You know, because we all want the creepiest guy we can find.

So, it goes without saying that most women get hit on by men that put up huge red flags at least once or twice. Getting attention from weirdos seems to be my specialty. In an effort to keep things a little light today, I’m just going to give you a quick round up of some of the most ridiculous pick-up lines I have heard over the past few years…

“I’m hammered. You’re hot. Wanna go do it in the alley?”  -No, no I don’t.

“My friend likes you. He’s in my pants, would you like to meet him?” -Really??

“You look like that chick from that movie – I’m too drunk to remember which one, but can I have your number?” -Sure. It’s 867-5309

“Wanna come back to a party with me? You’re really hot… I  mean, you smell nice and you don’t even have a lazy eye or anything.” -Are you fucking kidding me? That’s not exactly a compliment. Also, why are you close enough to smell me? Back up.

“Baby, I wish that you were gravy and I were a biscuit so I could sop you up.” -Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. EW.

“Drink up and strip down.” -Yeah, not going to happen. You’ve got a better chance of getting pregnant.

I’m pretty sure this is going to become a series of posts, as the idiots of the world never cease to amaze and astound me…

XOXO

Tommy Gabel of Against Me! comes out as Transgender – way more punk than any of you.

**Disclaimer** I am a straight woman who has never once questioned her sexual orientation or her gender. I am not entirely educated on the subject, nor do I know anyone who is transgender. This is probably not even a topic I should be sticking my nose in on, but I am in complete awe of the balls (no pun intended) it must take not only to come out as transgender, but to do so in such a public, out-in-the-open manner.

A couple of nights ago, a friend of mine tweeted me this article, asking if I had seen it. Tom Gabel, the frontman of one of my favorite punk bands, Against Me!, had come out as transgender and would be living as Laura Jane Grace from here on out. After having a “HOLY SHIT, NO WAY,” moment, I was simply impressed and in awe of what it must have taken to invite Rolling Stone into her home, and to share this with them, knowing it would be national news once the magazine hit print. My biggest question, in all honesty and selfish as it may be, was “what does this mean for the band?” – because honestly, they’re badass. Their song “Thrash Unreal” got me through some pretty hard times, when I thought diving to the bottom of a bottle was the best solution for my problems. Tom’s (I use Tom and he in the next few sentences because I’m speaking in past-tense, and the music I’m referring to was performed as Tom. voice is gritty to the core, a perfect fit for the type of music Against Me! plays. Tom’s solo album, Heart Burns, is an even better example. For the sake of exposing yourself to kick ass music, see the following:

Thrash Unreal

Harsh Realm

Anyway… in the full Rolling Stone article (highly recommended – you need to be a subscriber to Rolling Stone to get it in full online, otherwise I’d link it), Laura answers that question. She says, “Imagine me, six foot two, in heels, fucking screaming in someone’s face.” HELL FUCKING YES, is what I have to say to that.

I think the most enlightening and awesome part of the whole article, is the immense support and apparent lack of trepidation from Heather Gabel, Laura’s wife. She has decided, in the face of such a major change, to stand by her spouse. How many women do you know that would do that? Would you be able to stay with your spouse or significant other if they one day told you that they were born in the body of the wrong sex? As much as I would love to say I absolutely would, I’m not sure I can say so without actually being put in the position to make said decision. Heather’s got a long road ahead of her, just as Laura does, and I am so impressed with the things she said in the RS article.

As expected/hoped… it seems as though the punk community is supporting Laura Jane Grace with open arms. So many of the bands/artists that I follow (Cory Branan, NoFx, Lawrence Arms, The Gaslight Anthem, Dave  Hause, and many others) all either directly or not so directly tweeted and/or blogged their support for a fellow punk rocker whom many of them have toured with. In reading more and more articles, it seems as though while the majority of the feedback is positive, there are some assholes who just have nothing nice to say. I won’t dignify their ignorance and intolerance (and frankly, their lack of humanity) toward Laura by putting it here in print, but I can say, it is some of the most ugly hatespeech I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading. Those people are the reason I’m writing this.

Some of these folks claim to be “deeply rooted” in the punk scene – “fans” of Against Me! who have been there since day one – and they have not only made awful comments about Laura’s decision, but in some comments I’ve seen, they say Laura goes against everything that IS punk. Excuse me… to those people, all I have to say is FUCK YOU. I know people who consider themselves punk that wear suits to work every day. Who have spent their youth in church basements and who have lived, breathed, eaten, and slept punk rock. Who, if you were to run into them on the street, you’d have no idea they’re covered in ink and rage out in their car to the likes of Against Me! and The Ramones. It’s not the clothes you wear, it’s not the job you have, it’s not anything but WHO YOU ARE and WHAT YOU STAND FOR. At it’s core, isn’t punk about being whoever the fuck you want to be? What it boils down to, at least in my humble opinion, is simply being yourself and not giving a shit what anyone has to say about it. That’s the most simplified explanation I can give.

Based on that philosophy, Laura Jane Grace is more punk rock than anyone in recent memory. Good for her.

So, for the sake of making fun of myself and/or filling you all in/staying true to the Confessions of a Walking Mishap premise, here are a few recent mishaps for your reading pleasure:

That time I walked around at work with a gigantic hole in my pants…

About a week ago, I realized, while washing my hands in the bathroom, that I had a gaping hole in my pants – right below the zipper… so, basically, I had a gigantic crotch hole in my pants. I saw it in the mirror. I have absolutely no idea how long I walked around like that, nor do I know whether or not anyone saw my goodies and didn’t tell me. The guys I work with say they didn’t notice… here’s hoping they aren’t just saying that.

That time I’m pretty sure my mailman saw me naked…

Okay, so I’m not always the domestic goddess I aspire to be – especially when it comes to laundry/ironing. I’m a menace with an iron. Instead of ironing things, I tend to throw them in the dryer while I’m in the shower (don’t judge). Anyway, this often leads to a dash down to the basement after showering to grab my clothes. Typically, it’s a race against the clock for me to get out the door on time. If my car is parked out back, I’ll often just get dressed in the basement, then off I go. On a particularly pressed-for-time morning, I knew my car was parked out back. I did my hair and makeup as per usual, then decided to forego the towel and just head down to leave. In the nude. Oops. I got down to the living room, and didn’t realize I had forgotten to close the curtains until I saw the mailman through my front window. He turned and walked away, and I made the rest of my dash to get out the door. He hasn’t been able to make eye contact since, so I’m fairly certain he’s seen me bareass. Awesome.

That time I called a Ma’am a Sir…

Sometimes, in working with the public, you run into awkward situations. A few of my coworkers have asked women what their due date was, when in fact, said woman was just a bit rotund. I had an individual come in the other day, and in my greeting, I made the mistake of assuming this short, rather husky individual with the extremely shorn crew cut, broad shoulders and cargo pants/flannel button up ensemble was a sir. Wrong. My “Welcome to ______, sir. My name is Dani, how may I help you?” was met with a VERY angry “My name’s Missy. Does that sound like a man’s name to you?” – OOPS. In my defense, Missy straight up looked like a dude.

I’m going to stop here, mainly because I’ve run out of steam and just wanted to make sure I got something posted since it’s been a few weeks.

XOXO

Follow @walkingmishap

Dear Administrators and Members of the Board,
I am an alumna of Garrettford Elementary School, Drexel Hill Middle School, and Upper Darby High School. I am a product of the Upper Darby School District Music Program.  From the time I entered the district in first grade, until the day I graduated from Upper Darby High School, the related arts classes, and more specifically, the music program played an integral role in my education, my personal development, and helped shaped me into who I am today. I am heartbroken to hear that, in the face of a budgeting crisis, your first line of defense and financial recovery is to cut the related arts from our elementary schools.
During my time as a student within Upper Darby School District, I was a proud member of Garrettford’s Fifth Grade Chorus, DHMS’s chorus, Concert Singers, Girls’ Ensemble, and Marching Band, and Upper Darby High School’s Chorus and Concert Choir. As a student who was not athletically inclined, and who was cut from the middle school field hockey team, these groups taught me what it meant to be part of a team. The teachers I encountered during my time in these groups inspired me to be better, to do better, both on stage and as an individual. To Mrs. Pennington, Mr. Pulacik, Mr. Turbedsky, Mr. Rider, Mrs. Schneider-Salhi, and Mrs. Benglian, I say thank you. Thank you for opening doors to me as a student I wouldn’t have known existed without you. Thank you for providing me with a place that I fit in.
As you discuss and debate the merits of keeping or cutting our music program, please consider that the building in which you are holding your board meetings, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center, was my second home for four years of my life. It was the second home of friends that I considered family, and still do. On the second floor of that building is a room with rows of red chairs sitting on risers, with a piano in the center of it. To many of you, it is just a room. To myself and to so many others, we still consider that room a part of our home. In that room, under the direction of Mrs. Barbara Benglian, we became one voice.
Whether it was choir class, a last minute rehearsal, an actual performance, or a national competition, Mrs. Benglian demanded we give our best. Friends of mine that went to other local high schools joined the chorus because it was an easy “A.” Students at Upper Darby knew better, and joined the music programs because we wanted to be the best. During my time in Concert Choir, we continuously earned the title of Grand Champions at competitions. Our soloists won awards, as did the Encore Singers. Because of the high standard Mrs. Benglian held us to, we held ourselves to the same high standard. It is that high standard that I continue to hold myself to, in everything that I do.
Not only were we held to this high standard musically, but we were also held to an academic standard. Had it not been for that standard, my grades probably would not have been what they were. My main motivation, skewed as it may have been, was to make sure that I stayed academically eligible to perform. My grades that were not the only thing the music program helped me maintain. Without my second home, without Chorus and Concert Choir, I would not have built the confidence I did within those groups. I would not have built the friendships or lasting memories, either. Without the musical foundation built by my elementary and middle school teachers, I do not think I’d have been so strongly committed to the music program as a high-schooler. For so many of us, the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center was our home away from home, and it was where we began to learn who we would be as adults. It kept us off the streets and out of trouble, and more importantly, it gave us something to be proud of.
As a concerned alumna, I implore to you afford current and future students the same opportunities I was given as a student of Upper Darby School District. Allow them to experience greatness, because it is what they deserve.
Thank you,

Danielle
Upper Darby High School, Class of 2003

I cannot begin to describe the level of discipline and excellence that was instilled in me through being involved in this music program. I cannot begin to list the memories, the lessons I learned, or the relationships I forged during my time as a member of this organization. This program saved me, in all honesty. Middle school was an awful time for me – my friends from elementary school had become “too cool” by the time we hit sixth grade – their parents allowed them to dress like baby whores and loiter in convenience store parking lots and mine didn’t.  I was cruelly teased by girls that had once been my best friends and confidants. Upon joining the chorus and later auditioning and being accepted into Concert Singers and Girls’ Ensemble at the middle school level, I found a second home.  I made new friends, ones who didn’t have futures as teen moms and criminals, and I learned about myself. I learned what it was to be a part of something so much bigger than myself.  I gained confidence. I gained a voice. In high school, I think it’s possible I spent more time at the Upper Darby Performing Arts Center than I did my own home . My parents supported and encouraged my involvement, coming to every performance we had to offer. 

If you are from the greater Philadelphia area, and even if you aren’t, PLEASE check out saveudarts.org <— This site has all the information needed to help myself, countless alumni, current students, and district parents take action, and make sure the very voice I was given by this program is heard.

I STAND WITH UPPER DARBY SCHOOL DISTRICT, THEIR RELATED ARTS AND MUSIC FACULTY, ALUMNI AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, CURRENT AND FUTURE STUDENTS WHO DESERVE TO EXPERIENCE AND BE A PART OF EXCELLENCE, JUST AS I WAS.

Harsh, yet often the brutal, painful truth.

We’ve all got a few of them. The exes that we kept on the roster as friends. Okay, so maybe not all of us – some people are simply incapable of having an amicable breakup. I, on the other hand, seem to have ended up with this hodgepodge of male friends – a handful of whom I’ve dated at one point or another. These are guys who have had my back through thick and thin, who have outlasted the guys who have thrown a fit because I’m still friends with guys I used to date; these are the men in my life, who, at one point or another, have brought out the best and worst of me, and who have taught me something about myself.

Recently (recently meaning within the past couple of weeks), I’ve come to realize that maybe one or two of these guys I’ve deemed as my friends aren’t friends. I’ve had what some might call an epiphany, others a moment of clarity. I’m a friend to them – listening when they need to vent, shooting the shit, hanging out, giving advice, supporting their various endeavors – but they aren’t a friend to me. They’ve been keeping me on the bench, in reserve, just in case their current significant other turns out to be a bust. They are there for me JUST ENOUGH to make it seem like they give a shit, but when it boils down to it and shit gets rough, they are conveniently absent. What none of them seem to realize is that they should probably get over themselves… because even if their current significant other were to strike out, they have zero chance of calling me in to take their place. I will never understand the male mentality that just because a woman was willing to date you in the past that it means they will always be willing to date you.

While this epiphany was the result of an awful, dragged out case of harassment (read a few posts prior for the details on that) and a particularly lengthy conversation with one of these guys, it was much needed. The conversation essentially ended with the termination of the “friendship.” He claims it has “run its course,” and I claim he’s pissed that I realized he’s been stringing me along, keeping me just close enough to still care about his well-being, but completely undependable when I actually need him and that I refuse to stand for it any longer. Friends don’t do friends dirty like that.

In getting some distance from that phone call and that person, I’m becoming acutely aware of just how much bullshit I’ve put up with from him over the years. Frankly, it’s kind of sickening. Sickening that I would put up with it for the sake of maintaining a friendship that, really, shouldn’t have continued in the first place, and sickening because he so easily manipulated me without remorse. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he’s a sociopath. No, not the serial-killing, will wear your skin as a suit kind of sociopath… more your run-of-the-mill narcissistic, pathologically lying, charismatic type of sociopath who sees no wrong-doing in treating other people like pieces in the chess game he or she calls their life with the added side bonus of being able to completely shut off all emotions on a whim. I can say, however, through it all… I still don’t wish him any ill will. I hope, for his sake, he’s as happy as he pretends.

So here’s the part that no one likes to talk about. The moving on. The walking away. The deleting the person you thought was actually a stand-up individual who turned out to be a snake in the grass from your phone, your email address book, your social networking sites, etc. I’ve got to say, completely purging my life of anything snake-in-the-grass related has been fairly liberating. I can honestly say that gaining perspective on this whole situation will be a cautionary tale – and it’s a mistake I won’t be making again. I can say that hearing “I didn’t want to say anything, but I really never liked that guy” from my friends ad nauseum is growing old quickly (seriously, guys – I get it – leave it be). Some people bring out the worst in each other, and it’s become clear that he and I do that.

Moral of the story? Exes are exes for a reason. They’re in your past for a reason. Perhaps it’s best to let them stay there.

xoxo,

The Mishap

PS – I just realized I used an unprecedented number of sports references in this post. Weird.

In a crowded room full of people, THIS GUY is the one who would try to approach me. Check out the mangina. Who WOULDN'T want that hitting on them??

That is the phrase I most often expect to hear come out of the mouths of the men (and occasional women) that choose to flatter (or scare) me by hitting on me. I attract more weirdos and creepy strangers than any individual I have ever met. My ability to catch the eye of the strangest person in a room is uncanny; my friends think it’s hysterical and my mother worries for my safety. In an effort to keep my content fresh, I’m going to highlight these winners in a new series of posts, similar to The Automobile Follies. Here’s numero uno, for your reading delight:

The Guy I Pepper-Sprayed on the Subway That One Time.

Super Classy Philly Public Transportation

 During my college years, I relied heavily on public transportation – known in these parts as SEPTA (or the devil’s asshole, whichever you prefer). The university I attended had a parking situation that was less than ideal, so I often commuted to school on pub trans. My route went a little something like this: walk to the trolley, take the trolley to the el, take the el to the subway. Getting home, this was reversed. I digress.

One spring afternoon, I decided to head to campus. I was going to crash with the guy I was seeing, simply to make my life easier (and I missed living on campus – I had moved back to the ‘burbs to save money). I went about my usual excursion. When I ride SEPTA, I typically have my headphones in – it’s normally a “small talk with strangers” deterrent. One stop after I got on, a rather odiferous gentleman took the seat next to mine… in a mostly empty car. If you’ve ever taken public transportation, you should be aware that proper etiquette is as follows: if there are empty seats that are NOT practically in someone else’s lap, you sit in those seats. As the car fills up, and it becomes necessity, THAT is when you sit directly next to someone.

Anyway, the man who smelled like a distillery not only sat right next to me, but once we were on our way, he put his hand on my leg. I politely removed said hand, and said “Please don’t touch me.” When he did this again, clearly ignoring my request, I got up and switched seats. He followed. I politely got up and moved once again, as I was thoroughly creeped out. Clearly not taking my hint, my new friend followed once again.

At the next stop, I got off the car, and moved to a different, slightly more populated car. Wouldn’t you know, at the next stop, he boarded my car. He sat down directly next to me, once again, and put his hand on my leg. I very loudly and very clearly said, “Sir, if you touch me one more time, I’m going to pepperspray the shit out of you.” I got up, and moved to a different seat on the same car. Within 20 seconds, he followed. I warned him once again, and once again, I moved. I was semi-shocked that not a single person on the car came to my aid – then I remembered where I was. Within moments, he was sitting next to me again, and attempted to put his hand on my leg. As we were pulling up to the next stop, I calmly pulled out my trusty can of pepper spray and used it. He screamed like a little girl, and called me a bitch, while taking a swing at me. Thankfully, I had already moved toward the door.

Once we hit the platform, SEPTA’s transit police ended up evacuating the car and arresting my assailant. I went about my day, and vowed to take regional rail from there on out.

Basically, I’ve hit a wall. By now, you’ve read my “Open Letter to My Anonymous Harasser” post (if you haven’t, catch up, sillies!).

I’m done. I’ve had it. Finished.

In what universe did it become cool to anonymously harass someone, simply because you view them as a threat? When did I time travel back to Jr. High, the land of bullies who are really just insecure assholes?

Here’s the deal. Calling me a slut, whore, tramp, bitch, harlot, whore-slut, a fat slut-whore, etc.? IT DOESN’T HURT MY FEELINGS.

What it DOES, however, is make me angry. It pisses me the hell off. It pisses me off enough to contact a lawyer, and a therapist, and the p0lice in two different states (the one I live in, and the one I suspect the harassment is coming from). It gives me a mission. What is my mission, you ask? To CRUSH the person who is interrupting my life like this. It motivates me to enter the lengthy process of pressing criminal and civil charges, and it motivates me to not give up on getting tangible proof of the harasser’s identity. Once I have proof, case closed. I will be taking no mercy in court, nor will I be taking settlements.

How pathetic must one’s life be to spend MONTHS harassing someone? To feel that threatened by someone who lives in an entirely different state, two hours away?

How sad is your life, that instead of emailing with friends during work hours to keep occupied like a normal person, you spend your time calling someone names and telling them they have AIDS (yes, she went there)? Do you not have friends to let you know that this behavior is completely unacceptable?

Keep hating, bitch. I may annoyed and pissed off, but that will pass. What won’t pass is your insecurity. Your low self-esteem. Your pathetic, unfulfilled life.

To my lovely, supportive friends who have been listening to my venting and rants about this – thank you, I love you all.

XOXO

Follow @walkingmishap

Give me eye shadows in a multitude of colors, give me a mani/pedi with a hot-stone calf massage, give me a day of having my hair cut/colored/conditioned. Give me an unlimited budget to create an entirely new wardrobe (after I drop the 30lbs I’d like to get rid of, of course). Give me jewelry and pretty, shiny things,  give me pretty perfume bottles that smell like heaven and I’m in love. So many of my friends find this information shocking… they say it doesn’t seem to fit my personality, because I’m so straight to the point.

This whole girly-girl thing seems to get worse as I get older. My taste has become more refined, my interest in making sure I leave the house looking put together has grown exponentially since my high school and college days. The only thing standing in my way? My budget. I have wickedly expensive taste… for instance, my new cosmetic obsession? NARS. Their colors are beautiful, and their quality is top-notch.

I'll take three of each, please.

I’m really, really sad how expensive this stuff is. Twenty eight bucks for a blush. Good. Christ. I’m currently talking myself out of blowing my next commission check on their entire line…

I’m not really sure where this whole girly-girl thing comes from… I think I just like feeling pretty. Yes, that sounds shallow and vapid and insipid, but damnit, it’s true. I like getting all dolled up, and I like the compliments it brings. I believe a swipe of lipstick, a touch of mascara, and a spritz of perfume is sometimes all it takes to lift my mood. Ladies, don’t tell me not one of you agrees with me. There is something about LOOKING good that makes you FEEL good. If that weren’t the case, why would so many people be on a quest to lose weight, or get plastic surgery, or change their hair? Call me shallow, I don’t really care. I feel my best when I look my best – and as far as I’m concerned there are also different types of “look my best.” Whether it be for work, or casual, or lounging around my house… I know I can “look my best” in my uniform, jeans and a sweater, or nothing at all. Recently, some jackass called me “high maintenance” because I told him I was headed to get a manicure and a spa pedicure. I don’t think being a girly-girl means I can’t hang with the boys and play video games or drink beers. I don’t think it makes me unrelatable to other women. I’d like to know when caring about how I look/smell/dress became “high maintenance”? I don’t expect anyone else to pay for these habits/routines, and I don’t go overboard. I will occasionally run out of the house in yoga pants, a hoodie, and sneakers to run errands (but only throwing a hat on over my hair). I don’t wear makeup to the gym, unless I’ve applied it earlier in the day for another occasion. I don’t really know where I’m going with this rant, so I’ll stop here. The goal was to get out 500 words to be the writer’s block, and I did it. Go me.  Follow @walkingmishap

Dear Whomever You May Be:

Thank you. Thank you for being pathetic. Thank you for being a coward. Thank you for not having the cajones or ovaries to confront me about your issues like an adult. Thank you for annoying the ever loving shit out of me on a near daily basis. Thank you for demanding I stop talking to a particular individual.  Thank you for calling me the vulgar names that you have called me, for trying to break me down, and for attempting to break my stride. Thank you for pissing me off.  Thank you.

I know thanking you makes me sound, well, just as crazy as you are, but allow me to continue before passing judgement. There’s a method to my madness.

I thank you for being pathetic and weak because it shows me how strong I am.

 I thank you for being a coward because it’s a reminder to face things head-on, instead of burying my head in the sand like an ostrich.

I thank you for not having the cajones or ovaries to confront me about your issues like an adult because it reminds me how far I’ve come; it reminds me that five years ago, I would have stooped to your level and tried to retaliate.

I thank you for annoying the everloving shit out of me because it’s taught me how to brush simple annoyances away, as though they don’t even exist.

I thank you for demanding I stop talking to that individual because in light of all this, it’s taught me they may not be as good a friend as I had once thought. It has reminded me that I DESERVE BETTER.

I thank you for the vulgar names that you have called me, for trying to break me down, and for attempting to break my stride because it shows me how small you truly are. It shows me that you view me as a threat. It shows me that you’re more insecure than even I was at one point in my life, and it makes me feel sorry for you. It also shows me how far I’ve come, that I’m able to hold my head high and know that your harassment truly has nothing to do with me, and has everything to do with your own low self esteem.

I thank you for pissing me off because it drives me to be a better person. It drives me to be stronger. It drives me to continue to brush you off like the nothing you are.

Your serve, Bitch.

XOXO

The Mishap

  Follow @walkingmishap

Ladies, here we go.

STOP. HATING. ON. EACH. OTHER.

Easy as that. Admittedly, I have been guilty of this in the past. Additionally, I have been a victim of it as well.  We all have. We have  hated on each other since roughly the beginning of time, and I’ve come to realize, it’s some bullshit.  Here is my plea, to KNOCK IT OFF. KNOCKITTHEFUCKOFF.

Females tend to hate on each other for the following reasons:

1. Jealousy

2. Some uncalled for sense of competition

3. Jealousy

So let’s say you’re out with a group of guys, and an attractive female walks into the room. The guys, being well… guys, they all begin to stare and/or comment about the attractiveness/fuckability of said female.

Do you:

A) Quickly find or fabricate a flaw and announce it to the group? (ex. “She has weird eyes.” “She’s too thin.” “She looks like a whore.”)

B) Ignore them and go about your business

C)  Compliment something about her (ex. “She’s really pretty.” “I love her shoes.” “I’d hit it if I were into chicks.”)

If you answered A, ladies, we really need to reevaluate some things. The guys you’re out with are hanging out with you. If one of them is your boyfriend, he is with you for a reason. Just because he looks at another chick doesn’t mean he doesn’t adore you. I’m not saying you can’t be a bit annoyed with the fact that he’s blatantly ogling, but get over it. You look too. If the guys you are hanging out with AREN’T your boyfriend, it’s clear they are your friends and enjoy spending time with you. Their commenting on another woman doesn’t make you less their friend… it makes them men. It’s what they do. Also, I have it on pretty good authority from guys that I’ve been involved with/friends with: nothing turns them off more than an insecure female.

For further elaboration, I give you Jenna Marbles:

Now,  reasons that makes it kind of okay to “hate on” another female:

1) She blatantly hit on your boyfriend/slept with your boyfriend/tried to sleep with your boyfriend KNOWING that he was your boyfriend.

2) She is just an awful bitch – however, to make this determination, you must converse with her/interact with her. No “I just know she’s a bitch because she looks like one” bullshit.

3) She has/is partaking in crazy stalker bitch behavior… ie. anonymous, unreasonable text messaging, harassment, shit talking, etc.

Now, this does not mean shit talking to anyone who will listen is acceptable. If you’re going to vent, do so to only one or two friends. Preferably not people who are mutual friends of hers. Furthermore, if you REALLY have beef… handle it like a grown ass woman and tell her about herself. Not publicly, but let her know what’s up. Maybe she’ll respect you for it and you two can move past it.

That’s it for now.

XOXO

Follow @walkingmishap