I looked at your ex-girlfriend’s Instagram today. She changed it from public to private. How am I supposed to see all the latest fashions her and her malnourished nouveau bohemian rocker friends are wearing or how her European dream vacation is going? I just don’t think I’ll be able to relax until I see another picture of her side profile smoking a cigarette on some Parisian balcony. Let’s take a look at yours. Let me scroll down a couple hundred pictures until I find some from when it was just you two versus the world and we were still pretending we were just friends. AAARRRGH! As I sit here stewing in my sweltering apartment trying to write, I find the availability to your past lives to be fiercely distracting. This got me thinking: With access to all we ever wanted to know (or didn’t for that matter) about anyone and anything, are we being overly saturated with unnecessary and perhaps–dare I say, detrimental information?

Let’s face it, we come from an excessively informed generation. My household has had the internet since Prodigy and I got my own computer when I was like eight or nine years old. Needless to say, it’s been difficult to delete myself from Google images. I’ve always questioned the idea that just because we can see it all, we should. I mean that’s what stopped me from watching 2 Girls 1 Cup, yet regrettably did not stop me from watching a series of cyst extraction videos on YouTube for like ten minutes one day. I love that I can Google search my ex boyfriend and have his mugshot come up with “BUSTED” written in bubble letters over it, but I don’t love that he can Google search me and find out my current address or see pictures of me 25 pounds ago on a giant trampoline with my baby niece from someone’s old MySpace account. Really, I’m torn.

The adventure and mystery of getting to know someone are quickly dissipating and I find myself becoming a bit more cautious when signing up for the latest social media bullshit or geo-tagging myself having a frozen yogurt on a hot Tuesday afternoon. I deleted my Facebook almost two years ago and I still think it was one of the better decisions I’ve made in my adult life. How did the internet turn us all into creeps? Don’t leave me hangin’ here, guys. I know I ain’t the only one wasting time lurking people I used to know, or worse, people I don’t even know! My iphone is the master of time-suckage and I think it needs to turn back into just a phone…and a GPS, and a camera…and a mobile Netflix. Fuck.

Think back in the day. Waaay back…(well for me it’s way back.) Remember the excitement you would feel when summer vacation came rolling around? Waiting year round for June to hit and school to let out? The idea of spending the summer fuckin’ around with the homies, perhaps a possible summer romance, cruising the streets, the parties, and sleeping in until noon was enough to get you through hours of homework, and waking up at the crack of dawn. The older I get the less enthused I seem to be about–well, just about anything. With summer knocking at my front door, I’m reminded of a more innocent time in my life and it has left me to question: With enough time and resources to do pretty much whatever I want, whenever I want, where has the lust for life gone?

“Your life is a summer vacation.” That’s a direct quote from my big brother. Perhaps therein lies the problem. Perhaps my ability to do anything has left me wanting to do nothing. The things I get pumped over these days: getting to go to bed before 1am, my budding vegetable garden, having finished laundry, idiom etymologies, thrift shop scores, and not running into someone I’ve had sex with at the bar on a Friday night. Priorities have changed. AND even the thrill of an ex free evening pales in comparison to just about any level of elation I once knew in my youth. I can’t be certain, but I think it was around 15 when I died inside. Having left school to work full time to pay my bills and living on my own really put out any sort of spark I once had in my eye. If responsibility is the death of effervescence why were we all in such a hurry to grow up?

This summer, let’s all take a moment to reflect on when times were easier shall we. When the biggest concerns we had were who’s kissing whom or should we go to the beach or the pool and not paying off student loans or shopping for health insurance. We need to get back to the carefree days when summer meant something more than just a few three day weekends before the holidays. I’ve dusted off my sun dresses and pulled out the sunscreen. I’m ready for road trips, river days, bar b ques, and a better attitude. Join me in regaining some of that adolescent exuberance and let’s live this summer.

I’ve only been locked up once, and luckily for the sanity of those around me, it didn’t last as long as I’d thought that it would. I spent my time day dreaming and planning out the new future I wanted for myself. Then one beautiful summer day it all came to a sudden halt and I was released into the world of the living again. I’ve always been a huge advocate of the classic ideal “bros before hoes” and looking back it seems very unlike me to get into such a oppressive position. However, as I look around year after year and notice more and more of my friends disappearing and becoming an “us” or a “we”; not to mention being a survivor myself, I wonder: Is love jail really worth losing ourselves over? Sub-question: Are we ever really free of our love now lost?

More recently I have been trying to transition my mindset from “single, let’s party!” to “single, where is he already???” I’ve never really experienced a huge desire for settling down, but I frequently look back on my time behind bars fondly…despite how disgracefully it may have ended. I don’t recall truly losing myself to coupledom per-say, but I DO recall my best friend telling me she had never seen me like that before, and we’ve been friends since I was a hideous teenager. Having to deal with my girls that just can’t go to ladies brunch without their significant others has got to be one of the more annoying things I’ve had to handle in my 20′s. I don’t mind being around your undying love, but just once in a while it would be nice to not have to take your boyfriend’s comfort level into consideration the next time I want to describe the cock that was in my mouth last night or how I hope I get my period soon.

Honestly, I’m not sure which is more arduous, losing the homies to love, losing them to heartbreak, or losing myself. Personally, I can only imagine how excruciating it must have been for my friends to have to hear about–ad nauseam, how dirty that sonofabitch did me and how sadly, not only was I still in love with him, but how I would have probably taken him back had the opportunity presented itself. The emotional and psychological anguish have long since passed, but what remains is the memory of that dreamy feeling I once had. I’m thankful to not be soured by this endeavor and hopefully have left it with firmer grasp on how I’ll handle the next earth shattering adoration that punches me in the heart.

As I sit here listening to a mix of my all time favorite love songs that I’ve been compiling for someone new (upon their request), I continue to be cautious not to lose my sense of self again, while still remembering to have fun and not be fearful of what I can’t possibly know yet. Having been on both ends of the spectrum, I suppose I’m rather conflicted as to which side is the best (or worst for that matter) side to be on. Alright everyone, let’s all work a little harder on not being that repugnant couple. And really, in the long run, we all lug some baggage through life; if we’re fortunate enough, we’ll still have friends by our side to help us carry the load.

The other night I somehow found myself wandering alone through the seedy underbelly of San Francisco’s Chinatown district trying to kill two hours. I happened upon a bar that I hadn’t thought of since the last time I was there over four years ago. I take a seat next to some handsome older gentleman in town on business from San Diego, when his even older and rather obnoxiously outspoken business partner walks in. I scoot down a seat so they can sit together when the outspoken one, who I can only describe as a shitfaced version of my father, turns to me and with all of the confidence of a man out of town who has had one too many shots of imported 94 proof Chinese whiskey, glares at me with sex eyes and spits out perhaps the best pick up line I had ever heard up to that point in my life. “So, is this where you come to cheat on your boyfriend?” As I choked a bit on my club soda, I couldn’t help but wonder: Why, despite having a pretty firm grasp on the psychology of absent fathers, and even more in depth, MY issues, was I actually considering going back to their Holiday Inn Express?

The older I get, the more I seem to be attracted to deviant situations rather than credible people. The differences between the men I want to date, should be dating, and actually are dating—are staggering. It occurred to me recently that the majority of women I’ve known in my life have had unhealthy relationships with their fathers. This can only make me question the evolution of attraction. Is an abnormal love affair the new norm? AND, if you’re aware that you’re just another statistic, wouldn’t that in some way allow you to change your journey? As I continue to meander through life, constantly second guessing my decisions, or rather being hyper aware of all of the bad ones that I continue to make, I can’t help but feel like I’m just perpetuating the stereotype.

I pounded a few more club sodas while exploring the perverse mind of a salacious grandfather and decided it was time for me to get to where I was going. As I walked to my car alone, I couldn’t help but recall a time in my childhood when my father brought home a 24 year old; he was in his 40′s. She had curly red hair and I can only assume a somewhat absent old man also. Is love possible between such different generations? Or are we all just trying to fill a leftover void? Perhaps that’s a question I should ask my 49 year old neighbor the next time he offers me candy and tries to give me a breast exam. In the mean time I guess I’ll just sit back in solace knowing that I’m not alone and hope that I never give birth to a daughter someday.

Growing up, I had always been considered to be “one of the guys”. All of my closest friends were boys with the occasional fair weather mean girl. I suppose that singing in bad punk and hardcore bands and having a shaved head didn’t really help that situation too much. Throughout the years I would ultimately grow tits, hips and long hair and watch the “just one of the guys” dynamic fly right out the door. Hormones changed the formula and eventually girls would get catty and guys would awkward. The older we get the fewer, and more significant our relationships seem to become. I realized recently, due to some unfortunate yet necessary circumstances, that for the first time in my life all of my best friends were women. All of this estrogen has got me thinking: How did I get on so long without my homegirls?

This may seem like a disgusting generalization, but I always found the girls I met to be very overly emotional, jealous and needy creatures. I couldn’t ever really connect with the ones that would breeze into my life—and not without trying, trust me. What I didn’t realize until the past few years is that there were intelligent, interesting, and beautiful women out there that not only would fill a void in my life that I wasn’t even aware existed, but would become my soul mates. I hear what you’re saying, “CC, why you gotta get all sentimental on us tho?” It could be the pain killers I just took, with the weed and Cadbury Mini Eggs chaser talking, but I can’t stress to you enough the importance of having same sex homies.

Face it ladies, we need to relate! Isolation is a bitch and knowing that there are other females out there going through the same shit as you is comfort that can exist! We need to stop doin’ each other so dirty. Girls hating on other girls is something I see way too often and it’s completely useless. We need to support one another, tell each other when those jeans don’t fit just quite right, when our men are being sneaky, or when we’re actin’ a fool. I’m not saying we’re always going to agree on everything, but when the sex goes bad, you need someone to gossip in the ladies room with, you need to borrow a dress, or just a shoulder to cry on; it’s always good to know you have someone who’s not only got your back, but has also been in your shoes.

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In the past two days, I’ve had two male friends, unprompted of course, say essentially the same thing to me: “She was really awful/bitchy/rude/dumb, BUT she was really attractive.” Two different, well educated, handsome men, two different continents, same ideals. Now, I’m not completely naive to the concept of dating someone simply because of their looks. I exist, I’m aware this has been going on since just about the beginning of time. I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought until last night when I realized that I too was currently guilty of that exact same thing! This admitted shallow revelation has got ya girl CC thinking: Why, despite years of knowing better do we put up with a heinous mind for a beautiful body?

Last night I found myself becoming increasingly more irritated trying to convince some guy that I’ve been talking to, of my sincerity and kind heart–hey, I never said humility. When I realized that my sudden desperation to prove myself to him was based 95% on how physically attractive I thought he was. He had little more to offer me than a pretty face (very pretty), and a 6’1″ toned, mocha skinned body. I couldn’t recall a time when I had ever felt the need to defend my character to someone that I didn’t really care about. I was once a big fan of having the occasional, what I liked to refer to as “buff and dumb” piece, but I had never encountered “buff and attitude” before. In the middle of trying to assure this creep that I was, despite being rather coquettish, a very genuine woman, I snapped out of it. What was I doing? I couldn’t be bothered with this kind of bullshit. I told him to fuck off, though perhaps a bit more eloquently, then proceeded to stew in my bed over his nerve until I fell asleep.

I’m not claiming to be Ciara or anything, but I’m in no way suffering for attention from beautiful men. However, the older I get, the more I’m starting to realize I need a bit more substance with my muscles. Nothing has ever been more attractive to me than a smart man and I need to stop settling. Physical beauty lacks longevity, and assuming we’re not all millionaire supermodels with our pick of the litter, perhaps we should start focusing a little less on a pretty picture and a little more on the big picture. If you’re planning on being in it for the long haul get some brains with your beauty…if not, I suggest finding the closest thing you can to your Tyson Beckford and riding them all the way home!

You know, my good friend Bobby McFerrin once told me “CC gurrl, don’t worry, be happy.” It didn’t seem like much more than fleeting hippie bullshit at the time, but the more I look around, the more I’m starting to think he was onto something. Perhaps we’re all just itching for this freezing ass winter to be over, but it seems like I’m surrounded by antsy complainers. I once saw a sticker that read “Cheer up, San Francisco” and it’s never seemed more on point than right now, (feel free to insert your own city). All of these pity parties have got me thinking: What in the hell is wrong, people?

There’s a homeless woman that lives outside of my house named Roxanne. Everyday she goes through the dumpster full of my discarded  leftover take out and used Kleenex looking for cans, then walks me to my car as she says to me “I got your back, girl.” At first I was a bit apprehensive to interact with her, as I have often seen her talking to herself and CC don’t respond well to cray. But one night she helped me try to put my bumper back on after some negligent asshole hit my car. Roxanne’s attitude toward helping me was a lot better than mine was toward helping her and I think it taught me something. Deep down, we’re all people, we all have a struggle, and I think we all need help once in awhile.

Look, I understand that times are hard, unless you’re Rick Ross or something, they’re probably always going to be. Surely even Ricky Rozay has his moments though. Let’s all stop for a moment and take a deep breath. Feeling any better? No? Okay, well CC is here to tell y’all that really, shit ain’t that bad. What does one need in life? Being a Buddhist for many years, I learned that to want is to suffer and that life is pain and heaven is a place on Earth blah, blah, blah…even Belinda Carlisle can tell you that. Acceptance and accountability need to be your two new best friends. I think what we all need in life is a little solid human connection. I’m not talking about booty, though a little of that would be nice too.

All you haters out there, quit hatin’. A friendly gesture never hurt anyone. When you’re sitting in your car or on the train thinking about work and bills and whatever else is fucking up your shit today, just remember, those problems are probably always going to be there. Let them go for a few hours. Don’t let the world weigh you down and take time to help someone else once in awhile. There are SO many people that are worse off than you. Hippie bullshit or not, appreciate what you have and spread some damn kindness. Peace.

The other morning I received a 9 am wake up call from one of my best homegirls. It was a picture of some hunky, buff black dude and a link to said hunky, buff black dude’s art blog. I asked simply “?” to which she then explained “He’s for you!” I followed that with the typical snarky, early morning CC retort to which she then replied “You gotta be proactive ;)” Wink face. 9 am. As I lie in bed praying for another hour of sleep, I couldn’t help but replay what had just happened in my head. All of this has got me thinking: In this modern age, where all we have to do is click on a button and POOF there’s our dream lover, are people becoming more and more expendable?

As much as I would like to deny it, a part of me going out on the weekends, aside from having social beverages with the homies (of course), is that tiny hope that maybe, just maybe I’ll meet someone new and interesting. The art of internet dating, though seemingly incredibly convenient, is a taste that I find rather unpalatable. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking down on internet dating. If that’s your shit, by all means get it, booboo; it just ain’t for me. Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like to immediately read a list of all the things that bother me about you. I think that online dating has taken away a lot of the mystery that I love about meeting strangers. Not to mention, make it that much easier to dismiss someone without even saying hello.

I don’t really have trouble meeting men, but I find myself reactivating my OkCupid account every few months just to see all the new prospects. I’m quickly reminded of what a freak show that place is and promptly make my exit. Is just going out to bars on the weekends not enough to meet someone these days? Isn’t online dating just one big 24 hour bar? The desperation my friends seem to have for me to settle down is well, frankly unsettling, but I suppose we’re all at that age. As much as I enjoy having babes ushered over to me, it’s starting to get a bit annoying.

This brings me back to what LG said about the whole being “proactive” thing. I’m 28, single, and I live alone. I generally love my life, but from time to time wouldn’t mind the idea of a guy leaving some clothes at my place. I suppose I’m as proactive as I’m prepared to be for right now. I just hope that by the time I’m ready to, dare I say, play house, all the good enough ones wont be long gone. So are people more expendable these days due to convenience? Perhaps so, perhaps no, but I think I’m gonna give it a few dates before I’m onto the next one.

This past Wednesday night I found myself in the passenger seat of some playboy’s Kompressor going 100 and being straight terrified. He was somehow driving, smoking a blunt, and sippin’ on that lean; while simultaneously singing along to Gucci Mane and telling me I was pretty. Now I know what you’re thinking “CC, you in danger, girl.” I was thinking the same thing. He was fancy, had a nice watch and he bought my dinner; this for some reason meant he could take my life into his hands. All of this has lead me to wonder: How is it that at 28, I’m still getting myself into such precarious liaisons?

For what seems like the later part of my twenties, I’ve gone against my better judgement. Things that once seemed like a big deal have lessened in intensity, and the phrase “Let’s get into some shit tonight” seems to flow a lot more freely from my mouth these days. I was an incredibly cautious teenager and perhaps I’m starting to make up for that now that my actions can have real consequences. I’ve been treading a thin line between being cool and acting like everything’s cool and I think it all comes down to just simply wanting to fit in with people I consider my peers. I guess wanting to be a part of something never really changes.

I can chill, just not weaving through traffic at 100 mph with a less than coherent guy that’s trying to get in my panties. I eventually told him to quit driving like a dick with me in the car and with hesitation, he slowed down. No one is going to speak up on your behalf. Your momma ain’t in the back seat to pull your ass out of a sticky situation. As much as I wanted to sit there and act like driving like an asshole is all good, I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Two days later he called me to tell me he got arrested on the way home, clocked at 93 mph.

I realize that following my intuition was the only smart thing I had done that night and that sometimes it’s hip to be a square. I can’t say that I won’t get into some more dumb shit, but the next time I act a fool, it’s gonna be with my feet firmly planted on the ground. Bottom line, if you’re uncomfortable, do something about it. You don’t want to be in the car when the cops are poppin’ that trunk.

I’d say I wake up about 3 to 5 nights a week to a 3am text that reads something along the lines of “Hey ma. What’s good?” I’m not sure if this is something that occurs organically to most single twenty-somethings, or if I just have “booty call” written across my tits, but it’s starting to make me reassess my carnal entanglements. I’ll admit, I may, from time to time, fuck with some pretty morally questionable men, but I wonder: Am I the one to blame for my constant rude awakenings?

I’m not put off by the notion that a guy just wants to beat, for the most part, that’s all I want. It just seems as though the effort brought forth in attaining such a conquest leaves something to be desired. The older we get, the more defined our wants seem to get, and at the same time our patience in trying to get them dwindles. Is romance dead past 1am? I’m all for an H-Town moment, but shoot. At the very least, start texting me at 10. A girl needs to feel like you’re putting in some work.

I’ve recently decided to momentarily stop answering calls for random late night hook ups in hopes of maybe feeling like I have some control over my sex life AND in hopes that it will push me to get out there and meet some new people. I’ve gotten too comfortable with this constant flood of recycled men and I’m taking a stand dammit! What once was flattering has quickly sullied to insulting, I just hope I still feel this strongly about it if and when they stop calling.

I guess I realize that I am 100% to blame for the late night phone vibrations. I can’t pass the buck on my laissez faire sexual prowess. So gentlemen how about this, I’ll do my part and try to be a bit more selective about who I’m giving skins to and please, please don’t be calling my phone at 3am talkin’ all that “baby, baby, baby…” nonsense. I’ll be much more inclined to hit it when I’m awake.