But, every now and then, a gem falls on my timeline and makes me cringe.

What this tweet makes me think:
“Dude, does this person have friends? I’m sure they must possess SOME real-life friends. But then, why crave affirmation so desperately? Oh my, there’s even a hashtag in there. That must be a call for help. Orphan, perhaps? Daddy issues? This poor, abandoned soul truly needs a divine tweetervention. Wait… does this person realize that the people most likely to see this tweet are already followers? Ahhhh, riddle solved. This person is an idiot.”

What this tweet doesn’t make me think:
“YES!! I will emphatically press that follow button right away!”

Boys asked me to confirm rumors. Girls gave me dirty looks. Teachers regarded me as one of those tragic Lifetime movies involving a bright girl with endless possibilities, ultimately ruined by carnal pleasures. Oh dear. I pretended that the rumors didn’t hurt. But, they did.

During my first year at Syracuse University, I locked up my lotus flower and tucked the key inside textbooks.

As other girls headed to frat houses, I stayed in. As they partied, I studied. And as they performed the walk of shame the next day, I glanced disdainfully in their direction. I envied their tousled hair and ripped stockings. My jealousy turned into hatred. So, I called them names once whispered behind my back.

My prejudice against sluttification (I’m sure this will one day become a real word) got me high. I even got creative with my hate—using terms like harlot, trollop and venereal-disease incubator instead of simply “slut.”

Having been on both sides of the morality division, I can honestly say that “sluts” do have more fun. I be irate that females trample on the sexual aspirations of one another.

If a 25-year-old man boasts (and indeed, men boast) 20 sexual partners, we shrug and accept it as a normal occurrence. If a woman confessed the same, we make grand assumptions about her ethics. We question the elasticity of her vaginal canal.

Often, females are the worst perpetrators of slut-hating. Men might start a rumor, but women embed malicious additives to it and then broadcast it on every social media platform. “Promiscuous” morphs into “easy,” which becomes “whore,” which finally emerges as a tweet about some filthy strumpet who engaged in simultaneous lascivious activities with one dozen men plus a horse… or something to that nature.

Truthfully, all women yearn to exercise their reproductive organs. But, instead of congratulating those who can and do climax, we hate them. Enough, I say. Everyone deserves a nice, judgement-free, romp.

In 2012, I resolved to:

-Whine about not having money.
-Spend every extra dollar on frivolous purchases… Italian leather cat collar anyone?
-Whine about boys.
-Reject all men who show genuine interest while chasing vapid, unrealistically gorgeous men who pay no attention to mortal females like myself.
-Gossip about my friends.
-Spend too much time applying makeup and too little time flossing.
-Text “OMG” approximately 213,828,400,183,270,185 times.
-Text “lol,” “lmao” and “hahahaha” despite the fact that no laughter actually occurs.
-Choose Netflix over quality time with friends and family.
-Ignore calls and texts because I’m too lazy to move 10 feet to pick up the phone;
then, wholeheartedly swear that I never received any messages.
-”Forget” to shower every other weekend.
-Gain weight.
-Ignore my obesity and purchase apparel one size too small.
-Consider going for a jog every Saturday morning, but only execute this consideration
one time.
-Choose granny panties over sexy panties.
-Sacrifice the lives of many poultry animals to satisfy my craving for wings.

I think this list will make my ancestors proud.

Thanks to America’s wonderfully inadequate education system, “lie” is only associated with dishonesty. It’s time to give “lie” its due recognition.

Lie means to make oneself horizontal. I lie down. He lies down. They lie down.

Lay means to make an object horizontal. Let me reiterate, lay needs a direct object. I lay down a book. He lays down a book. They lay down the whips and chains that will soon be used in their masochistic ritual of erotica.

If you were to ever use “lay” to imply horizontal positioning, it must be in the past tense. Yesterday, I lay down after witnessing a friend massacre the English language.

I come from a background of real laborers. One side of my family raised pigs, butchered chickens for the town, laid bricks and foundations, were construction workers, etc. The other side raised beef and milk cattle, helped build dams, worked on printing presses, etc. The epitome of true workers. My parents raised me with the expectations of working hard for your money. Handouts don’t happen — well unless you’re lucky, but you shouldn’t expect them and you should maybe feel a tad guilty receiving them. So when I work, I put 120% effort into what I do– unless I’m extremely worn out or dealing with horrible people…and when I say horrible, I mean want to kick babies for some relief, horrible.

Ever since I’ve lived in New York, I’ve realized that people try to find so many loopholes to not work while being at work. What’s the point of having a job?!? People honestly rejoice about not having to do anything all day. Yes, it’s nice to not be bombarded with tons of work at once, but why are you complaining that you have to do basic work at your job?  (Another sidenote into my thinking: I was also raised with thinking: if you don’t like what you’re doing, don’t do it) If you don’t like what your job entails, find another job. You should be happy to be working and giving 120% of your effort.  If I had my dream job I would want to be surrounded with tons of work. At least I know I’m making a difference with my coworkers’ lives and my readers’ lives.

I feel like I wouldn’t be such a sour puss half the time if people I work with or see, put in half the amount of effort I do into their job. If you’re freaking salary, you shouldn’t be seating around and just delegating. You should be in the action and solving problems. Being on your grind means you actually make someone elses’ life easier or better. Can you say that about yourself?

But, the transformation from a tourist into a New Yorker requires the abandonment of all that luster. It requires gradual steps into the chasm of depravity that this city truly embodies. Daunting task, indeed. But, don’t worry, my benevolent wisdom is here to help.

Step 1: Destroy Smiling
Smiling is for wussies. Smiling invites muggings. Smiling is for tourists.

Step 2: Forget Romance
Take all your bridal fantasies, wrap them around your precious heart and set everything on fire. Love is for wussies.

Step 3: Embrace Distance
Form long-distance relationships with all close ties. True love means voyaging across the city on three different trains, during weekend construction, while experiencing signal problems. If it’s not inconvenient, it’s not real affection.

Step 4: Learn About Location
Pay a disgusting amount of money for a studio (glorified walk-in closet) because of the “location.” Stock up on “just add water” oriental noodles and bologna because your paycheck only allows for obscenely overpriced rent or groceries. Demigods on Wall Street, however, are exempt from this rule.

Step 5: Make Critter Friends
Rats in the subway. Bedbugs in retail stores. Cockroaches on your counter. Don’t hate, appreciate. Hate can’t kill them anyway. Nothing can. Just tell yourself that a cockroach is simply a larger ant—an ant that overdosed on steroids and carries diseases. Whatever, your apartment is in a GREAT location.

Step 6: Appreciate Nature
During one of your three annual visits to Central Park, be amazed by every living organism. This is your Amazon Forest. Trees?! Birds?! Squirrels?! All in ONE place?!!! Did you pass out from incredulity? I think so.

Step 7: Abandon All Senses
That action most humans perform involving the passage of oxygen through a set of nostrils. Stop that. NYC is ripe with the scent of urine, vomit, garbage; if you’re lucky, there’s even a pinch of fecal matter. Nasal inhalation leads to instant regret. Oral inhalation offers some relief. Unfortunately, it forces you to taste the air. And trust me, the taste of NYC lingers for eternity.

Step 8: Hate Every Other City
We frown better than you. We yell better. Our bums are the bummiest of all the darn bums. This city is the epitome of perfection all day, every day. You disagree? Well, you suck anyway.

Step 9: Rep Your Hood
Screw unity, we segregate. East Side vs. West Side. Bronx vs. Brooklyn. Harlem vs. the reality that it’s not an actual borough. Next step: Rep your street. NO. Rep your apartment. Yoooo, where all by B20′s at??

Step 10: Leave
This urban jungle is one mega-dose of amphetamine. It’s necessary to escape to suburbia so that you may recover from the high. Come here to open your mind. Come here to immerse yourself in culture. Come here to discover your resilience. But, do leave, even if only for a weekend.

He is thinking "look at my sexy stomach. I am small and big, hear me roar!"

Napoleon Bonaparte was the Emperor of France — a little man with big dreams. He was born to a noble family and raised through the ranks while fighting against France, staging Coups and such. [My first interjection: any person who is that dedicated to becoming powerful is irate inside. He was probably avenging everyone who called him Boner, Nappy, Boney, Little man, Munchkin, Pole, etc. ]

Anyway, so he got all this power and then failed at beating the Sixth Coalition at Leipzig. He was then exiled. [I'm going to assume that Napoleon had all of this pressure to be a badass, but since he was rather small it was probably hard to see everything that's going on in the battle fields. ] His irateness of being a loser did help him escape his exilement (yes, I just made that word up for fun and lack of interest in finding the right word) less than on year of misery on the island of Elba. Even though he escaped, his last bit of irateness did not help him win the battle at Waterloo. He just became a failure and was subjected to years of confinement,  he died six years after his embarrassment.

I find it interesting that he died of stomach cancer. Maybe it was his inner anger eating away at himself. But, I’m going to guess that he is happy now because his Napoleonic Code is a building block for civil laws worldwide. Note: Part of the code forbade privileges of birthright…So take that naturally born rich people. Napoleon showed how you can be powerful and a figure of irateness.

I hope you enjoyed this brief history lesson. I’d love to hear what you think and maybe your thoughts on why Napoleon is an iconic irate man.

Any other time of the year I will support your hippie lifestyle ways of no deodorant, armpit hair nastiness and other smelly antics, but when it comes time for skin to show and hot, muggy weather is smiting us, please please conform to society views and take care of your image. I have seen hairy armpits, smelt b.o mixed with sex, been rubbed up against sweaty skin and more the past two days (the flashbacks make me cringe…literally. I wish you could see my face now as I type). If you have time to shave your legs in the shower why not take that extra 5 seconds to shave off that nasty curly armpit hair of yours? See ing it mixed with your melting deodorant makes me want to yak. And if you’re wondering why I bother ranting about this, it’s because your holding the bar right in front of me in the train and I’m hoping that your sweat doesn’t fall on my face forcing me to want to scrap all of my skin off with my nails.

If you passed biology or any kind of science course, you know heat makes you sweat…it even happens to water bottles. Please contain your sweat. Don’t be ashamed to carry that extra hanky to dab your droplets. The person who you run into or squeezed next to will greatly appreciate you not sharing your perspiration problems — I sweat a lot so I’m very cautious of these things. 

Sweat also means more odors. Swipe on that deodorant. Clean yourself after sex. And maybe invest in some body spray. I would rather suffer a headache from too strong perfume/cologne than suffer from smelling your nasty odor that will linger in my nose for hours.

Here are some tips from magazine on how to stay cool, look nice, and being prepared the weather. Please take notes!

Cool down with a Margarita (Redbook)

Other General Rules for the Summer (Men’s Health) — I especially like #3 and #7.

Ways to Beat the Heat (Real Simple)– Sometimes you just need to prevent the sweat and stank.

The Best Deodorants (Real Simple)

The Best Razors For Women (Good Housekeeping)

“You’re such a nice girl, why are you still single?”
“You’re so smart and funny, why are you still single?”
“You’re so gorgeous, why are you still single?” (Courtesy of my ego.)

No matter how the sentence starts, I know the destination–a dreadful question mark to deem my life as incomplete. Despite the magnitude of my personal accomplishments, I am inadequate without a mate.

I take this opportunity to defend my singlehood. These are the declarations of a spinster cat lady.

Women fall into two categories: those who believe in love and those who mock the believers. Women in the first group await their Shakespeare-inspired romance. They believe that out there, in the midst of seven billion bodies, exists the complementary half to their hearts. They yearn to be completed. Women in the second group glare disdainfully at the believers, call them dumb trollops and return to the laborious task of clipping coupons for 50 cents off cat food. I belong to the latter group.

Prior to catladyism, former believers have an epiphany: all women want Disney, but 99% end up with scenes from a bad horror flick. We tell ourselves stories about high school sweethearts who celebrate their 50th Anniversary decades later. We delude ourselves into thinking that will surely be us one day. If others can surpass tremendous obstacles armed solely with love, so can we. But, love continuously fails to conquer all. The true believers persevere regardless. Good for them. Cat ladies veer off and take a different path.

We choose our careers. We choose friends and family. We choose ourselves. And yes, we also choose our feline companions.

For me, it started innocently enough. I forgot to shave one day. The next day, I remembered but laziness proved to be an unconquerable force. A week later, I realized that my Chewbacca-esque behavior went unpunished. It was a miracle. As it turns out, being single meant having very few repercussions for otherwise horrifying behaviors. If I burp, no one squirms. Instead, I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back and promise to outdo myself next time.

But, the greatest revelation for this cat lady stemmed from the improbability of being crushed. Love does more than hurt; love annihilates the human spirit. Love doesn’t guarantee against cheating, lying and heartbreak. If anything, it sets the wheels in motion for these inevitable occurrences. Love is like playing Russian Roulette, except all the cylinders are filled.

As a cat lady, my smiles don’t rely on the gestures of a man. My heart beats to one predictable pattern. And, my tears only fall for tragic foreign romance films.

I work my ass off, literally…I’ve probably lost 10 lbs since moving to NYC  due to not eating as much as normal people should and having to carry 60 lb boxes up and down a long flight of stairs for pregnant customers, to pay off my seven monthly bills. Yes, I said seven. Not only is this seven bills, it’s a lot of freakin’ money (Thank you Syracuse University for not really helping me land a job to help pay the $873/month loans I have to pay back for my four years with you). Are you amazed that I can pay that per month on a retail job?? I am. But let’s get to the real point…people screwing with my money.

My job decided to cut hours because they were overspending their budget. This just means I’m more irate because now I have to cut back more on groceries and fun activities with friends (which that much in the first place because I can’t afford to go buy $13 drinks…sorry guys. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get a “real” job). And I have to ask for more help from my parents. Love them to death and I really appreciate all their help, but I hate having to ask for money. I have too much pride to keep asking for help and it’s making me irate that I have to because my management can’t spend their budget right.

My building management messed with my money too. Due to a disgusting presence of a rodent everything needed to be washed, which costs tons of money. They got a taste of irate Katie. There is no chance that I was paying $80 to wash everything in my house because they didn’t do their job. After a month of contacting the guy every week through email and voicemails, I finally got my money. Lesson: when someone owes you money, threaten to come by their office to get your money that day. They will mail it to you so they don’t have to see your irate face.

Their have been other incidences with people trying to mess with my money, but it won’t happen. I work too hard for the little money I have for someone to say they want more of it. Little do you know, irateness makes me smarter. I research and find ways to make me right, so you will end up giving me money , doing things my way or doing things a new way that doesn’t include me.