a flask. Then farts.