Purposely Missed Connections: Confessions of a TinderElla

Being a twentysomething living in the hustle and bustle of Boston, MA, my Tinder app gets flooded with pictures of hot guys cut from very different cloths. Whether it’s a Burly Bearded from Southie, a Muppie (Millennial Yuppie) from Back Bay, or a Hipster from Cambridge, I probably have swiped right and in the process killed any previous notion that I have a “type”.

With over 200 matches, I’ve only met a handful of real flesh, breathing people and I’d like to keep it that way, and there are multiple reasons why.


1. Tinder is like 2048, lots of swiping in one direction with the soul purpose of entertaining myself. I’m bored, and swiping takes little to no effort. This makes Tinder a great way to pass time before bed or when I’m on the crapper (yup, you may have just matched with a girl that is in the pissah). I already checked my text messages, Facebook notifications, Instagram comments and trending tweets. I’m already rendered cross eyed by endless games of 2048 and I’d rather look at men than multiples of 2.

2. Matches make me smile, because that guy that I think is sexy also thinks I’m sexy and maybe we’re sex-patable. Isn’t that a nice thought? Tinder is an ultimate confidence booster.


3. I’ll swipe left, for multiple reasons including gym selfies, children in your arms, or your dick pic. Or because, I just don’t find you attractive.

4. We matched and I’m on a roll so I’m going to keep swiping for another and then forget to message you.

5. Accidental Swipes can be double sided. We will never meet if you’re a bonafide hottie that I accidentally swiped left to when I was vigorously going through the bow wows and dick pics. We will also never meet if I accidentally swiped you right, as in, I did not mean to ever match with you.


6. The first message was either one of two things. A boring “Hey” which did not tempt a conversation, or a “let’s swap pics”, “Hey there cutie”, or “I’m not a rooster but watch what this cock’ll-do-to-you”. Nope, not answering, but blocking. Also, all I ever did was swipe right. Do I owe you anything? No. So don’t follow up my inactivity with “Hey sexy where you at???” or get butthurt that you either bored me or creeped me out.


7. Like an eager beaver, you want to meet right now. You noticed I was active a mile away, and you’re pretty much telling me to throw my pants back on and come to meet you when I’m curled up in bed next to my dog Moses. Nope, sorry, no.

8. Unless it’s food STAHP SHARING your unattractive stories that would make me run off into the hills with stones stuffed in my ears and forks in my eyes. I don’t want to know about your ex or your kids before I know that you actually exist. Just STAHP.


9. U type lyke dis doughh and it isn’t funny. In the world of a qwerty keyboard, which I know you have since you have the Tinder app, you can afford to type out full words… though.

10. You aren’t 26, and Tinder lied because you’re an undergrad and too young for me Bro.

11. Catfish and the Craigslist Killer have made me second guess stepping out of my apartment for any online rendez-vous. It did however, make me want to be best friends with Nev and Max.



So there you have it. I am not going to put on pants, leave my snuggly dog, and go through any meet-up-with-someone-and-awkwardly-stand-there anxiety for accidental swipes, no swipes, perverts, bores, undergrads, children, adults who type lyke children, or serial killers.





I Want to Ride my Bicycle Bicycle Bicycle

Who said it was ever too late to teach an old dog new tricks?

Possibly the same person who said it’s too late to teach a twentysomething how to ride a bike. What is my life?

As a child I had a bike. It was pink and had training wheels. Eventually, it had only one training wheel, but never was I able to fully let go of that training wheel, my safety blanket, the only thing keeping me from hitting pavement. This quite possibly resembles the relationship I have with coffee…. but anyways…

As item #2 on my 2014 Summer Bucket List, my roommates Ricky and Ariel decided it was about damn time that I learned a childhood skill that I had never fully developed. I decided sure, let’s take a risk on the concrete Boston sidewalks and make Commonwealth Ave my bitch.

First, Ricky taught me the ins and outs of bike safety, including wearing this dashing helmet:



And according to them, I looked gooooood:




Then, there was a bit of hesitation:


That bar is WAY too close to some sensitive areas!


Then, I forgot to peddle:



Thanks daddy Ricky, for holding up my ENTIRE body weight… and gym bag.


After a few misadventures, I GOT IT!




Face of success:



And some stranger’s dog decided to give me a congratulatory leg hump:



Happy Ending. Except for the uncomfortable resulting wedgie that I had to endure at the gym afterwards. 


Anyways, I promise eventually I’ll do something even more cool to blog about like go on a disastrous date or rant about something else. But it’s a Monday folks, and who really wants to read that much in the beginning of the week anyways.


A Suggestion to the NBA: How to Punish Donald Sterling

As if Doc Rivers and the LA Clippers didn’t have enough to worry about besides trying to win an NBA Championship.

And hello to all who have either been anxiously awaiting my next post, my loyal friend followers of about 20 individuals, and perhaps some new readers from my Twittersphere (whooo 83 followers!). I’ve been looking for a reason to resurrect TwentySomethingWIML, and while so much has happened (2014 Winter Olympics, Korean Ferry sinking, the ongoing 2014 Crimean crisis, etc.) I could not ignore the fact that an old, ugly, and decrepit man (who can still manage to have both a wife AND girlfriend) was a top trending topic all week. It helped that I finally found out how to use Twitter, but that’s another story that I could probably blog about later.

PROFILE: Meet Donald Sterling b.1934


Occupation: Owner of the Los Angeles Clippers in the NBA

Imagine seeing this lovely, leathery face on your Tinder prospects. Well his profile might say something along the lines of “I won’t broadcast that I associate with black people, even when African Americans athletes are working their asses off to earn my team and their city a national title. I won’t even broadcast it even though my girlfriend is half African American. Even when Doc Rivers, one of the most recognized and respected coaches in the league works for my franchise.”

My Thoughts: I’m moved to both anger and sadness. Anger for the obvious reasons; I strongly disapprove of bigotry and racism on any level, and sadness for the Clippers who publicly showed at Game 4 Sunday against the Golden State Warriors that they denounce Sterling’s ugly comments. LA, a team of talented players from a variety of backgrounds, is now faced with suspended sponsorships, terminated sponsorships, and a major distraction during the most important time of the season.

With an NBA investigation in place, we can only hope that the NBA and commissioner Adam Silver can find a way to get rid of this racist and ugly bigot.

But, I decided to compile a list of punishments that I would recommend:

1. Cover the floor of Staples Center with the sharpest of Lego pieces. Make him do suicides barefoot.

2. Give him perpetual papercuts in the wrinkly, old webbings between his fingers.

3. Make him take a selfie with every African American NBA player.

4. Force him to only take the coldest of showers for the rest of his life.

5. Make him walk on cobblestone in heels for hours.

6. Hit him in the funny bone, over and over again.

7. Lock him in with the Hippos at the Los Angeles Zoo. I mean he is starting to look like one.


8. While at the Zoo, he can become the Zoo pooper scooper. Make him sleep in it.

9. Twilight movies on repeat.

10. Baseball pitches to the groin, thrown by African American baseball pitchers.

11.  Forced licking of all flag poles in below freezing climates.

12. Continuously blow dust and sand into his eyes over and over again.

13. Forced self-inflicted toe stubbing.

14. Force him to stare into the sun for hours at a time.

15. Make him sit on hot leather car seats without pants. After an hour make him stand up and experience the awful pain of the seat peeling from your bare legs. Repeat.


Feel Free to comment and add to this list. Maybe Adam Silver will get some ideas!




Realizing that a bad hangover has NOTHING on food poisoning

WARNING: the following content may be extremely graphic, especially if you’re one of those guys that don’t believe that humans of the female variety poop. I mean they just don’t. We are perfectly beautiful, gorgeous, and ethereal creatures that don’t even emit stinky vapors let alone excrement. Keep thinking that and stop reading.

For the women, the realists, and the biologists who insist that all living organisms need to emit their waste in order to survive, you can continue to read this post because this weekend I experienced the WORST curse on my digestive system that I have EVER experienced in my twentysomething years.

images (1)

Those familiar with the college life are probably also familiar with the bad hangover. Feeling dehydrated, nauseous, and weak may have been an every Sunday occurrence after a weekend of cheap Barton shots and boxed Franzia. I’ve had my share and boy do I know what a bad hangover feels like. Forgetting to eat dinner and stay hydrated with water on the weekends before downing a few whiskey gingers have become habitual. So has waking up the next morning, refusing to get out of bed, and claiming that “I am NEVER going to drink AGAIN”. I usually feel and look like I’ve been hit by a bus.

However, this weekend, I probably looked like that same bus reversed back over me and hit me again. After a now regretful egg salad sandwich, I experienced food poisoning over which I would take a bad hangover any day of the week. Literally, my bowels are turning just talking about it, but I need to get this in writing so that when I experience my next bad and inevitable hangover, I can read this and thank my lucky stomach that I don’t have food poisoning.

Sweet Jesus it was absolutely God awful.

After eating the egg salad at about 3:30pm on Satuday, I was struck with calm, maybe feeling a bit bloated, but nothing out of the ordinary. Twelve hours later, I was puking on a sidewalk, but I chalked it up to the bumpy Boston cab rides that trigger my motion sickness. Confident that I had absolutely NOTHING in my system, I went to bed just feeling nauseous.

I wake up at 8am with an intense pain that felt like I was being impaled with a red hot poker. My eyes are literally watering from the pain and I run to the bathroom to puke. Realizing I don’t need to puke and probably have a case of the DADS (Day After Drinking Shits) I decide to poop. Talk about opening Pandora’s box. And I thought I had nothing in me.

I try going back to bed, but trips to the bathroom kept me awake until around 11am when I decide to give up. I get dressed, brush my teeth and as soon as the toothpaste hits my tongue I vomit again.


“Must be a hangover” I tell myself, until I’m sitting in the living room waiting to go into work and remembering that my roommate who also ate the egg salad was complaining about a stomach ache. Well I guess I better call in today, because if it’s food poisoning my hour commute might end exorcist style. I have experienced the after morning sickness of a hangover, however, the best part about puking from alcohol is feeling the weight of nausea being lifted after you pull the trigger. With food poisoning, that relief never comes and you’re subject to stomach cramp after stomach cramp that never ends no matter how much you pray and promise that you’ll be a better person if only this nasty experience would just end.

There is nothing more humiliating than having to shit and puke at the same time, and I feel SO MUCH SYMPATHY for those that have ever experienced suck an AWFUL trial.

With my roommates Goggling my symptoms and what I should be eating, it’s decided that I have food poisoning and I should go grab some Gatorade for the electrolytes that my body is so violently getting rid of. I decide to go to the convenient store right across the street for some Powerade Zero and after being gone no longer than 5 mins, I come back out of breath and practically stumbling for my composure. I’m a ridiculous mess. I take a few sips, take a Tums for my stomach acid, and immediately puke it up. Great.

By the end of the night, my throat is dry, I am starving, and my ass literally hurts.  I’ll never again complain about being hungover, ever.

NYE with Beer and Feminism and Twenty Something What is My Life

I’ve been dreaming of this moment: a co-post with my fellow Binghamton drunkie A.Merc at Beer and Feminism.




My girl T.Ko over at Twenty Something What Is My Life is not only my favorite gorgeous lotus flower, but she’s also a seasoned Binghamton drinker which means the two of us know how to get drunk in sub-zero temperatures.

So, naturally, we would spend NYE together, and naturally we would go to some bougy Manhattan catering hall (Gotham Lounge) and naturally we would blog about it.

T.Ko and I, while obviously soulmates (tonight T.Ko will be an ethereal Asian angel wearing all white with soft gorgeous curls while I will be in a devilish black sequined pantsuit rocking a mohawk), have different expectations for what will go down on the final night of 2013.

Here are our own expectations, with the other’s dose of reality (i.e. T.Ko has already shot down my desire to find and bone a New York Ranger).

A.Merc’s Expectation: I will find and make-out with at least two boys and one girl throughout the night. They all will be at least eights on a scale of one to panty dropping.

T.Ko‘s Reality: A.Merc is clearly underestimating herself, I mean the girl is going out in a fucking pantsuit and mohawk. You’re welcome for finding that in the upturned racks at Urban Outfitters BTW. At least two boys in the first hour and half and another two after midnight. One girl is playing it safe. What she doesn’t realize is that drunk girls (especially drunk girls on New Years Eve) are all just playing a big game of monkey see monkey do—one girl sees her friend making out with a fellow vagina and the next thing you know it’s a giant tonsil hockey orgy.

T.Ko’s Expectation: While unsuccessful in the year 2013, T.Ko will ring in 2014 by finding the perfect balance of slightly tipsy and destroyingly hammered. She’s learned from her 2013 experiences, where a night out drinking will either turn into mothering one of her three roommates into bed at 2 a.m. or throwing up on the side of the street at 3:30 a.m and passing out on the couch while the room is spinning.

A.Merc’s Reality: T.Ko will ring in 2014 rip-roaringly drunk, partially because she will not have yet discovered her alcoholic sweet spot and partially because I will be ramming drinks down her throat the entire night to make the insane amount of money we are spending sting a smidge less. Hopefully she will be my puking partner in crime and we can decorate the LIRR car with our multi-colored vomit.

A.Merc’s Expectation:I will spend the entire night in my fantastic shoes, dancing like Britney Spears and not feeling any pain in my toes whatsoever. I will not take my shoes off.

T.Ko’s Reality: T.Ko is surprised that after all her time in Binghamton she has never heard a Long Island girl have a raging bitch fest over something only mildly dramatic like hurt toes. Tonight that’s gonna change. It will all start an hour into dancing at Gotham, where Alyssa cannot fight the temptation to twerk, work, and dance her pierced tits off. All that dancing will pay a heavy price, not only on her feet, but on my ears and patience. I will mutter death threats under my breath the entire night.

T.Ko’s Expectation: I guarantee I will meet one guy tonight that will consider me the ideal woman, want to wife me up, and spend the entire night following me around. That’s not me being cocky (“Or is it?”—A.Merc), I tend to not give off the suck my face vibe, but actually manage to hold intelligent and captivating conversations. No matter how hard I try not to be, I always end up being the girl you want to take home to mom and dad, whether Asians are your thing or not.

A.Merc’s Reality: T.KO is underestimating the power of the Asian persuasion. While I will be making a fool of myself in some darkened corner, T.Ko will most likely be getting proposed to just as the ball drops, in a touching act of love at first sight from some poor soul who mistakes her kindness as an act of love. BTW I want to be maid of honor at the wedding.

Because I Actually LOVE the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

I swear, I like men, but today is just another lady boner type of day in the life of this twentysomething. Today is the day that CBS airs the 2013 Victoria’s Secret Fashion show, and I am more than willing to skip watching my weekly dose of Awkward on MTV in order to check out the eye capturing festivities.

I may be putting feminism a few years back, or I may be applauding it. You decide. Whatever the case may be, the show does feature half naked girls walking a 100 foot runway. Yes it’s sexy, but I’d say inspiring as well, and not just in a sense that I’ll feel the need to regurgitate the 200 calorie beer I’ll be enjoying in the hopes of losing a quick 30 pounds to look like Adriana Lima.


It’s inspiring because the show is just so over the top that it’s actually amazing. What other fashion show features anything even remotely similar to the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show?

Yes, you may be thinking, “This is ridiculous, making the models walk around with giant feathers attached to their underwear.” Are you aware that this is a fashion show?? What high end fashion show doesn’t go above and beyond what normal people would wear out in public? This exhibition happens once a year, and not just so designers (Yes, people actually DESIGN underwear) can show you your average bra and panty set in nude. It’s creative, it’s different, it’s their ART. For example, this year Lindsay Ellingson is wearing the world’s first 3D printed lingerie, which may as well be the first 3D printed clothing ever created.

Lindsay Ellingson(1)

The show is also entertaining, and not because it supposedly resembles soft porn. While the models might be wearing less clothes on this particular job, they certainly get to show more personality. This is in stark comparison to the Kristen Stewart face seen on most runways.


The models actually look like they are having the time of their lives and even get to interact with the performers on the runway, which this year will include Fall Out Boy, Taylor Swift, and Neon Jungle.

Which brings me to another point. The show, the sets, the performers; all other reasons to watch the show besides skinny women parading in underwear. I would really like to single out the awesome performances at the show by specifically citing Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven” in the 2012 Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. Did the fact that there were models walking the stage while he was singing make appreciating his performance more difficult for me as a woman? Nope. It was epic, and if you don’t believe me, watch for yourself.

Lastly, the female frustration over the show really, in my opinion, needs to stop. Women regularly complain about Victoria’s Secret for first, selling overpriced merchandise and second, using skinny models to market it. First, I rarely hear women bemoan the existent of other higher end stores that sell things that can be found in a WalMart or Kohl’s like they do Victoria’s Secret. Second, women everywhere spend hours putting on make up or high heels, picking the perfect outfits, and dieting or working out. We do this to attract attention and be seen. The Angels are just better at it than we are. Admit it and stop being bitter.

So here’s my appeal: Stop hating the models because they are hot, stop hating the designers for their preference in designing undergarments, stop hating Victoria’s Secret for being the top selling brand for lingerie, bras, underwear and clothes that we do actually buy, and stop hating the fashion show for being… I don’t know… creative, different, and popular?





#WCW: Jenny MacArthur

For the third time in the history of my blog, I’m going to use the word “boner”. Even more odd, I’m going to use the term “lady boner” because today is Wednesday. For all who follow social media, this day of the week is peppered with Instagramed photos of hot women on our multiple news feeds with the all now familiar #WCW in the comments.

I’m sorry Jennifer Lawrence, but my heart and lady boner belongs to another foul mouthed, brutally blunt, and exceptionally attractive Jennifer. Her name is Jenny MacArthur from the popular FX television show The League.

So I realize this is a stretch for many people. Some of you are probably wondering, “Who the hell is Jenny MacArthur?” Those unfamiliar with the show will probably not know who this goddess is, since the actress that has brought this mystical nymph to life, Katie Aselton, doesn’t have that long of a filmography to her name.

But don’t stop reading just yet! Let me explain the multiple reasons why I have a lady crush on this crazy, fantasy football focused, housewife.

For those unfamiliar with the show, let me give you a quick summary of the show and it’s main centerpoint:

Fantasy Football.

Okay, now that we covered the basics here are the reasons Jenny MacArthur is the hottest fictional character on television.

  • Sports Knowledge. I don’t care what type of guy you ask the answer might as well be unanimous. When a girl demonstrates her proficiency in sports, she automatically becomes about 30-40% hotter than she was already perceived #Truth. In Season 1, Jenny manages her husband Kevin’s team, without actually having one of her own to manage, as the boys have applied an unspoken “no girl” rule in their fantasy league. We all know now, they were just scared because she would later go on to kick their ass in the championship “known as the Shiva Bowl” and win the coveted Shiva trophy in the latest season. It should also be mentioned, that after she allowed the draft to be held in her hospital room while she delivered her second child, her love of the game cannot be questioned.
  • Determination of a Bull. In Season 2, the boys let Jenny play; however, she inherits a shit hole team from a sexual deviant and misfit who knew nothing about football. But does that stop our Queen? NOPE!


Jenny: Raffi left me with, like, a roster of total crap, and I was thinking that maybe we could just redraft.

The guys: No!

Andre: No, no, no. You’re on your own now. Welcome to the league.

Jenny: All right, I accept the challenge. And I will take this donkey of a team and I’m gonna turn it into a champion, dick cream.


Her competitive attitude is pure sex. I’ll also mention that with this shit team, she made it to the Shiva Bowl. All Hail the Queen.

  • Loving Marriage. One of the things that girls find most attractive in guys is their ability to commit to a loving relationship. If Jenny were a guy, she’s have this hands down. This makes her, in my humble opinion, the hottest housewife and mother on television as well. Even when managing two separate teams that are competing for the same Shiva, her and Kevin support each other. This can be illustrated by their duet smack talk via webcam to the rest of the league members.


Kevin[on webcam with Jenny, the others watching on their respective computers] Season’s greetings, everyone.

Jenny: From Kevin and Jenny.

Kevin: We wanted to take a minute to wish you and your families a happy and healthy holiday season.

Jenny: We have so much to be thankful for.

Kevin: We have a healthy, wonderful daughter.

Jenny: Amazing friend. And did we forget to mention that we are both in the playoffs this season?

Kevin: It seemed to have slipped my mind. Yes, we are so blessed to have not one, but two teams in the playoffs. Most families don’t have any.

Jenny: Andre.

Jenny: And this week’s matchup should be a cakewalk.

Kevin: Yes, you are going to obliterate Peter.

Jenny: And you are going to kill Rodney.

Jenny: So from the first family of fantasy football…

Kevin: …to your family at home…

Kevin and Jenny: Suck it!

Ahhh…. Love in it’s finest. I wouldn’t be lying if I didn’t say I was slightly hopeful that my marriage can be just as supportive, football appreciating, and foul mouth ridden as theirs.

  • She’s a Great Mother. I won’t lie. The thought of having children, let alone GIRL children scares me for a variety of reasons. Jenny and Kevin have two, but the child that has been on the show for it’s entire run is their daughter Ellie. While I’m at a lost with how to handle my potential daughter blossoming into young adulthood, Jenny and Kevin have got this down.


Kevin: I’m not even really convinced this whole piano thing is a good idea. I just want to start her on an activity that ensures she’ll never have sex.

Jenny: Me too.

Kevin: Okay, I still like my idea. I really think we should consider ballet. She can dance around with gay guys, and she won’t have sex ’til she’s, like, 30.

Jenny: Are you kidding me? Everyone wants to have sex with ballerinas. Did you see Black Swan? Ballerinas wanna have sex with ballerinas. I think musical instruments are the way to go, and we should just be thankful it’s not a woodwind.

Good eye Jenny. Good eye.

  • Lastly, Just Look at Her.



THE LEAGUE: Katie Aselton. CR: Jeremy Cowart / FX



If I’ve managed to turn you into a Jenny MacArthur admirer or you’re curious about the show, check out the first 5 seasons of The League in preparation for the sixth season on FX.