I’m not calling myself an artist, but the creative process is lonely. You start talking to yourself for hours, days, sometimes years, so you can create something real from those crazy pictures inside your head. You drown yourself in imagination, ignore the world, and you expect the same people who resent you for it to lift you over their shoulders when you’re finally ready to present them with your masterpiece. You deconstruct and reconstruct over and over and over to the point where everyone around you thinks you’re insane. You know what they’re thinking, and you get why, but explaining it would take too long, and you’d rather stay in your crazy head, because you think it’ll all be worth it in the end. They’ll see. You subject yourself to painful, and sometime vicious criticism. You end up doubting yourself so much that you deny your own virtue, so they stop beating it out of you before that last bit of fire goes out. You go back into your lonely head, and start fanning the fire again, hoping that next time, it’ll be undeniable, but it keeps happening over and over and over… No wonder so many of us try to numb it with drugs.

If you choose to sacrifice certainty for happiness, prepare to walk through that door 1000 feet tall, because you will get cut down with every step you take. Hope that you’ll find the happiness you seek before there’s nothing left to keep you going, but know that the taller you walk, the harder they’ll hit.

This is the life I’ve chosen, and I’ll take it any day over being shackled to a desk at an office.





“They say that a life worth living is a life worth sharing. They also say that if you’re an asshole all the time, you’re going to slip on a wad of hair in the shower, hit your head, suffer a contusion, and die. No one will find your corpse until it begins emitting a stench so powerful that it cuts through all the curry and jerk chicken your neighbors are making in your shitty apartment building. In your teens and 20s it’s OK to be annoyingly picky and indecisive (within reason) about finding the “right one” and eliminating people from your uppity little dating pool because they don’t like your favorite brand of deodorant, or because they are Nazis about recycling.  Eventually, if you’re lucky, it will dawn on you: “OHHHHHH! I’m the asshole here! Not that girl who I dumped because she’s allergic to paper!” If someone is nice to you, and your privates find them attractive, love them for as long as you can and as well as you can, and then keep trying for even longer than that because you probably don’t deserve a second chance. Fucking, however, is a completely different thing. Grunting like an animal and ramming your parts into another person’s feel-good cavity/getting rammed in yours is purely recreational, and let’s face it, those hot sluts at the bar aren’t going to be the ones you want to see walk into your room with a stack of DVDS and a Coke Slurpie when you’re home in bed with a fever”

Hallelujah! Someone out there gets it!! It’s like they took my mind, pumped it up, and dick slapped the world with it today.

Enlighten yourself here:

The VICE Guide to Adulthood | VICE.



The idea of being in love and having chemistry with your best friend is inescapably enchanting, yet painfully rare. The Bonnie and Clyde, yin to my yang, us against the world, let’s make a bunch of money, have mind-blowing sex, and not care what anyone thinks because we’re awesome kind of relationship is the ultimate aphrodisiac—At least for me. Somehow in the middle of this chaos we call dating though, we get 25% of the way there, then start over analyzing and freaking out.  I’m blaming dicks and VJs alike here. Case and point:

Boy and girl meet.
Boy and girl flirt.
Boy and girl laugh.
Boy and girl have a lot in common.
Boy and girl kiss.
Boy and girl text every day.
Boy and girl talk on the phone.
Boy and girl start hanging out.
Boy and girl have fun together.
Boy and girl have sex.
One of them wants to keep this going.
The other one freaks out in fear of getting tied down and pulls back.
The unexplained change triggers crazy.

Here’s the less dramatic version:

Boy and girl meet.
Boy and girl flirt.
Boy and girl laugh.
Boy and girl have a lot in common.
Boy and girl kiss.
Boy and girl go on dates.
Boy and girl have sex.
One of them declares a lack of interest in a relationship.
The other one stays around hoping time will bring them closer and change things.
Boy and girl end up in each other’s rotation for a while.
Boy and girl stay in the grey zone.
The half ass relationship blows up or fizzles out.

In any case, modern day dating has become less about finding love, and more about having control over “The Game”.  The person who avoids “one-itis” like the plague, and stays perpetually less interested will always have the upper hand. Who can blame us? We’ve experienced more heartbreaks than our parents ever did, we know marriage will likely end in divorce, and we don’t need to be in a relationship to have sex.

Don’t hate the player, hate the game. It’s the defense mechanism that keeps us protected—and lonely.

It seems like all those people who picked up a copy of Neil Strauss’s book, read the part about becoming a pick up artist, and didn’t get to the part where his obsession with the game surrounded him with a bunch of miserable manipulative people, and ultimately made him realize that the only way to win the game was to grow up and leave it.  He ended up in a relationship because love conquers all—even the pick up artist. Sadly, Neil and Lisa’s game based foundation wasn’t strong, and they broke up a couple years later.

Yes –the man who wrote the modern day dating manual, has been dating a string of borderline hookers since then.

Our generation is full of cowards. We’d rather hide behind a set of rules written by a few losers running a dead end social experiment, than give love a real shot and god forbid risk having to deal with a heartbreak later. We meet people we are attracted to, and we love spending time with them, but we don’t dare step on the other side of the fence together. We postpone the decision for as long as possible. We keep our walls up, our investment low, and euphemize the whole thing by calling it “staying loose”. Depending on how loose we can stay, we put all of our chances for love in either the friendzone, or the unfulfilling friend with benefit zone, thinking that the day we inevitably get bored with the game, and declare our readiness for a relationship, our soul mate will come riding on a white horse. Ironically, this perfectly timed relationship will probably end due to a lack of “maintaining a relationship” experience, making years of being careful nothing but a fool’s errand.

We can’t schedule love. Trying to control it in fear or missing out, or heartbreak, or trying to time it so it fits into a perfect life plan is a mistake. It will never be perfect, and we’ll never have a guarantee that it’ll be forever, but even if it only lasts a few months, it’ll be worth it because heartbreaks teach us who we are, and experiencing something more than what we’re used to makes us more complete. Because of this, we need to be brave, take risk, and give it every shot we can because there’s really nothing harder or more important to find in life than ❤.


This is why I love LA. With NBA playoffs, the Stanley Cup and concerts, the Staples Center has been a crazy busy place the last few weeks. It’s good to see the staff, dancers and announcers still managed to have some fun. Thanks for all your hard work guys!


As a passionate proponent of #girlpower without the butch haircut, I’m not really sure if Gloria Steinem saved us from our misery, or fucked us into a pool of sub-par men.

Allow me to explain: 40 years ago there was certain social pressure on men to establish a career in their 20s that would allow them to provide for a family regardless of whether or not their wife worked. They didn’t expect to split the bills 50/50, and if their woman was making more money than them, they would feel emasculated, and do everything they could to reclaim the throne.  Somehow today we’ve reached a point where women under 30 are better educated, more ambitious, and are making more money than their male counterparts, and men, instead of stepping up their game to keep their place in society, feel like a weight has been lifted off their shoulders. They’ve even resorted to calling any woman who doesn’t want to conform to this new world order a gold digger to deflect attention from their own incompetence.

It’s pathetic.

Of course there are always exceptions, but for the most part where producing and raising offspring used to be the women’s responsibility, and working was her choice; today, working has become the expectation, and having children is a choice between giving them to a disinvested nanny, or not having any.

While I admit it’s good to know that the fairer sex is more powerful now than ever, when you throw the sexual revolution and in-vitro into the mix, I can’t help but wonder if we’re headed toward the inevitable insignificance of men. If we have to work and give our kids to a nanny anyway, why do we need a man-child to take care of at home?

Fear not however lazy boys. Feel free to keep spending all your money getting wasted while your mom buys your clothes and pays your cellphone bill at 25, because at the end of the day some beta female will settle for you thanks to a little drug called Oxytocin. The female kryptonite, otherwise known as “The love hormone” is what’s responsible for our clingy behavior. It’s the reason why we get hung up on losers despite our friends’ better judgment, and why we want to be in relationships with them despite their inadequacies.

I’m not suggesting that all twenty something year old men are unambitious losers. In fact, the ones who have their shit together are working harder than any other generation to become the king of a kingdom because the economy is against them; However, our society is becoming dangerously more accepting of incompetent male behavior, and women are taking over more and more responsibility.

The pickin’s are getting slim.

The reality is instead of calling every girl who wants to be in a relationship crazy, the beta males need to make a choice: either step up their game and start reclaiming their rightful place as providers, or keep idolizing George Clooney until they’re 40 trying to lock down a 25-year-old without daddy issues.

Huffington Post: Income Gap Closing: Women On Pace To Outearn Men.

Just Call Me Hitch-ette

As part of my friendship duties, I often find myself giving my homies advice on relationships. It’s probably my tendency to use words like “homie” that makes the guys especially comfortable, but I have to say I kind of love being asked. In a weird way it actually helps me learn about myself, and how I should handle my own relationship problems. It’s true that things are easier said than done. Sometimes I wish I had someone like me to go to, because as good as I am at empowering my friends to make good decision and be happy in their love life, I can’t say I’m able to do the same thing for me. The hardest thing to do is to remain logical about a situation when you’re emotionally invested in it.

That being said, my “expertise” so to speak isn’t entirely absurd. Growing up I had a clear understanding that my parents needed to get a divorce at a very young age. Their relationship was based on a foundation of deceit, their values clashed, and the only reason they stayed together was because my mom didn’t want to lose custody in a country where women have no rights. By the time we moved to America when I was a teenager and they finally filed for divorce, I couldn’t be happier.

My mom’s second marriage however ended up being worse than the first. She met a clinically bipolar man with a prescription drug abuse problem who flip flopped between a really generous guy who took her on nice trips and bought her expensive gifts when they were dating, to a neurotic psycho who cried and accused her of wanting to take all his money after they got married. At this time I was living in Seattle and she was in California. She would call me everyday, a lot of times crying and unhappy, but she was too emotionally weak to leave him, so I moved down mainly because I needed to rescue her. My 20-year-old self rented a U-Haul, packed all her shit up and rented an apartment for us to move into, so she could get the divorce process started again.

Meanwhile, I had a year off from school because I had to gain residency in California, so I started looking for full time jobs that didn’t involve me serving food or selling clothes to people. One day I saw an ad for a job where I could control my own schedule with an expense account and pretty good pay, so I went in for an interview at a Beverly Hills based matchmaking agency that was basically designed to introduce “marketable men” to “eights and above”.  My job was to recruit the girls into the agency from bars, malls and porn conventions. Essentially I was being trained to be a madam.  As a part of my job I learned how to bring women’s guards down so I could pick them up, spent hours asking them about their past relationships, and discovered a whole lot about women’s wants, expectations, and how relationships go from paradise to hell.  At the same time, as much I wanted to help my mom meet someone, I knew the agency wasn’t the right place for her, so I created an online dating profile for her and she eventually met her current husband, who is amazing, on there.

By the time I was ready to start my last two years of college in San Diego, I had to turn down the Agency’s offer to be the director of their San Diego branch. Now I had a different problem. I needed to make the same amount of money working half as much, so I walked into the largest engagement ring store in San Diego, and after three interviews convinced them that based on my experience as a matchmaker and a teenager working at the mall, I was qualified to sell diamonds to prospective husbands. They bought it, so for the next couple years I spent hours every weekend with various guys and couples, pulling on their emotional strings, listening to them talk about their relationships, and making them believe that moment was the right time to apply for a high APR line of credit and max it out on an overpriced engagement ring for their one and only love.  Yes, I killed it there, and as glaringly obvious as it was that a lot of those relationships were going to end in divorce, I did it anyway and put myself though college working 2 days a week. Maybe the reason why I haven’t had a boyfriend since then is karma, but I did learn a heck of a lot about men’s wants, expectations, and the difference between healthy relationships and bad ones.

All this combined with two live-with boyfriends and almost six years of breaking hearts and getting my heart broken in the single world have given me a unique perspective on this crap… but only from the outside. I guess it is true—Those who can’t do teach.

Thank God for Unemployment

The Hollywood sign sits on top of Mount Lee, luminesce like a 50 foot bug zapper waiting for the young, smart and beautiful to flock towards it only to realize that unless you’ve been blessed by the fruits of nepotism and affluence, the only way to survive is to eat shit, kiss ass and live broke until you get the golden egg.  Either that or sleep your way to the top in a town where gossip is a form of currency, so it only works with married men who need to keep it a secret, and takes a black soul ironically present behind a lot of the fake tits and million dollar smiles. Yet, despite knowing these truths, the few who just work hard, play by the rules and keep their heads down will eventually get their chance to live a semi realistic version of the Hollywood life, and that’s what was driving me for the last three years.

Then my boss got fired and I got laid off 12 hours later.

When you work in a town where your ex is dating your nemesis, your best friend has made out with your crush and your future boyfriend is likely to be his ex’s ex, finding a new job isn’t the hardest thing in the world. In fact, if I just needed something to pay the bills I could go back to rolling calls and ordering egg white omelets tomorrow, but for the first time in 13 years, (yes I started working practically the day I was legally allowed to) severance and the state of California are paying my bills, and I have all the free time in the world to grab the proverbial bull by the horns and make my dreams come true. I better not fuck this up.