Check out my latest comedy column:
Check out my latest comedy column:
I don’t know where the awful phrase ‘How to Adult’ has come from, but I’ve forgot. No really, I used to be the multi-tasking Queen. I’m now the Queen of “Why didn’t you just check your calendar?” Because half of the time I forget to put crap in my calendar.
I failed so hard yesterday at being an adult that I just binged watched…
You guessed it. The characters are so amazing. I sit there as a writer and actor going: I want to be ‘Crazy Eyes’. Dammit. I’d love to write crazy eyes.
Currently, I am writing a new play. I got sick of the ‘God Complex’ most men in Hollywood Production roles carry around. Yes, I have a vagina. Yes, I am a writer. Yes, I’m probably better than you at script development–because I studied it at one of the top creative writing universities in England. Not because I have a vagina that causes you to throw your toys out your pram.
Reel it back in, please.
I’ve got to the point today where I’m freaking out about baking dessert for my boyfriend parents. Yep. I have a boyfriend. No, I’m not making him up. I suggested dinner with his parents, then suggested that because I’m from the south that I bake something for dessert.
I can cook. I cannot bake. Mostly because all of that fatty, fatty goodness we use in the U.S. is not sold in the U.K. I mean, I can’t even bake a blueberry pie by just buying already made pie crust and filling. You can’t even buy cake mix, really. It’s all dry and shitty. No Moist Betty Crocker up in the England.
Yeah, I know. Thanks, Obama.
I think part of the actual reason I’m failing at life is due to the fact that I am not living my life. I say that as in: I broke my back last summer. I just found out last month that it’s still broken. Before my injury I went to the gym five days a week. I kicked ass too. Yoga, spin, 45 minute runs, an ab workout from hell–I was hot.
Since then, I found that even a 10 minute ab workout, a 20 minute run, 10 minutes of yoga–they are torture. I’ve been working with a physio and hydrotherapist. Five minutes. I’m allowed to work out for five minutes a day.
Yeah. I know. I don’t have the rush of endorphins. The outlet for stress. I’ve gained a stone. I’m not motivated in the mornings. I quit ‘adulting’. And it’s depressing.
Being a creative with an injury sucks. Hell, being anyone with an injury sucks. My Physio has told me to forget about my old life. How? How do we as women overcome the things we have zero control of, and take our ‘selfs’ back? How do we fully ‘adult’?
Any way we can. Haha!
I can’t work for more than three, maybe four hours, at my desk without wanting to lie down. I can’t walk into town for more than an hour before wanting to lie down. My back hurts. And by hurt, my GP gave me NSAID pain relievers that relax the muscles so now I can feel that my L2 is still not fused together. And I refuse to take anything outside of that…hurt or not, I will not become dependent on pain pills to live my daily life.
So how do I ‘adult’ through it? How do we overcome those things that are above and beyond us? Like weight gain. And the people that judge us? Or douchebag doctors that mis-diagnose? Or people that are unnecessarily rude or aggressive toward us in a Walmart?
Did you guys see this? Who does that kind of crap in front of a kid? The sensationalization of ‘girl on girl bullying’ needs to stop. I barely made it out of high school thanks to the ‘Heathers’ that promoted this stuff back in the day. Learn to be adults, Ladies.
We have to concentrate on the positives around us. Focus on what is amazing–in the here and now. Not the past.
I have a new feature column coming out! It’s focused on all my misadventures in travel, fashion and beauty. Yeah, it’s like sex in all the cities! I will so be posting more often now. Sorry for the sabbatical (Erica!).
I’m in Europe for the summer. Kicking ass and taking names in some amazing places. I’m learning how to workout in a pool for five minutes a day. I’m writing. For me. I’ve just been picked up on a killer project that I will eventually tell you about. I love the secret society of writing sometimes.
And well, most importantly, I have an amazing boyfriend that tells me I’m beautiful every day. Because in the words of Amy Shumer: I’m probably like 160 pounds right now and I can catch a dick whenever I want.
xx Sassy Lil’ Biscuit
I have been a non-blogging machine lately. Sorry guys. What? I’ve been in Italy working on my next film. Woo! The sun was bright, the fruit was in full bloom, and the air was refreshing…
While I was on a very strict production schedule, scouting locations, wining & dining, and meeting people in the Italian film industry, I couldn’t help but think of what happened the night before I left England. The man who has ‘wrecked’ me in the last few blogs came back from France. We talked privately about what had happened between us. He simply admitted that I scared him, then he kissed me. Twice. He told me to have a brilliant time in Italy, and that he’d be there when I got back.
He didn’t speak to me the entire time I was gone. I went through massive feelings of anger and hate, and had to just work through it…I was in Italy for Jesus Christ and peanut butter’s sake! I was also so very prepared for a grand speech when I saw him again. What? I had some free time.
Two weeks later I was back in England, and when I saw him: he immediately said it was so good to see me, and so nice to have me home, and he commented on my tan, and my super blonde locks–Oh, God.
I just smiled and got on with shit. He had simply got over the fact that I was back in England for work and my love for the city of Bath had nothing to do with him, and maybe he really does want to be my friend or something…because he told me to stop by for a drink, that I could take his dog on play dates with my really good friend and her dog, and walked me to the door, letting me leave with “I’ll see you soon”.
Dude sat right in front of me and lied to my face. If you really know me, that is a big, fat ‘no-no’. I’ve tried to get in touch with him and what have I got–once again? Ignored. Straight ignored. Dude, if you don’t wanna be my friend ‘fuck off’. But don’t kiss me before I leave, and tell me it’s great to see me when I get home, and that you wanna hang out, and I can stop by whenever, because that was bullshit.
Shame on him. Shame on me, though, for letting him do it again. My life has been so simple amazing lately. He’s just one more piece that doesn’t fit in my brilliant puzzle. That is the hardest thing to admit, as a woman, to yourself. That you let someone be a part of your life longer than they should have, and each person has a breaking point. Mine was the other day.
When life knocks you down, calmly get back up, smile, and very politely say, “You hit like a bitch.”
I realized in my self-pity, that I had forgot to take care of ‘me’. I spent two weeks in Italy binge eating my feelings in the form of pasta, pastry, and fried everything.
Yep. Every damn day, and gaining more weight than I have ever weighed in my entire life. Why? I ate this every day.
Oh, yeah. That’s filled with nutella. A lot of nutella.
I was eating this every day for breakfast with at least two cups of cappuccino. I was turning into the Freshman Girl I left at WVU who was fat, who guys were really mean to, who self-loathed in weed, Cheetos, and beer. I didn’t get this far in life to regress. Plus, I’m a firm believer in:
But I’m currently on the verge of a coronary with all this shit I’m eating, and I don’t look like that girl up there in a bikini. I wouldn’t even put a bikini on right now. I know a thing or two about body shaming and fat calling. It’s not nice. But when did we make it okay to say, “Fuck beauty standards” in order to justify obesity?
Simply put: I’m not happy. I’m especially not happy with the guy I was dating. Most importantly I’d say, most often, we aren’t happy with others, because we aren’t happy with ourselves. True story. So, yesterday I changed all of that.
I started the military diet to jump start healthy eating and weight loss.
No more damn donuts! I’ve decided to keep a diary, take photos, and highlight my whole week in a super, sweet blog. I have to pee like a pregnant lady. But–I have lost weight! I feel so much better already. I’m prioritizing my life to be more creative on a daily basis. I’m also making time for people who want to be in my life.
Oh, yeah! For those of you that have read my book, you are gonna love this: I had coffee with Apollo yesterday…
As for all the negativity in my life, including my bad food habits and lack of exercise…
xx Sassy Lil’ Biscuit
It occurred to me today: I’m a pushover.
I let people slide. I give a lot of second chances. I used to think it was because I’m a nice person, but now I’m starting to think I let people walk all over me. My very close friends have pointed out the astronomical amount of shit I put up with, the crappy way people treat me, and it’s because I don’t put my foot down and say enough is enough.
That shit stops today.
My relationships on a personal level really fucking suck, because people think it’s okay to walk all over me. For instance, I totally went on holiday with this guy. We had the best time ever. I told him I’d like to keep things private for now, because I liked where we were and I wanted it to just be ours for a bit. He agreed, too.
I was so happy in that little bubble, that I even splurged and paid for cinema tickets…which were like 30 quid. In London. I know. Don’t go to the cinema in London. Yeah. That’s 45 fucking dollars in the current exchange rate.
I was literally living in an Uptown World. No really. Billy Joel was serenading me. I was also living in the moment. Something I think is way more important than sharing your happiness with the world. Which is normally the girl I am…
What? I get excited. When men are nice to me. It’s rare. It should happen more often, Men. Just a lil’ F.Y.I.
My friend Mandi has told me for ages that I should quit blogging about my happiness or shittiness with men. But, simply put–that’s not who I am. I built this blog around my novella. To help women understand that men really are just manipulative douchelords.
And no matter how much we think they will change, they just do it again.
He’s ignored me. Even to my face. Since said holiday.
Me: I thought things had changed. I mean, I spent $45 on cinema tickets.
Best Friend: He should love you just for that.
And you know what? He should. He should love me for the amazing woman I am. I hopped a flight to London in the middle of this massive career explosion, blocked a whole three days out, did everything he wanted to do in the city (even though I wanted 50 shades of awesome), and catered to his every whim–that included coffee and the morning paper, not so much hot sex.
When we parted ways once before, it was because he did not want a relationship. If I wanted relationshippy shit I would have said so…so there came the mixed signals. We should be fucking like rabbits. Not reading the damn paper like two, old married–
After 24 hours of being ignored I called him an arse. After another 24 hours, I said:
It hurts my feelings when you ignore me. I’m not asking you to hang the moon and the stars, but don’t be crappy. Please.
He’s still not speaking to me.
So, last night I thought: I’ll just send him a nice note to let him know I’m not mad “Hope you’re having a good week.” Nothing. He has now ignored me for a total of six days…and counting.
“Maybe he hasn’t seen the messages,” my BFF (and the only person who knows about us) claims. “He has a smart watch. That pings him every message he gets on every device and app.” *insert ominous “Oh.”
She then sincerely asked how I felt. She knew I was hurting. Who wouldn’t?
“He’s the first man to ever make an effort for me…so I don’t know how I feel.”
Quite frankly, women don’t let shit go. We try, ever so hard. We wear it on our faces. Then we steam in it for a bit. He’s left me marinating in it for days. At this point I’m confused. Part of me doesn’t even want to go to my friend’s birthday party this week, because he will no doubt be there: with his chiseled face, and his big blue eyes, and his sweet, insincere, shitty smile.
Cause I’m gonna look like a stalker…
And if he talks to me, I’m gonna be like…
He’s really over there thinking I wanna marry him, and I’m over here like: Can I get a Christian Grey?
Can I? Just once. I didn’t even break out the sexy lingerie I had, because he was being so boring. C’est la vie. I really don’t know what happened. He clearly has never dated a girl who has her shit together. The only thing I can chalk it up to is he’s retarded. And I don’t date retards.
xx Sassy Lil’ Biscuit
p.s. I think I’d like a Jack Colton more so than a Christian Grey. Perfect amount of bad boy & romance. “Cause when the going gets tough, the tough get goin’…” *cue sexy stuffs and dance it out
Yeah, you read that right. I know some people would argue period, but I would take a lifetime of surfing the crimson tidal wave over a damn diet. Why? They suck.
I told you guys when I started this blog I was going to be brutally honest, and dieting blows harder than a seventeen year old on Prom Night.
I have been eating disgustingly not-so-delicious food since Jan 1st. Yeah. It’s gross. I don’t care who you are, eating healthy sucks ass sometimes. There are delicious smoothies, and omlettes packed with veggies, but I added loads of clean protein to my diet. *82 grams a day to be exact, and…it tastes like cardboard for the most part. Why? Because I cut out lunch meat, high fat meats, processed stuff like sausage and pepperoni, and…bacon. I know. I’m bat-shit crazy.
My best friend is doing the same thing, but cutting carbs. She’s lost 7 pounds. She also “gags down her breakfast” every day. Like me, and most women, the thought of eating things that you aren’t used to or simply don’t like is nasty.
First thing’s first: Forgive yourself for not being a size two.
Second: Fit takes effort. Lots and lots of dirty, sweaty effort.
From the tasteless cardboard food, to getting physical at the gym full of hot people in lycra, to men and their crappy comments about ‘how you should diet’, I’m here to tell you dieting is absolutely awful. Getting fit takes commitment, and people are still going to be rude to you during this process, so don’t get discouraged. Even if, most days, you’d like to go back to your couch and live there forever, for ever ever.
There is temptation everywhere. It’s like your friends invite you to dinners and parties just to watch you fail.
As if that’s not bad enough, you got assholes posting stuff like this in your facebook feed:
Oh, and men. They’re the worst. Ya’ got guys like this calling you fat…
Stand by this Ladies, you can fix fat. There ain’t no way in hell you can fix ugly. Without a million dollars and a Hollywood plastic surgeon. Yo! Douchecanoes! Stop putting women down and encourage us to look like Tyra or Gisele, dammit.
No joke. Had a man that I went all through school with–who people think is just the most awesome guy ever. He’s not. He was helping me with weightloss last year. I was actually doing pretty good, too. He introduced me to some awesome people, including a very hot doctor friend. Hot Doctor Friend and I talked for a while. He finds out the Doctor and I have developed a bit of whatever. Then tells me Hot Doctor Friend said, and I quote:
She is the most awesome woman I have ever met…but she’s fat.
Who says that? Your arch nemesis. And assholes. Assholes say that. I went home and ate a whole pizza, and cried because it was delicious.
I mean, who are men to shame us? They don’t know why we are overweight, what got us there, and it’s obviously a struggle–cause we aren’t dumb. We know, in fact, that we could lose some pounds. The worst thing you can do is tell a girl who is trying to do that, that she is indeed fat.
Men should be praising us for our sexiness. We know we aren’t perfect. Give us a slight kick in the arse to get motivated. Don’t cripple our will to live.
Because when I do get that fight in me, the yearning to transform myself, the will power to go out and get my body back, you might not want to be the guy who called me fat.
Because not only will I possibly kick your ass…I’m gonna look hot doing it.
This blog is for every woman who has ever been put down by a man, made to feel less than awesome because they have a few extra pounds, my best friend who is struggling to gag down a shitty breakfast every morning to look okay in a bathing suit soon. For the girl who was bullied because she wasn’t a size two, the girl who has a female reproductive disease that keeps her from losing that last 20 pounds, the girl who eats her feelings, the woman who simply just can’t get motivated, and the one who works her ass off in the gym and still jiggles a little.
I encourage everyone reading this to start supporting one another. Check out campaigns like This Girl Can and go get your freak on…no seriously. Watch the video below. Just the best damn motivation I’ve seen in a loooooong time, Ladies.
I’m back in the gym with a bad-ass trainer on Monday. Hot Doctor, Douchecanoe School Friend and the guy who rejected me over a package full of 365 handwritten love letters will be kissing my lily white, hot ass in no time. 🙂
Now pardon me, while I go get my sassy lil’ freak on.
xx Sassy Lil’ Biscuit
You know that moment when you sorta start to get somewhere with your goals, your hopes, your dreams? I always thought that moment would be, like, amazing. I’ve dreamt of that ‘Tonight Show’ moment when you’re ‘in’, and joking around because the person interviewing you is genuinely interested in you and your career.
Yeah. That did not happen last week.
I booked what I thought was my first interview of sorts…I was listening in, getting ready to dial. The hosts were having a blast with the other comedians asking about their backgrounds, and jokes they write. I’m thinking, ‘Oh! This is so awesome!’ These people are from my hometown, and I’ve just got home from a stint in the UK. ‘So awesome!’
I was opening a gig for Grandma Lee and Jeff Zenisek. I was stoked. Pretty cool, huh? Yeah. I thought so…until, just as I was calling in, the hosts took a call from someone else. The drunk guy. I got stuck with the drunk caller. It was very painful.
You always try and handle the heckler with style and grace. I did not. Dropped the F-bomb on air, cause nothing else was gonna come outta my mouth. Yeah, wasn’t as graceful as I wanted to be or imagined myself being.
I wasn’t even sure at one point what I was even doing, why I was even on air. It was slightly embarrassing. Okay. It was totally embarrassing. I’m sure they thought it was going to be funny, but the guy that called in was shwasted. For those of you that don’t know, that means: drunk out his ever loving mind.
Right off the bat Schwasted Guy is like, ‘You don’t know me’. I literally just went weird. As I start talking he interrupts with, ‘What the fuck are you even talking about?’ The hosts even told him at one point, ‘we appreciate you calling in.’
Um…I don’t. Dude just starts slamming me while I’m talking. All I hear is “BOOOOOOOO” over everything I was saying. The hosts are laughing. Not me. Then! Shwasted Guy starts telling me I should be more excited about my own gig.
I got to the point where I was able to talk and here comes Shwasted Guy with, “I do things that still matter.” Right as I’m plugging my Clash of the Comics gig at the IMPROV in Kansas City.
There was a moment where he asked if he could give me advice. Of course, why say no? He comes out with, “Why are you calling in looking for advice on plugging yourself and shit?” Dude. I was calling in cause I thought these guys from my hometown were trying to help me promote myself as a comedian, and interview me for an upcoming gig.
I was wrong.
As if it wasn’t awkward enough. I wanted to be like: You don’t know me either. I’ve done stuff. I’ve done stuff!
I couldn’t even say what I had done professionally because the Shwasted Guy wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise on his little drunk dial spree. Finally, one of the hosts asks what all I have done, and I’m like–Uh…
I don’t know. Clearly nothing. I couldn’t even name the last venue I performed at in the UK. I shut down.
I finally let Shwasted Guy have it. Said he was in dire need of a blow job. He asked if I was gonna give it to him. I should have channeled my inner ‘Karen Walker’.
But not your penis. *insert cheeky grin.
I didn’t do that. I just sat there. Very awkward. Especially when he told me he wanted to give me advice. I’m not here to ask for advice, Drunko McDouchebag Pants. This is not how I thought this was gonna go.
I thought I was gonna be like: Yeah, I got into comedy when I started writing for Second City, Hollywood. Just finished up some sweet gigs at Komedia and Oxjam Festival in the UK. Am currently working on a feature film with a brilliant Italian director and producer in NY. Getting ready to hit Clash of the Comics in Kansas City at the IMPROV. I write a comedy blog, that was developed because of a novella I published on the comedy of dating, called Hope You Have An Amazing Birthday…and get raped by a Bear. Yeah, I titled my book that. So, Charleston is my home town and a lot of people have been asking when I would do a gig here at Comedy Zone–thanks to Sam and BT, we made it happen. Then the guy interviewing could be like ‘So, you wrote in the UK. What’s comedy like there?’ And so on…
Unfortunately, that did not happen. Drunko McDouchebag Pants turned me into a blubbering fucktard. Then he started telling me what to do. I just wanted to be like:
Only I can make fun of me, Buster. I kinda know what I’m doing. I should have just said: Google me, Mother Fucker.
But alas, I am not that cool in an interview.
Next time I shall channel Paul Rudd. Genius. He’s a genius on Conan.
I could be upset about the interview, but I’m not from North Korea. Might not have been what I expected, but it was awesome–either way. Cause I learned some stuff, and made some friends. Or so I thought. Dammit. They offered me a spot on this week’s show. The first spot, which is 30 minutes. They advertise said show yesterday: I’m not on the list of people on it. Some other comedian is…
I’m pretty convinced I’m the butt of some cruel joke, or people here just aren’t interested in me. I’m the everyman. I really have done some pretty cool shit. Just no one asked me about it. That, and when men move their lips here, I’m now convinced, they’re pretty much lying.
However! I am classy and sassy. So. I will heed the advice of the great comedian Taylor Negron, who was the ‘classic’ everyman, and wrote this beautiful sentiment just before his very untimely passing:
“I look at my alternative everyman predicament this way. By letting go of what you thought was going to happen in your life, you can enjoy what is actually happening.
That is what I do.
I’m That Guy.”
Upward and onward. I’m not giving up on that interview with Jimmy Fallon, though. Mark my words: I’ll sit in that chair across from him, one day, dammit.
xx Sassy Lil’ Biscuit