Listening to the drum circle outside my window until 3 AM last night (something that is a nightly occurrence at hippie schools until it gets too cold to light a joint with one hand and play the same rhythm over and over again with the other), I couldn’t help but think back on my last couple of years of college. While I’ve done a lot of cool academic things, met a lot of cool academic (and non-academic people), and learned important life lessons (protip: writing an important paper at 5 AM is just asking for typos), there is one thing I’ve done during my 4 years at school that I now kind of wish I hadn’t: hooked up with random dudes.

Once upon a time, I dated one guy for a long time. But instead of living happily ever after with me, he woke up one day and decided he wanted to “go through an asshole phase” (his words, not mine). After dumping me and proceeding to flirt and hook up with a lot of mutual friends, my once-love promptly forgot all about his sappy promises of “forever” and pretended we had never met.

You could say I was heartbroken.

Because I had always been “a good girl,” I hadn’t really dated around before the Ex, and was pretty flabbergasted at the entire dating process. Plus, I was grieving like some kind of Victorian widow in black and wasn’t thinking straight. Additionally, I was going out and drinking a little more — even though I was completely conscious of the fact that drinking a little more was going to make me cry a little more come hangover time. All of those factors combined meant that I decided my only life choice was to do what all my friends were doing: hooking up with random dudes because I could.

It took me a while to get a lay of the land (haha. Get it?), but after a few stumbles into emotional territory — haven’t you heard? Emotions don’t belong in hook-ups — I totally got the hang of it: meet a guy, make it obvious you’re easy going, be physical early, and then convince him to sleep with you after 1 or 2 dates. Guys are very easily convinced, and playing up my free-spiritedness made it easy for me to seem totally okay with everything. Even though, in the back of my wound-up mind, whenever the guy was snoring too loudly or fumbling around like an idiot, I would fear that I was not made for random hook-ups, I kept at it. Read More »

No, read that a little slower. I don’t want it ruff, I want a ruff. Okay, maybe I want it, too, but if that were the main theme of this article, I would have used the correct spelling of the word. Moving on.

I remember going to the circus once in my life and not being particularly enchanted by it. The modern acts didn’t thrill me at age 6, and I certainly wouldn’t pay a couple hundred dollars now to watch unhappy, mistreated animals plod around with their heads down, or to laugh at completely generic, mindless slapstick comedy routines (that’s what George Bush and Britney Spears are for). There’s something I’ve always loved, however, about antique circus art, be it from the harlequin-oriented Victorian era or the tattooed 20’s. Where are today’s knife throwers, horseback dancers and puddle divers?

I suppose most of them probably died practicing their craft, and not many have attempted to recreate the feats more recently. I know I wouldn’t. Read More »

I came across this article the other day, an article about how chivalry is dead, and my generation is the one who killed it.

To prove her point, the article’s author explained how she’s often cat called when she walks down the street, and laments about the days when men tipped their hats and said “mornin‘” instead of leering at a pair of breasts and saying “yee!”

Even though I think she’s got a point when she talks about certain forms of traditional chivalry going out the window (the last time a man tipped his hat at me was…well, never, and not once has anyone ever thrown a jacket over a mud puddle), I’m pretty sure that using cat calls to define the death of chivalry is just plain incorrect.

Look, men have been cat calling women since the day they realized their mouths made sounds and breasts were awesome. Sure, Victorian dudes opened carriage doors for us and offered their elbow when the terrain got rough, but don’t think they weren’t whistling and jeering under those handlebar mustaches and cute little bowler hats. Perhaps they weren’t shouting “aye, mami!” when a fine looking bustle walked down the street, but you can bet a Victorian chick knew when a Mr. Darcy was hating to see her leave, but loving to see her go. Read More »