Side hoe: A position allocated to a girl which is neither a wifey or a girlfriend but a side dish like nandos rice

“Hey, look at those sidechicks Amy, cheyan tattendaa”

Being a side hoe is all any smart, high achieving, success driven young woman needs in this world of sin, and in this blog post, I’m going to teach you how to be the Side Hoe of your dreams in 3 easy steps!

Note: Being a Side Hoe doesn’t mean literally hoe-ing yourself around to boys who are in committed relationships. Jesus Christ have some self respect!!!! Unless the boy in question is like in med-school or practicing law, you should under no circumstances be hoeing yourself off or ruining perfectly good relationships!! Being a side hoe is a state of mind.


Step 1: Accept Rejection

The first step is obviously the easiest, and will likely happen without any effort at all. If you’re reading this blog there is obviously something seriously wrong with you, so I highly doubt any boy is likely to want to stick around. I personally have been rejected by 100% of the guys I’ve reached out to over the past few months. At this point I’m practically hoping for rejection every time I work up the nerve to text a guy, because acceptance would break my streak.

It’s been humbling to say the least. I used to be terrified of rejection, and now I am numb to it. I hope everyone gets to experience a two-month period where they are rejected by every single boy they have ever known!! Truly humbling!!!

After being rejected by your entire contact list, you will start to experience a fire in the pit of your stomach – commonly referred to as animosity. This feeling will cause you to be so bitter about committed relationships and cast a halo of hope around the idea of being a Side Hoe. Which brings us to step 2.

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Step 2: Realize the power of the Side Hoe

The Side Hoe holds the up most power in the millennial dating world. Unlike the main hoe, the Side Hoe is on the same team as the boy in question. (Let’s not forget love is just a game ok). The Side Hoe gets to hear all the drama about the main hoe, and is sometimes privy to inside jokes with the boys, etc etc. The Side Hoe is like the chill* friend that guys would way rather be with than their annoying ass girlfriends.

Like I said, being a Side Hoe is really just a state of mind. You are a free woman and can freely spend your time focusing on friends, school, work and most fulfilling of all – curating the perfect Instagram grid without letting any dumb ass Y chromosome dick wad come in your way!! As a Side Hoe you will receive a small amount of attention in the form of snap chat pics and a handful of compliments here and there to get you through the week. As the world renowned John Green continues to remind us “We accept the love we think we deserve” !!!!


*Step 3: Allow your crazy to come out

It’s 2017 and playing hard to get is so two thousand and late!! HAHA. Being an absolute psychopath isn’t exactly a new endeavor for me, for my most received compliment since I got my braces off when I was 16 was that I was kind of hot but like really crazy. Boys are so sweet!!!

I often find myself agreeing to go out with friends only for the opportunity to get drunk which opens the flood gates to drunk texting/drunk calling. Which is pretty vanilla for me – child’s play really. I deleted a guy’s number to avoid the inevitable drunk calling but naturally am so psychotic that I memorized his number and called him two days later at A&W at 2am. I didn’t even realize how fucked up this was until I recounted the story to my therapist and the expression on her face made me realize that I was going to need to book about 7 more sessions.

As the Side Hoe there is really nothing to lose, so you might as well just let it all out. Step 1, has already made you numb to rejection so you have nothing to fear anymore and can just live your dreams.


The whole concept behind identifying as a Side Hoe is to change your mindset, and take your power back. There is no need to be waiting around for boys to text you, ask you to hangout, or profess their love to you. Fuck being chill – if you can’t beat em, join em!

Congrats, you’re officially a Side Hoe!!!!

If I was having a hard time finding guys before, this blog post isn’t really serving as a mating call but like I said I’ve had an astonishing rate of rejection over the past month so who gives a fuck at this point. I always preach the concept that you don’t need a boyfriend to make you feel valid but some instant gratification in the form of likes on this under achieving blog would be nice.

And one last thing –Don’t get upset, just replace he/boyfriend/boy/y chromosome dick wad – with whatever pronoun you god damn well please!


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Maternal Bond

There is a special bond that often forms between mothers and daughters, which has scientifically been called the “mother daughter bond” by Bill Nye and other scholars of the same calibre.

My mom is the number one fan. She always laughs the hardest at even at my most fucked up shit. I like to think it’s because she truly understands me, and has a wicked sense of humor, but it’s more likely because she’s just a good mom, and is practiced in unconditional love.

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T-Shirt reads: Life of the Party 

My mom has taught me many valuable life lessons throughout my 21 years but I will be dedicating this blog to highlighting just a few of my most fond memories of my mother teaching me to build character, perseverance, and to become more altruistic.

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There is a distinct time that I recall when my mom taught me the valuable lesson of determination, and putting my personal needs aside momentarily to serve the needs of the group at large. Two Christmas’s ago in Mexico, I found myself blackout drunk alongside my fearless companion, and the feature of this blog, my mom. The two of us, shit faced, had quite the task in front of us: to prepare the Christmas dinner. I suddenly realized the magnitude of the situation and confided in my mom that I was far too fucked to go on this journey with her.

My mom, the tyrant that she is, the glue who holds our little family together, gave me the pep talk of a lifetime, thus saving Christmas. She set down her glass of watered-down-box-Chardonnay, put both her hands on my shoulders and looked me dead in the eyes and told me that with a little dedication and grit I could get through this.  Following my fearless leader, I braved the storm of chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, and most physically demanding of all; setting the table, and all because of my brave, and awe inspiring mother, Christmas went ON.

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Wild beast in her natural habitat

Perhaps it has only been in recent years, since moving out on my own, that my mom and I’s mother daughter relationship has become more friend oriented, but I do specifically recall being rather obsessed with my mom even in my high school years. While other people were trying to sneak away to parties, my mom helped me serve Katy Perry themed jell-o shots to my High School friends in our basement. I will admit I sometimes try to keep my mom hidden away from my friends only because these so called “friends” often find my mom funnier than me – which quite frankly pisses me right off. I do however treasure how jovial this little lass is.

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I am forever grateful that my mom has always been so unapologetically herself. She never once put on a fake mom attitude. She let me see her as she truly was throughout it all. Her transparent attitude allowed me to do the same, to never be afraid to admit my faults, ask for help, or just let loose and be real.  While she is always down for a glass of wine and some silly attitude, my mom is actually really inspiring and like pretty smart, which in my opinion is a killer combination.

Happy Mother’s Day to my kind, empathetic, smart, brave, and sometimes funnier than me, mom, and long distance best and truest friend. I love you!!!!

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End of an Era

I’ve been wanting to write a post about finishing my undergrad but I have been far too emotionally unstable to handle the challenge of coming up with self deprecating material… but alas here we are.

People say your time at university is the best four years of your life, which genuinely terrifies me to hear considering in the past four years I’ve made like two close friends, and gained 30 pounds. If this is my peek in life then god fucking help me.

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I’m overcome with sadness about the ending of this chapter of my life. I refuse to accept that this sadness is nostalgia and have finally accepted that it is indeed regret. Surely I could have made better use of the past 1,460 days/35,040 hours.

I embarked on my undergrad career as most do: at the hot dog pep rally, face adorned in face-paint, sporting a god-awful FROSH t-shirt. I had fun, I made friends, and I tucked myself into my Bed Bath and Beyond bed in a bag dorm room special with a smile of success plastered on my little face.

First year went along fine, I did all the normal freshman type things but with an odd emphasis on food. I preferred going to potlucks over pre-drinks, and always used the drunk trip to Shawarma King as my main motivator when deciding whether or not to go to parties. For the first and only time in my life I had all these friends, and felt like I belonged or would be missed if I wasn’t around.  I was happy, and overweight, but most notably I was happy.

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The first half of second year I lived in denial of being in the greatest sophomore slump of all time. My closest friends dropped out of school, and I was unknowing lonely. I started going to group therapy because my problems weren’t severe enough to warrant the complimentary university funded one on one therapy for people with REAL problems. Group therapy was only helpful because I got to hear how bad other people’s lives were, and I realized my shit wasn’t actually so bad after all. Whoever said comparison is the thief of joy never attended university group therapy.

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Third year I moved to Paris for 6 months which was definitely the highlight of my undergrad and debatably the highlight of my life. My time abroad is simultaneously the thing that I am least regarded and most mocked for amongst my friends and acquaintances. Studying abroad in Paris sounds like an Elle Woods/sorority fetish to most, but in reality, it was nothing of the sort. Living in Paris changed my perspective on a lot of things. I was forced to find comfort in my loneliness, and began to admire the beauty in intelligence. I was proud of myself for the first time, in a real way. I wasn’t just making someone else proud but I had accomplished something I’d always wanted to do for no one else but myself. I felt like I was honouring my younger self’s aspirations – which felt güd.


Ever since moving back I felt lost with how to spend my remaining year. The fourth and final year is a hard path to navigate. Without considering any other options, I signed a contract for a full-time, big girl, salary job. Partly because it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and partly because the thought of having no plans beyond graduation was paralyzing.

And now my time has run out, and I can’t help but feel there is more I should have done. I stayed within the lines. I went to the free tutoring, the free counselling, I pet the therapy dogs when I was sad, and went to frat party’s when I wasn’t. I was acknowledged and awarded for my hard work, all to reinforce my path to success. It’s like I’ve been subconsciously checking off items on a to-do list, that would lead me to a comfortable life. But now that it’s all been checked off I am faced with the discomfort that is a comfortable life. Perhaps it is just the disconnect of being twenty-one and trying to think for yourself, or know who you are, that has left me feeling like I’ve come up short in some way.

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I wish I had created something tangible to ensure the past four years would not dissipate and become forgotten.  I wish I could say I put my blood, sweat and tears into something meaningful. A project, a capstone or a thesis or something. Something that I would talk about over coffee with friends, I would sigh and tell them how I had worked tirelessly all night. How I came out stronger than I ever was before. I wish I had these mentors who had seen my potential all along and cheered me on from the side lines as I grew to discover it for myself.

I feel as though I was always waiting. Adults kept telling me things were about to get really good. And I waited. And fourth year approached and waiting turned into panicking, and panicking turned into sadness. Sadness that is now regret. I kept waiting for that moment that I was walking with my friend group on campus, at sunset, eating ice cream, linking arms and laughing. These plans we had made over group chat, where we all had nicknames for each other. We were constantly connected, and I still belonged, and I would still have been missed. But the waiting is over, and the time has run out.

I think after all this I had anticipated I’d feel more complete, that I would be known – by others and to myself. It cannot be said whether or not a thesis or a friend group complete with a group chat could have ever made this experience feel whole. Although I accomplished great things, and honoured aspirations, a part of me feels that there was always more that I neglected to explore. Perhaps that is just the nature of life. An ever lasting sense of incompletion- as it may be we are immortally unknown.


Alas I did take a psychology class during my time at university, and learned about the hindsight bias. For you uneducated folk that basically means that when you’re looking back at things, your faults seem so obvious, but at the time you did the best you could. Or something like that. I think I was just like a terrified 17 year old, afraid of failing who did my best, and took peoples advice and drank a lot of water and got 8 hours of sleep, and didn’t do drugs or have sex with strangers.

Part of me wonders if the only way to salvage all this is to travel to Thailand and do drugs at a half-moon party and like really FIND MYSELF – but at this point, even that would be far too predictable.

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The Instagram Epidemic

I think we can all admit that Instagram is like ruining our lives, but also is like the only thing that’s giving it meaning. Don’t deny it – I’m so sick of people claiming to have a “healthy” relationship with Instagram. Is there even such a thing as a healthy relationship with Instagram? The entire premise of Instagram is to create unhealthy habits of constant obsession with yourself and with people you don’t even know. I would agree that everyone abuses the power behind Instagram differently, and ultimately is abused by the power of Instagram differently but one thing is certain; Instagram is a sick and twisted drug that fucks with our minds by evoking simultaneous, instantaneous, and limitless self-love and self-loath.

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Like I said, we are all victimized by Insta in different ways. I personally like to spend about 70% of everyday stalking my own Instagram, usually smiling like a proud mom of the alter ego I’ve created through carefully staged and edited photos of donuts, fake boyfriends, and trendy wall paper. Once I’ve had enough of that, I’ll switch gears and begin to stalk my weekly pool of people who have better Instagram’s than me. I always have a revolving pool of approximately 4-7 girls who are in the same socio-economic state as me, usually just outside my friend circle. These girls often work as RedBull promoters, and are slightly hotter and better dressed than me. It can be assumed they have more stable friend groups, and they almost always have boyfriends. To put things in more simple terms: these girls are the mason jars of the world, and I’m a Styrofoam cup in comparison. The remaining 30% of my day is spent scrolling through their photos, and flipping back to my own feed every so often to rip it apart. If I ever run out of girls in my pool, I go to the “Explore Page” (created by Satan himself) for .5 seconds and instantly find thousands of new girls to become obsessed with.

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Instagram is straight fucked. Instagram is the greatest issue facing America today. I think the only people who aren’t being fucked by Instagram are people who have shitty Instagram feeds and like less than 200 followers. And those people don’t need to be getting fucked by Instagram, because let’s face it, they are being fucked by life (if you can’t identify with anything in this blog – you’re in this category). Hard to say which is worse though– all that is certain is that it’s become a race to the bottom.

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So yeah, I often think about deleting Instagram and just giving up, but here’s the thing: the only thing worse than playing the Instagram game, is not playing at all. So like, fuck no am I going to delete Instagram, because everything I’ve been working towards would lose all meaning. I’ve built an entire life around an Instagram persona. Without Instagram I don’t even know if I would find trendy brunch enjoyable??  I’d have to reconsider everything I do, everything I eat, and everything I wear.


The sad part is, we are all setting ourselves up for absolute chaos, because there is no way this shit is sustainable. Eventually no one will be able to keep up. We will all just fucking lose our minds, and have to go back to eating unflattering foods like tuna noodle casserole and wearing clothes for more than like 2 weeks. Lame as fuck. This is modern day Darwinism, only the strongest will survive. At the rate things are moving, if you don’t already have a brand deal with detox tea or a teeth whitening company – you’re not going to make it.

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Save me from myself

I used to compulsively read self-help books because I felt as though I was missing out on valuable life hacks if I spent my time, god forbid, indulging in a fiction novel.

Alas my love for self-help books came to a haltering end after reading a book that was spitting out some bullshit about how using self-deprecation as your differentiating way of being funny was a “cheap shot at humour that anyone could do”. Naturally, after reading this I broke the book over my knee and started ripping all the pages out and swallowing them whole. This was a personal attack, as self-depreciating humour is my one and only claim to fame.

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It’s nonsense like this, that bring shame to the self-help novel industry, and eventually isolated me so much so that I ditched book form therapy and began attending actual therapy in person form.

I’m a therapy guru. I don’t even know if I’m still fucked up or not, but I attend therapy weekly, none the less. In fact, I’ve noticed myself doing increasingly fucked up things throughout the week, with the intention of having something fun to talk about at my weekly therapy sessions. I’ve started my sessions by busting into my therapist’s office, throwing my bag on the floor and screaming “Buckle up, you’re in for a rough ride this week” on more than one occasion. I realize this is counterproductive, but perhaps this very act suggest therapy is indeed still very necessary??


One of my wildest fantasies involves me getting my sweaty little hands on my therapists note book, where she keeps track of my fucked-up words throughout our hourly sessions.

An amazing thing about the concept of therapy, is that all social norms do not apply in a therapists office. It’s like a safe space on methamphetamine and anything goes! I personally like to abuse this privilege by asking my therapist repetitive questions about her personal life. I say “enough about me, let’s talk about YOU”. Which puts her in an absolute frenzy. I watch her navigate the slippery slope of trying to be polite to her psychotic patient, while asserting her power all whilst remaining professional.

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I once decided it would be a good idea to find her on Facebook, which backfired when I mistakenly thought we had mutual friends, and almost had to terminate our relationship permanently. Lucky for me she just has a common name, and I accidentally stalked the wrong person!

Finally, I will admit, therapy isn’t all fun and mind games, it does come with a lifetime of unavoidable anxiety, stemming from the fear of running into your therapist in public. I tell my therapist on the regular that I feel that I can never fully live in the moment, because in the back of my head I’m always terrified of running into her. It’s ironic, really.

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I’m sure once you all read my post where I compared Eminem lyrics to the satanic rituals of networking, you probably thought that was as fucked up as it was ever going to get, but alas here I am, proving you all wrong, yet again.

I’m just trying to bring some light to the dark tunnel of mental illness, and normalize conversations about anxiety, and manipulating your therapist. I propose we take this conversation to a more collaborative platform, so please KIK me!

Xoxo JQ

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BFFs > BFs

I love you for running in the rain under a newspaper with me on the first day we met.

I love you for doing facemasks, back messages, and watching celebrity news on youtube with me nightly for an entire year.

I love you for always going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths at potlucks with me.

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I love you for steeling english muffins from our housemates in residence  – sorry guys

I love you for ordering 3 course meals at Tim Hortons, AND going back for seconds with me.

I love you for publishing my “I hate everything” poem, and being the only person to support my creative direction.

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I love you, for witnessing me throw up off a bunk bed, and then fall off said bunk bed, and still being friends with me!!!

I love you for sharing your Cody Simpson blanket with me, so we could eat Beaver Tails at a rave.

I love you for being the best gardian angel during that time our house burnt down and we had to sleep in ILLC for a week, on the slanted pull out couch.

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I love you for laughing with me at 1am during the aforementioned house burning down fiasco when we ran out of toilet paper and had to forfiet our image and call the front desk begging for them to bring us some.

I love you for supporting my every email to simmon.finn, because you are the only person that believes that justice should be served!

I love you for boycotting Okeefe meetings to get McDonalds and watch movies.

I love you for playing “Never Have I Ever” with just me, while we drank one Palm Bay each as an attempt to have a little FUN.

I love you for letting me borrow your moms roller blades for a year so we could start Rollerbalders at Rye TM

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I love you for helping me dye my hair black during my god awful long bob stage, and for helping me dry my wet hair with paper towel because we didn’t want to ruin our towels.

I love you for rescuing me in the gym locker room that one time the cocaine stalker chased me around the track.

I love you for helping me stalk the hot intramural dodgeball referee when I thought I had found “The One”.

I love you for always being up to eat a full medium sized Pizza Pizza with me (drunk AND sober).

I love you for always reading your Ryerson e-mails, and knowing about all the free food ops (lunch and learns).

I love you for making me carol with you and high school students on the corner of Bay and Dundas 🙂

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I love you for protecting me with Vodka Rockstars as we commuted to treacherous parties at Lansdown.

I love you for eating icecream sandwhiches and singing “Closing Time” in your kitchen at 11pm, and sending recordings to everyone we knew.

I love you for supporting my fitness ventures, and doing two laps around Christie Pits Park while I blasted French Montana out loud for all to hear.

I love you for being my favorite and only troup member to attend Phi Kappa Phi parties even though we are definetly not welcome.

I love you for letting me study at your house, while my housemates threw a rager, and you went on a date.

I love you for letting me hide me in your bed while you brought said date into the room so I could scare him  !!!!

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I love you for taking countless trips to the Dufferin Mall (safe Haven) with me to buy powersuits even though you hate capitalism!!

I love you for going to that freaky coffee shop “Creeds” with me and trying to study while pictures of Chihuahua’s rotated on the TV screens.

I love you for spending a night putting up signs to save the feral cats throughout downtown toronto with me.

I love you for loving the Maddy as much as I love the Maddy.

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I love you for letting me sleep on your hard wood floor for a week while I was homeless in Paris.

I love you for spending the best week of our lives together while I was homeless in Paris.

I love you for being on board to FaceTime every boy we knew so we could be annoying ass bitches to them at 2am.

I love you for forcing me to stop going to the vending machine and start going to parties during our first week in Paris.

I love you for running away screaming with me that time we saw the word FUCK written on the wall on our way to a sketchy party.

I love you for ordering the entire dessert menu with me.

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I love you for staying up all night with me and eating bread and Nutella while watching an entire season of The Bachelor.

I love you for loving the stank bus as much as I did, and for riding silently with me for an entire day!

I love you for being there when our favorite person almost took a dip in the Seine.

I love you for engaging in back messages on the floor in the lobby of the Louvre with me.

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I love you for helping me drive the uninsured U-Haul through Toronto, helping me paint my room, and helping me build all my IKEA furniture – I owe ya for that one !

I love you for not leaving my side when satan took over my body and I started wrapping toilet paper around my neck at my housewarming party.

I love you for countless breakfasts at the Mutual Street Deli, and for not judging me for eating pancakes AND a grilled cheese sandwhich!

I don’t know what I ever did to deserve your love, but I’m grateful everyday to have you by my side! Thank you for loving me, (the REAL unlovable bachelor) and Happy 3rd Annual BFF V-DAY!!

Together forever and never apart, maybe in distance but never in heart ❤

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Not narcissists, just vain!!

Everyone check out @lilelecta on Instagram !! She is the photographer behind these pics – that chick fucking rocks and risked getting hit by a bus just to capture a couple shit heads being in love!!!

In sickness & in Health

I just want to start out by warning all of my readers that this blog post is likely to be highly relatable and a very personal journey touching on one of the most pressing issues facing America today. Be forewarned.

For as long as I can remember I’ve suffered with the inexplainable/irrational fear of having an appendicitis at the most inopportune times.

Weekly, and often daily, I find myself identifying times in my life that would be the absolute worst to have an appendicitis. And then proceeding to mentally go through the actions of how I would suffer in silence. (I plan to read this blog word for word to my therapist at my next session DW guys!!!)

For example, the subway is common place for this shit to go down. I’ll be riding in rush hour and all the sudden be struck with thoughts of the big A (appendicitis- not anal). I imagine the sharp abdominal pain were to hit me, and how I’d be too embarrassed to inform anyone or ask for help. How I’d hope to just be let go easy and avoid eye contact with any bystanders to save myself any more humiliation than this life has already brought on.

Other instances occur when I’m at work, writing an exam, out with boys, in a profs office hours, at a job interview, at a networking event etc. The list truely goes on and is rather extensive and all encompassing.

Which is why I find it ever so poetic and beautiful that this past Friday night when I was struck with TRUE, TANGIBLE, sharp and isolated abdominal pain, accompanied with nausea and a fever, I was in a relatively safe space: my home.

Although I misdiagnosed myself with a rupturing appendicitis, and embarrassingly  texted my entire contact list, proclaiming that I was dying, and alarmed my roommates who told me I would probably be fine, and slept with the lights on because I figured it would be happier to die in the light than in the dark….

….. Idk I guess I’m just trying to say life is a lose lose situation.

“God gives his toughest battles, to this strongest soldiers” – Gandhi 


I don’t want to say that boys have been like throwing themselves at me, but boys have DEFINETLY been throwing themselves at me. And not just any ol’ boys, no no, the boys of BUMBLE. Bumble boys hold the upmost ranking when it comes to the male species. For they are not only physically appealing, they are also career men!

I downloaded the app a few days ago when I came back from Mexico, and still had a week to loiter before school started. This allowed me ample time to draft and send the most captivating first messages to lock in the bumble boys. For those who don’t understand the concept, Bumble is much like Tinder, except the female has to start the conversation. If the boy doesn’t reply within 24h then the match expires! I’m getting a rush just thinking about it!!!

At first, I admit, I was a rookie. The only logical thing I could come up with to entice boys to talk to me was to say their name followed by several exclamation points. I fell in love with this boy named Evan, so naturally I pulled out my name + exclamation point trick. Here is the result:



Inevitably the 16 hours went by and Evan couldn’t find the words to reply to me, thus allowing the match to expire. I don’t consider this a loss in love though, for I know Evan will often think of me. Jacquie from Bumble, who’s bio is her subway sandwich order.


I eventually got the hang of it. I realized that the best way to invite love into my life, was by extending love to my prey. I would obsessively lurk the photos of my matches searching for any small detail that could invite conversation. Once I settled on the most obscure item in the ensemble of photos, I would prepare the word combination: Nice + Noun. For example, “nice dog”, “nice hair”, “nice left triceps”, “nice dad” etc.



I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I will say this; the Nice + Noun combo left the boys SPEECHLESS! My matches were expiring left right and centre! And if that doesn’t scream love, then heck, I don’t know what does!

2017 is a year for embracing love. Loving yourself (duh), loving your friends, loving your internet boyfriends, and letting them love you. Sometimes love just can’t be expressed in words, and Evan, Dylan, and all the other bumble boys helped me to realize that.

Love is about learning.

Until next time xxx

The Airport (Anarchy)

It’s time we talk about the airport. That place is outright madness all under one roof. I have been obsessed with performing anthropology (the study of people in groups) in airports for as long as I can remember. Absolutely obsessed with the pandemonium broken down into terminals, and gates, filled with people experiencing their most unadulterated undying emotions. To really drive this point home, I will confess that for my grade 12 English final essay I wrote passionately about the airport, I believe the writing prompt was “overcoming adversity”.

Now there are a few different types of people at the airport. My personal favorite are the families. The only thing you can count on more than disappointment after a haircut, is a fight ensuing during a family outing to the airport! Stakes are high, sleep deprivation, dehydration, anxiety, and deliria are contributing factors. People don’t behave like themselves at the airport (this is my thesis). Teenagers are trying to show off to the other teens in line at customs. Dads are pulling out their best jokes, trying to perpetrate the image of the perfect family. Moms are in an absolutely tizzy, they are just freaking the fuck out and cannot be rationed with. From a bystander position (me) this is amazing to witness!!!! It’s like reality TV but in real life!


Usually, much like other things in life, everything is going fine, until it isn’t.  The family in question is able to carry on happily, while fulfilling their individual family roles. Until someone (assumingly the child and/or dad) takes it one step too far. Either a joke gone wrong, a forgotten item, or someone in need of an “attitude adjustment” will strike a cord and cause a confrontation. Now this is the worst position to find oneself in. All eyes are on you. Imagine being in line at customs, or worst yet, the local terminal Starbucks, and being caught in a full blown family fight. It’s like a bad car wreck and nobody can look away. These family feuds generally pose a higher risk than usual fights due to the hazard of ruining the family vacay. If we are being completely honest this is probably only the beginning, another fight will be sure to break out as soon as you are checking into your 4 star all-inclusive in Cabo, and about 12 more are likely to occur in the remainder of your 1-week vacation. The family vacation was doomed from existence. It’s simply an oxymoron.


Now you’re probably wondering where I fit in to all this madness. I haven’t traveled with my family in a few years, thank fucking god. That is always a shit show. But traveling alone is absolute freedom. You have all the power. Everyone wants to BE you. Exempt from all the drama. I personally take a grunge/glamourous approach to airport behaviour. I’m currently sporting ripped boyfriend jeans, a grungy Urban Outfitters grey T, a massive floor length wool cardi, and beachy hair that stanks so bad of dry shampoo, I think I’m losing brain cells. I always hit up Starbucks even though I can’t afford it, I don’t want it, and I don’t need it, but what would be the point of going to the airport if you aren’t going to sit at our gate sippin’ a bux, with a Fiji water peeking out of your bag? (I will surely keep the Fiji bottle and fill it with tap water for the remainder of my trip).


Once I arrive at my gate, I feel a little bit like it’s the first day of school, and I’ve just been assigned my class for the year. These are my peers. The people I will surround myself with throughout my journey to Puerto Vallarta. I become acquainted with them. I start to understand where they fit in to the social dynamic norms of this group. Who are the leaders, the followers, the wanderers. I start to be able to identify their goals. I pick up on their weaknesses. I love them unconditionally, for we are in this together.


I, obviously play the “chill go with the flow girl”. I get randomly selected for a full body pat down? Sure no problem. The barista fucked up my order? No worries. You want to trade seats with me so you can sit with your boyfriend? Absolutely. I am loved.


Happy Flying 😉


*** I would like to apologize for family/gender role stereotyping in this post


I often wish that I was a sociology major, or studied anthropology or any of those deep things that would help me better understand the meaning of life, and maybe help me figure out the puzzle of why the fuck I have been put on this earth and what exactly it is that I  should be trying to accomplish.

Instead I study business, and as a result I can make assets equal liabilities plus shareholder’s equity. I’m not saying that one of these professions is more valuable than the other, but I will say that in my current profession I have gained little clarity on my purpose in life, or at the very least the meaning behind human nature.

Alas the grass is often greener on the other side, and I’m sure those studying anthropology or sociology are probably drinking themselves sick, and paying other people to write their essays, so who’s to say if they have a better grasp on the meaning of life???

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I got advice from a friend last year before embarking on my journey abroad, where among other things she wrote in a letter reminding me to “FEEL THINGS”

For some odd reason that simple piece of advice has resonated with me and in the past few weeks I have been reminded again and again of the beauty of letting yourself experience emotion, unapologetically.

After experiencing a level 7 emotional breakdown last week, I wondered if I would ever just be okay. If I would ever be able to go through life without experiencing the low lows. If I would ever just be NORMAL.

In thinking about achieving normality I of course turned to the experts: social media influencers. The latest trend in social media influencing is heroically identifying as a liar. Every day I watch another blogger, or youtuber announce to their fans that they have been falsely claiming to be leading a normal life, when in fact behind closed doors and un-instagrammable posts, they are in fact depressed.


My take on the whole thing is that with the rise of social media the millennials have been conditioned more than ever to strive to achieve happiness, when life is more complex than that. Wanting to live a life filled with nothing but happiness is not realistic nor is it enjoyable. Tacky Instagram quotes have reminded me time and time again to rid myself of anything and anyone who makes me experience unhappiness, but is that really sustainable??? What is so daunting about experiencing a few moments of sadness???

We must remember that as much as laughing uncontrollably with your best friend on the phone while trapped in McDonalds is a beautiful thing, unexplainably crying during the stretching part of your Thursday morning workout class is an equally important part of life.

I think that what we all have come to accept as a norm, is that periods of sadness must mean that we are depressed. Experiencing social anxiety must mean that we suffering from an anxiety disorder. I know I am victim of this.

Like I said before, I am no expert on the meaning of life, but I have released a lot of stress over the last week in realizing that there is nothing wrong with me for sobbing uncontrollably while walking home. Or being over joyed while eating oatmeal and watching the sun shine through the living room window.

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There is something forgiving about sinking into your feelings. Something so human about allowing yourself to cry. To lay in bed when you feel the world is too much to handle. Or to wake up at 6am to go for a run when life excites you and to laugh so hard with your roommates cuddled up on the couch.

After having these ground breaking realizations over this past week I decided not to keep this wise advice all to myself and instead to share it with my fellow readers!! Most of which live in Sri Lanka and I’d be lying if I said I am not 90% sure they are fake accounts.

Feeling things is a way to remind yourself to be alive. Not living a monotone life. Experiencing the ups and the downs.

The sun must set for it to rise again.