Dear Rebound Guy,

I would like to take this time to 1) say thank you, and 2) apologize for using you at my own discretion.

You see, there comes a time in every girl’s life when she gets dumped. Dumped so hard she can only listen to Bon Iver, curl up in a ball in her bed and turn off all the lights. Oh yes, and sob, did I mention that? But there also comes a time when it’s Friday night and her best friends drag her out of bed, put her in a killer push-up bra, a mini-skirt and take her to the most populated bar in town. And that, my friend, is where you came in.

To begin, I’d like to thank you for approaching me…or rather the alcohol induced, suddenly-confident-yet-secretly-broken version of me. Right now you think I’m this great girl who you were so lucky to stumble upon and, sure, I may seem completely level-headed and down-for-whatever, but you have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into. So, after a few sloppy dances and sweaty hugs, my friends finally find me and let me know you are, in fact, not as attractive as I had thought, and I depart. Without you. (Tease move number one). But not before you whip out your iPhone4 and I shout my number over the music. And that’s how it always begins. Read More »

Dear Rihanna,

First of all, I think you’re awesome. Your songs are catchy, and you’ve had us girls dancing like no one was watching since “Pon De Replay” came out. You’ve got some fierce style and an even more feisty attitude. You change your hair without looking like a maniac (here’s looking at you Nicki Minaj), and you can make a black gown the sexiest dress on the planet. Most of us are usually on your side. Although, I don’t forgive you for doing Bring It On 4: All Or Nothing. We don’t have to talk about that.

You’ve been through a lot, and we were so proud of you for cutting your crazy ex out of your life. You were a great role model for girls dealing with serious issues. But then y’all did that weird musical mash-up on each others albums and were speculated to be back together. And then you had a sleepover at Ashton Kutcher’s house and freaked out at a reporter. And then you were spotted rolling something on your bodyguard’s head at Coachella. And then you go tweeting things with a mouth that I know you don’t kiss your grandmother with. Read More »

What is it about smoking that feels mysterious, or sexy, or chic? Or is that it? Do you smoke because of its image or do you smoke because it’s convenient? It gives you something to do with your hands at parties, I guess. But what else is there? Despite everything you know about smoking – emphysema, the fatality of lung cancer, the fact that it will give asthma to your kids if you keep this up – you’re still doing it. There has to be a reason.

Friends, I’m not trying to guilt-trip or shame you. Certainly, if you want to smoke – go ahead! It only hurts you (well, mostly — anyone in your direct vicinity is getting a good dose of secondhand, but hopefully, you make the conscientious choice to smoke away from others). I’m just trying to understand.

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Dear Mom,

Lately you’ve been giving me an earful about how “my generation” is somewhat selfish, immature and materialistic, which is evident in our relaxed, no-rush approach to marriage, babies and careers. You’ re not being mean, just observational. “Your generation” started younger, so to say; marriage, babies and careers happened in your twenties not your thirties as it does more often in today’s world. Although you strongly believe it is different for everyone, you seem to have a special standard for me personally. You were married with your first kid by the time you were twenty-five…and that was after being a fashion merchandising buyer for the once popular clothing store A&S. (Superwoman.) You never had a problem with me being single until I turned twenty in September of this year. All of a sudden my relationship status has become a constant topic of conversation. I know you want what’s best for me mom but I have to be honest. With all due respect, Mom, I don’t want a boyfriend.

My friends and siblings are in relationships and I am so very happy for them because I get it — relationships are great. But right now I am at a place in my life where being single is great for me. Here’s why… Read More »

It’s not every day that Tyler Perry—actor, producer, director and Hollywood’s highest-paid man according to Forbes—takes time out of his incredibly busy schedule to write a lengthy letter. Yet earlier this week, Perry penned an open letter to the 11-year-old boy who was sexually abused by Penn State football coach, Jerry Sandusky, declaring him not a victim, but a hero. And if you’re a female reading this right now, you really should read this letter.

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Dear SATC gods:

We city dwellers and big-city hopefuls would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t create another Sex & The City movie. Ever heard the term “three’s a crowd?” Yeah, well, however cliché it may sound, it’s incredibly appropriate for your dreams of a potentially disastrous third movie. So, since we’ve been hearing rumors that it’s a possibility, we thought it was a good time to sit down and talk.

Let me begin by saying: I am a huge SATC fan. I am Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda all balled into one and my obsession with their extravagant vacays, condo-sized closets and flagrantly glam’d up lifestyles is downright dangerous. Yet I think I speak for many SATC fans when I say that you have fulfilled your duty — let the six seasons and two movies live on. Where else could you possibly go with the storyline?

Carrie & Mr. Big are finally married, and no, we don’t see any kids in the future. Imagine Carrie Bradshaw with kids! Oh that’s right, you can’t.

Miranda & Steve have finally settled their differences and they are happy together. A third installment to the SATC series would only take us on another Stiranda (that’s when Steve and Miranda’s relationship gets all stirred up. It makes sense, just go with it. ) rollercoaster that we’re not willing to ride.

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If you own jeans like this, burn them. Now.

Dear Mom Version of Me,

As you might remember, back in 2010 Nick Cannon knocked up Mariah “I love butterflies and my cleavage” Carey….with twins. As you’ve probably tried so hard to forget, the musical duo decided to commemorate the occasion with nude pictures. (Check out the full story here...if you dare.) Yeah, sorry for reminding you.

Barely unable to keep down my breakfast after hearing this, I decided that for the sake of my unborn children I should make a list of every awkward and embarrassing idea that might seem rational when I’m a (HOT!) mom, but in reality will scar my child for eternity.

Please read this and be advised. Also, for the love of god, please be married, successful and over 30. Thank you.

1. Elastic waist pants. I understand the allure of pants without zippers; I own leggings for goodness sake. Once you reach mom status, it’s time to embrace a flattering fit with structure, because Tina Fey was serious when she talked about Mom Jeans. They’re really, really bad.

2. Minivans. Please don’t ever, EVER purchase a minivan. Besides the fact that they’re impossible to see over for other drivers, and look like giant marshmallows barreling down the highway, I cannot accept the fact that I will ever need to herd a group of children around in 4-row monstrosity. Let’s keep motherhood real in something easier to park, thank you very much. Read More »

Dear Mr. Thong Inventor,

I would like to preface this letter by saying that your work has made a large yet incredibly skimpy contribution to my adolescent years. And while I do believe in the nobleness of your cause, I am rather puzzled by the method to the madness of such an invention. As I hold up the tiny piece of fabric that is my underwear, several questions come to mind, such as:

Which came first: The thong, or “The Thong Song”?
The first time I heard The Thong Song, I was 11-years-old. Try explaining to a sixth grader, still under-clad with flower-print Hanes granny panties, the concept of a thong. Watching a leprechaun of a man do cartwheels on the beach doesn’t really do that good of a job of explaining the exact science behind the thong. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought he was singing about summertime footwear up until 2001, when I realized I needed to wear this contraption to be socially acceptable.

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Sorry, people of the bar, for forgetting to put on undies....

Dear Friends/Family/That Random Taxi Driver That Picked Me Up and Took Me Home After Finding Me Face First On The Sidewalk,

Sometimes I like to drink. A lot. And on those occasions I may or may not (okay, always) do stupid things. It is not me, you see; it is the alcohol. In fact, it is not until the morning after when I am chugging Gatorade and trying to get my bed to stop spinning that I even realize exactly what went down. And I feel bad – really, I do. So, I want to take this opportunity to apologize for it all.

To The Bartender: I am sorry that I hopped over the bar and drank beer directly from the tap. And attempted to spray my friends with Tonic Water. And knocked over that giant stack of glasses….

To My Best Friend: I am sorry that I bit your hand when you tried to take my falafel away from me. Yes, I know I said we would share. I am also sorry that I stole your shoe…and drank a beer out of it. And that I peed in your garbage can. Oh, wait. That was your sock drawer? My bad.

To My Other Friends: I am sorry that I called your girlfriend “Gorilla”…to her face (but I am more sorry that you are dating such a mess). Sorry that I brought that random dude back to the apartment and accidentally took him to your room. I will wash your sheets…and rug. Oh, and your teddy bear. Read More »

Dear Drunk Girl,

Hi sweetie. Long time no see. I take that back. I saw you last Friday. Same place, same hazy look in your eyes, different black dress that falls down to expose your bra. This one doesn’t have vomit on it… yet! Congratulations.

As much as going out and drinking in college is an integral part of your experience, I don’t think you serenading a fraternity with “Like a Virgin” into your half-empty Smirnoff handle (your makeshift microphone) while balancing on a coffee table is necessarily the right way to spend your Tuesday night.

You were very stylish at the beginning of the night. Your dress hung perfectly, eyelashes were curled, hair was straightened, heels were spotless and your jewelry matched. However, after those three, four or five shots of Patron? That sexy little dress you picked up at the Saks sale is riding up and showing off your embarrassing leopard print boy shorts. The mascara you so diligently applied is now running down your face after your tearful breakdown about how much you “love everyone sooooo much” and “like, can’t wait to have you all as my bridesmaids.” You seem to have more hair in your face than in your ponytail and one of your high heels is nowhere to be found. Check yourself, honey. Read More »