I cringe just thinking about it. Its that rando who spilled his beer on you at a house party then talked to you drunkenly for 10 minutes about his take on the upcoming NHL season. The quiet girl who was in your group for a psychology project two years ago. The barista at the coffee shop in the student union who doesn’t even wait for you to say you want a small cold press with a shot of coconut anymore before he punches in your order. The Spanish TA you worked with once a week freshman year. Your dad’s college friend’s  son who you added on Facebook so your dad could keep up on his baseball season. LITERALLY WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?! What qualifies as a close enough relationship where you are required to acknowledge these people in public outside of the usual context of your meeting? There should be some sort of guidebook for this stuff.

According to recent and extremely accurate, statistical studies, this is a rising epidemic. Now that I’m a senior in college it happens to me multiple times a day and I still haven’t found a consistent way to deal with it. I either feel like a fool for thinking we could ever be friends outside of our normal routine or interaction like we are star-crossed lovers and our life is an indie movie. OR I feel like an asshole for pointedly ignoring a person who is really nice and fine but apparently I don’t have the time of day for them if they aren’t typing up our group paper or pouring me a coffee for minimum wage.

The worst is when so much time has passed since you ‘knew’ them or they look completely different when not in their natural habitat that you inadvertently ignore them. Just yesterday I realized that the girl who sits next to me in my seminar labor economics class and asks me questions about my life all the time like, “how’s volleyball going?” or “how are you today?” and makes little jokes to me during class like we had previously shared the same sense of humor – I DO IN FACT KNOW HER. We went on a school trip together last spring break and she was in my small group. And since I didn’t really know anyone on the trip she was probably my best friend for those four days. And now I don’t know how to interact with her when I have to sit next to her in class tomorrow, all the while recounting how weird I have been to her and basically how I forgot she existed ever in the story of my life. So I guess I will just nervously laugh too hard at her jokes, now that I know why she is saying them to me, in an attempt to stop myself from saying…

This is awkward.




We have all read them but only some of us are obliviously brave enough to post them. They are paragraphs too long, contain a few too many tidbits of personal information, and somehow seem vain and self-denigrating at the same time. I have always been on the receiving end of these posts, though. I find myself sucked in, lost in between the lines of a middle school acquaintance’s rant about a mean co-worker or a neighbor’s highly biased evaluation of American politics. We should all be taking advantage because there is an extremely large wealth of half-educated opinions out there people! And you can read them for FREE on other peoples internet profiles! Scrolling through your Facebook wall has become like walking through a hallway with people popping out of doors a holding their open diary in your face and then forcing you to read it. What a time to be alive ladies and gents. But as usual, I am getting off subject. I have wanted to try being on the writing end of the experience for once, just to see how the other side lives.

Here are a few previews:

Getting Food Safety Certified:

Hi family and friends! Today, August 8th, 2016, I reached a milestone that I am still having trouble comprehending. I can finally say after a week’s notice, countless seconds of studying in my car beforehand, trouble finding the manager on duty, and a near mental breakdown, that I AM FOOD SAFETY CERTIFIED! My certification will last one year and I am already looking forward to the renewal process. I have so many people to thank who helped me get here – this was not a certification that could be achieved alone. First of all, I want to thank my parents who told me, “Oh okay” when I told them of my dream to become food safety certified. That kind of support is rare. Mom and Dad, I love you so much! Secondly I want thank Anton – the Costco manager who administered my test. Your kind words of encouragement gave me strength as I took the five minute, multiple choice quiz of a lifetime. I will never forget the moment you printed out the certificate from the office printer and handed it to me – the paper still warm, I could feel the glow of the accomplishment. If anyone else out there is wondering if you can accomplish your dreams, know that you can! I am living proof that you can do anything you set you mind to, no matter the obstacles! Looking forward to celebrating tonight with my girls at Applebee’s for half-price apps 😛

Starting Acne Treatment:

After a serious visit to the dermatologist today, I have some sad news to share. I have been diagnosed with acne. The news was overwhelming and I didn’t know how to process it at first. What I thought was a routine check up, turned into a half an hour appointment that changed my life. I know several others who have been diagnosed with acne, so I am happy to say I have a solid support system to lean on. The other good news is that acne is curable although the treatment will change my morning and evening routines. I start an antibiotic immediately which will be followed by face cream in increasing doses as my body acclimates to the harsh medicine. This is a scary time but I’m a survivor! If anyone has any tips or kind words to share I would love to hear from you.

I keep thinking about what the responses would be like if I were to actually post one of these things…Do the people who write these kinds of posts regularly even ever think about that? And if so, how does the post make it through that mental checkpoint? Do they just think, “I’m going to post extremely personal information on my Facebook today. I bet my great aunt’s cousin and my middle school bully have a lot of helpful advice for me as I navigate this personal problem!” Even if the person posting doesn’t recognize it, everyone else is thinking…

This is awkward.



You were waiting for this. You knew it was coming. The story within a story that adds a new dimension of toe curling to an already cringe-worthy tale. Catching all you laggards up – I got the NYE round 2 boy’s phone number. That is not the exciting part. It is what I did with the phone number that is really the kicker. I could have tucked it away in the address book in my phone, to sit there and collect dust next to the numbers of my high school softball coach and that one kid (who was probably a perverted middle-aged man) I met on Omegle in eighth grade. I could have sent him a polite text message with my name so he could have my number as well. But no. That would have shown an unbelievable amount of self-restraint! That is NOT how this gal operates. I have a primal instinct to take everything too far. I crank that shit up a notch, or a hundred – just to keep my dignity teetering on the edge. Some called me a rebel, a trail blazer, a ruthless dare devil. But I can’t go by those names anymore – I’m ‘that girl’ now. Take this as a cautionary tale kiddos. Sometimes your crazy ways can take you too far down the unbeaten path and when you finally find your way back out of the woods you realize you forgot how to function like a normal human being and you do dumb things. Like send really awkward text messages to boys you just met.

Somewhere between when our Uber driver dropped us at my friend’s apartment and when Leslie made me drop a perfectly good pizza roll out of my mouth, I decided to text Edward and just let him know what I was feeling. I will just let my blacked out emotions speak for themself:

“Hey Edward, this is Moron*. (smiley blushing emoji) Had a really fun time with you tonight! Hope you have a good rest of your break! I wouldn’t mind seeing you again (winking emoji)” Sent 2:26 am

(*Name changed to preserve any shred of dignity I still retain)

Hmmf. Gah. Let’s alllllllll just take a deep breath. There, better? Now, this is not by any means the worst text anyone has ever sent someone BUT to this day, every time I read it I make a crying Kim Kardashian face and fight the urge to slap myself. Real talk though, I am surprised by how spot-on my grammar and punctuation were – not a single typo! It has a well placed comma, plus, I even used the correct version of ‘your’! But back to the shame – I think the part that twists the knife for me is the last line – with the nail in the coffin being the suggestive emoji. And just for thoroughness’ sake can we acknowledge that I sent this in the first few wee hours of 2016? Those hours that are very hazy for me in hindsight. So I think we can all agree that it was embarrassing, not the MOST embarrassing, but I should at least wear a bag over my head for another few NYE’s before I move on with things.

In case you were wondering, I never heard back from our boy Edward but I think I have come to terms with that – even though that was a big contributer to my regret of this fun little one-way exchange we had going. I am sure he woke up on that first cloudy, hungover morning of the new year, read that text while pounding a glass of water and popping an Advil, and as he promptly deleted my heartfelt message, thought to himself…

This is awkward.



Being ‘that girl’ comes in assorted flavors just like skittles and toothpastes but regardless of if you are grape or minty fresh you know that feeling. It’s a cross between wanting to bang your head against a wall until you forget how you behaved and cocooning yourself in a comforter and laying there with your eyes wide open trying to “clear your thoughts”. One minute you are ‘me’ and then suddenly, without warning, you are ‘that girl who kisses boys on New Year’s after midnight drunkenly in front of people and then runs away’. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?!?!? What can I say, old habits die hard. When the inhibitions take a ride down the lazy river filled with Captain Morgan and warm Pepsi (Warning: product placement – I should be getting paid for this lovely free advertising) some wild things can happen.

Let’s take a closer look at the historic and surprisingly adept evolution of an average looking Econ major withamanagementemphasisandaconcentrationinmediastudies to ‘that girl’. It all started at a high school reunion NYE party my freshman year of college in my best friend’s basement. Things were wild – everyone was drinking shitty alcohol out of plastic water bottles with the wrappers conspicuously removed, I was wearing a casual blazer, everyone was having an unspoken contest about who ‘loved where they were at’ more and who most ‘found their place in college’. Long story short, I drank an entire bottle of white wine, which I mixed with Sprite because eighteen year olds have low tolerance for old grapes and I still hadn’t figured out the whole ‘underage drinking’ code of ethics yet. I was chatting up my high school prom date. We had gone together both years mostly, I thought, because we were the only single ones in our friend groups and we enjoyed the same sense of humor. My high school friends were serial daters – which is like serial killers but worse. Being single was a hobby for me, it made me different and distinguished and I was so terribly afraid of the unknown that I pushed every single suitor that lined up at my door away. This hobby of mine kept me from thinking of Prom Date as anything more than a friend, although the nostalgic side of me always wondered if something should have sparked between us. I did learn a very valuable math equation from all of this though: Booze + Sentimental Feelings = Embarrassment. I would say this equation is about as fundamental as the concept of gravity.

So it’s about an hour after midnight in the basement and I’m chatting with Prom Date. He is really putting on the charm – lots of playful nudging and drowsy eye contact. And I think to myself, “You know, right now I think I am going to stand up in the middle of this basement filled with my high school classmates and start making out with Prom Date. Just right here, where all our treasured friends can see and take photos that will haunt me until the day I die.” It sounded foolproof. But about twenty seconds into this long awaited passionate demonstration of ‘this should have happened at some point so why not now?’ I realized what was going on. Not sure what shook me out of it. Maybe it was the sobering effects of my best friends yelling, “HAHA GET IT” or maybe it was the flash of a thousand cameras. All I know is that I said, “Sorry, I don’t think I can do this,” and then I ran upstairs and poured my heart out to my friend’s mom while she made me tea and spoon fed me brownies.

Now if I had been a one-time offender I would have never become ‘that girl’. But like I say, if at first you don’t succeed, keep doing it until you have to live under a rock and are put on house arrest every December 31st. For two years, I kept my record clean and got by with only being known as Me: A Person Who Made a Strange Drunk Decision and is Sporty. That all changed the night I rendezvoused with Morgan, Captain Morgan. And also Ball, Fireball. And their festive friend, Champagne. She just goes by Champagne. I’m a college junior now and feeling two years younger than 22, so I know my way around a shot pong and keg cartwheel, okay? Either way, I forgot how to say enough is enough that final night of 2015. I arrived at a small gathering, smashed, but still coherent and classy of course. It was a mix of the serial daters from the good old days and sullen college bros who were “just lookin to chill and drink beer with the guys”. As the night progressed, I was drawn to one particular gentleman, Edward, who shared his beer with me and went to elementary school with my cousins. He also “wants to get into commercial real estate” and knows how to deal black jack. Sooo yeah, he was a catch and everything I had ever looked for in a husband and our souls are connected by the stars or something. I was conveniently/inconveniently in the bathroom when the clock struck midnight but no worries! The stroke of midnight was just my queue that now it was time to embarrass myself in new, live color just in time for the New Year! After successfully (how is success really measured?) getting my flirt on with Ed for a while, it was time to leave. But not before I kissed him in the hallway at the suggestion of my good pal, Leslie, who then proceeded to watch/photograph the event for posterity. I smoothly asked for his number (got it – but that’s a story for another time) and then held his hand as I slowly took two steps towards the door then let go and barreled through it, into the arms (car) of our Uber driver. Then I ate wings, pizza rolls, and pizza, IN THAT ORDER, to try to make sense of it all! That was when Leslie casually suggested, “Hey, this is kind of your thing now.” My mouth dropped open, and a pizza roll fell out. “Yeah,” she continued, “you are that girl who kisses boys on New Year’s, after midnight, drunkenly in front of people and then runs away’!” The last thought in my head before I went unconscious from banging it against the wall was…

This is awkward.



I will be the first to admit that when I have a crush on a guy, I go a little crazy. But in a controlled way, you know? Like I don’t kiss photos of him or collect his used tissues (those girls are out there though) but I would say I get uh, personally invested. Once I have a crush I begin to go through this routine of awkwardness, as follows.

Step one, the internal panic. Every time the aforementioned boy is seen around campus, mentioned in passing, or literally anytime something that somewhat relates to him is brought up in conversation, my body begins to panic. And when I say panic, I mean PANIC. Not like the cutesy, heart flutter, gently blush, soft giggle thing that sweet girls do. My hands begin dripping beads of sweat, my ears start ringing, my breathing becomes so shallow that I sound like a hibernating bear, and my face contorts into a half-squint-half-smile that makes me look constipated (although at the time I usually think I’m doing a sexy smolder or something). I have learned to control these spasms but only with time and practice. In the early days, these symptoms could be triggered quite easily. Like if someone mentioned peanut butter and I remembered that I had seen said crush peanut buttering his toast two months ago, it was instant panic. They really should have an epi pen for this sort of thing.

Step two, the interactive phase. This is where it gets hairy – and that is not figurative. One key part of the interactive phase is making sure your hair looks okay, not good, just okay. Since I am blessed with being perpetually charged with static electricity and hair volume that looks like I glued limp spaghetti noodles to my head, okay is as good as it gets. Once the most okay hairstyle is on lock, I move to planning my conversation with them. Since by now I extensively know the when and where that I usually see them, I coordinate options and plan for responses. My world renowned go-to for any conversation with a person of interest is so simple and sporadically effective that I am amazed I was the first to discover it. Two letters, one word, game changer. “Hi!” Whoa, whoa please no need for the standing ovation! Oh my gosh, there is really no need to parade me down main street on your shoulders but, if you insist! Seriously though, it’s a go-to.  I, of course, accompany this simple syllable with my signature wave – which is done by keeping my elbow glued to my side while my hand moves like a stuck window wiper and does the finger flap thing that people usually do when they play with babies. And in the winter, mittens really add a new layer of raw appeal and mystery to the whole encounter.

Once I have established a solid base of obligation (i.e. I say hello so many times that they feel a confusing guilt if they don’t say hello back), I move on to step three, which I will call attack mode. Attack may be too strong of a word. It is more like aggressive suggestion mode. Let me elaborate. So now that I am definitely on the guy’s radar – for better or worse – I use really confusing tactics to suggest how awesome and alluring I am. For example, say there is a dance. I arrive at the dance dressed to the nines (hair looks okay, clothes are acceptable, sensible footwear, a little too much bronzer, tinted chap stick, minor pit stains). I dance with my friends all the while keeping a single eye constantly scanning the entries and the crowd. I work standing on my tip toes into my dance moves to make sure I am not missing any square inch of the place. Once spotted, I mouth the words “target acquired” to myself (in my head I sound like a robot). Then I suggest to my friends that there is more room, cuter guys, insert white lie here, over in that direction. We push through the crowd until finally we are near enough to him for me to make my move.

What is my move, you ask? Well, well, well….It is highly sophisticated and yet very straightforward. You simply dance near him. Look sexy. Do your thing. Glance at him from time to time. Look like you are having so much fun, but could still have more, you know? Suggest with every booty shake that you are a catch! Just dance like nobody’s watching! Because actually nobody is watching. When you turn around to take another sultry glance in his direction you realize he walked away. And while you question if you should put a little more feeling into your shoulder shimmy, you look nervously around the room and concede that while good intentioned

This is awkward.

Running into that one guy from that one time…


There is always (sometimes) those guys (more like one or two) who you met at that party or dance on that night when you had a little too much ‘juice’ and things, you know ‘things’, happened. You of course may have left things awkward, or not if you have those magical social skills, that I do not possess, that allow you to navigate every encounter of the male kind with grace and mystery.

So of course, because I am so blessed, I usually re-encounter these ‘fellas of the night’ at some point just all too soon after the night in question. And if I am being frank, this is when my true colors shine. And my true colors are not pretty. They are probably like chartreuse and burnt orange complemented by a light avocado. Colors even your grandma has trouble loving. Anyways, I digress.

Let me just share one of my amazing reconnection stories. Let me preface this with the fact that I first saw this boy at CHURCH. And now I have to see him every time I go to CHURCH. CHURCH. Truly a relationship blessed by Jesus himself.

My first of many meetings with Church Boy all transpired at the mailboxes. I had just come down the stairs from eating my lunch in the caf. I took a sharp left but while I was turning, thought I saw some familiar facial features in my peripheral vision. I looked back, made direct eye contact with him for a solid three steps, and quickly turned back around like I literally had not seen him. His eyes had been so eager and kind, so naturally I was terrified. I avoided him as I speedily peeked in my empty PO. Then scampered away to wallow in shame while he had his back turned. Grace and mystery: Check?

I told myself that the next time I saw him I HAD to at least try to say something, even if it was just some sort of wheezing noise while I smiled and waved (my signature move that usually ended in the guy ‘not seeing’ me anyways). The fateful day arrived and it all stemmed from my apparent need to have a piece of toast. I was at the cafeteria toaster putting in my english muffin on its conveyor belt when my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t turn my head but I stiffly looked out of the corner of my eye. Great. There he was. Looking all well-dressed and concentrated on making his panini in the press an arm’s length away from me.

My inner dialogue was very aggressive at this point, “OH MY GOSH HE IS LITERALLY RIGHT THERE! Okay, okay be cool. Wait for him to notice you and say hi. Just look relaxed and open to conversation. I’m just standing here watching my bread in a toaster though! ROM COMS DID NOT PROPERLY PREPARE ME FOR THIS MOMENT. There is not one ‘waiting near a toaster’ scene in any movie I have watched. It is a romantic setting. You know with the warmth radiating off the machine and all. Is it not? Oh my goodness, focus! Just look at him and smile and then say hi. It is simple!” So I turned my head, as flirtily/seductively as possible, in his direction and gave a beautiful (creepy) smile. But he didn’t look up. He was just oblivious. I coughed a little. Nothing. I had been so ready to say something and I had already half committed with my creepy smile so I just blurted, “Oh hi Church Boy! How’s it going?”

Heh heh, yes. I had really done it! I spoke actual kinda normal words to him. I was ready to just take my toast and run. I was not expecting a response or the follow-up questions that ensued. Queue about three more minutes of small talk about sports that included more than one instance when we talked over each other without acknowledging it. What can I say? I got game like Lebron James…I think I may have said this to him in that conversation. So no, I wouldn’t say it was a flawless interaction.

After that I saw him at a basketball game and a hockey game. Both times we ended up, somehow, sitting or standing next to each other. It mostly made me feel self conscious about what to do with my hands and the proper facial expressions to make. I decided on clasped awkwardly near my belly button and “serene”. I don’t think I will need to see a replay to know how those choices looked.

This whole experience with Church Boy has only reinforced that the lasting impression I am known to leave on the various gentlemen I may encounter is the nagging feeling of

This is awkward.

Adventures in Collection Calling…


Now, I am aware that a majority of the population will never get to experience being on the “right” end of a collection call, so here is my attempt to properly illustrate its wonders.

What is this mystical thing I’m speaking of? – Some of you lucky, naive souls may ask, Well…

Collection calling (Kol lek shun kawl eng): Rooted in ancient German (a harsh, angry language), it comes from the word ‘kollektion’ which means to repeatedly call someone who does not wish to speak with you until you get hung up on, or to be verbally assaulted by strangers over the telephone.

What are you complaining about there missy? – Those same lucky, naive readers question. Well not to give you a fright or anything (you may want to sit down for this), but collection calling is AWFUL. **collective gasp, old woman faints face first on the floor, volcano in the distance erupts, buildings crumble to the ground, the sun explodes**

Since I could literally write two novels and an instructional handbook on the topic** and I would like to keep those lucrative opportunities open, I will just give you a little look into my favorite phone pals:

**Look for my book, “Give Me the Money…If You Want To?: A Timid Girl’s Guide to Collection Calling” in 2099!!

“The heavy breather”: This one is my personal favorite because they make you deeply uncomfortable without even knowing it. I always picture these guys wearing a Darth Vader mask while also being hooked up to an iron lung. Sometimes I swear I can feel them panting on my ear like a dog. It’s the dual sensory phone call experience that you never dreamed of…but now you do…in the form of nightmares.

“The grouchy old man”: Probably the most terrifying variety because its like having someone else’s angry grandfather give you a slap on the wrist for asking him kindly if he wanted gravy with his mashed potatoes. Its confusing and you feel like you are disobeying the will of God or something like that. Needless to say these were the encounters that simultaneously made me want to curl into the fetal position under my desk and whimper-cry until the day was over and also kick box a punching bag until my limbs fell off. (DISCLAIMER: I don’t actually really know how to kick box but it sounds aggressive and feisty).

“The condescending young woman”: These twenty-something sarcasm machines really grind my gears. Every word out of their mouth drips with more fake sugar than Splenda icing. And the routine passive-aggressive tone seemed to say, “I am a flawless millionairess and you are a young peasant with no formal education who wears brown clothes and eats ants for breakfast, so don’t try to tell me what to do”. And yes, I got that all from how they said ‘one moment please’.

Most days were spent squeezing my eyes shut as the phone rang in the hope that it would click over to voice mail, and then when it did – accidentally trying to say hello and talk to the recording, and moving my shoulders and tapping my pen to jazzy ‘hold’ music as unimpressed co-workers walked by. I would freeze up, curse under my breath, and hope that I wasn’t awkward, but maybe just…

This is awkward.

Going for a jog…


I am a true believer in exercise. I’m a college volleyball player and was very active in sports in high school so I know the importance of getting that heart rate up and those pits sweatin’.

BUT why is going for jog so fraught with such cringing encounters? Why does exercise have to contain forced social interaction? I just want to be alone while I shuffle-run and bump my Andy Grammer Pandora station…is that too much to ask?


It started when I was stretching at the bottom of my driveway. There I was, a vision of youth and health (with a raggedy old t-shirt on and greasy hair pulled back into a fashionable ponytail) as I moved around like an uncomfortable six-year old boy standing next to his mom in the grocery store check-out line. Pulling on my arms and legs and making a face of disgust mixed with confusion (my resting face).

A red car pulled up the three-way stop a few houses down and paused at the empty intersection for an excessive amount of time before hanging a ridiculously slow Larry. The young fella in the passenger seat must have caught a whiff of my signature scent, Proactiv and Ranch (patent pending), because he half waved at me…but he also may have been trying to fan the smell away from his face…it is unclear to me now what really happened but it was not the start I envisioned.

Then came the concept of passing people on the sidewalk. When you are facing the person you are going to pass on the sidewalk it is all about consistent avoiding of eye-contact. That is, until you get to the point when you are about five feet from each other. This moment is pivotal. What you do in that split-second will change the course of your workout undoubtedly. You can:

A) Ignore them. This is the best option because like I said, leave me alone with my jams, bro.
B) Offer a half-sincere, closed-mouth smile and maybe throw in a slight nod and keep on your merry way. It is cordial and as friendly as you need to be. In fact you can count that as your good deed for the day!
C) Look up to give them the aforementioned smile when you are blindsided when they speak out a “hello” or “good day”. These comments are usually dished out causally by elderly couples or the motherly type walking (dragging) her purse-dog on a sporty pink leash. I have no advice for you in this surprise scenario because I am still trying to change my initial response from a choke/cough mixed with an ungraceful wave.

After one of these “run-ins” all I can think as I bumble on with a clenched jaw is…

This is awkward.

My first kiss…


My first kiss gets an extra ‘ugh’ when I think about it because I was a senior in high school when I finally reached this slobbery milestone. I was 17, cat lady single, and desperate to get my first kiss under my belt before college. Up until that point I would use that time in preschool when I kissed some kids back when we were playing tag on the playground as my ‘first kiss’ in order to keep myself from curling up into the fetal position every time boys were brought up in conversation. I am still unsure if I am proud or ashamed that that was the closest I had come to kissing a boy until that fateful evening 12 long years later.

Lets set the mood and do some math, shall we? The camera pans to two teens reeling in excitement from the homecoming dance, a sky sprinkled with stars, and an old blanket laid casually on a trampoline. It was scene you probably could have copied out of my fourth grade diary. If I would (could) have kept my streak going, they would have called me the trampoline tramp. Or not. They still would have called me Gertrude** because no one would ever believe a story where all the fellas were lined around the block for me/a trampoline.

**Name changed to protect author from embarrassment and being constantly photographed by the adoring public

Guys, first kisses are the worst. I for one had no idea what was happening…Was he trying to get my entire face covered in slobber? Is that what kissing was? Oh man I really know A LOT less than I thought. If it is actually possible for me to move on this trampoline right now what should I do with my hands? Should I close my eyes? He looks like hes sleeping…Oh no we just made eye contact, that was weird…I’m gonna close my eyes now…Is that mint? Chapstick, maybe? Oh my gosh, I bet my breath totally smells like those chips and salsa I ate earlier…

This is awkward.

Those friends who turned into acquaintances…


You all have those people.You used to be best buddies and you would tell them all about your first kiss and how unfair your algebra test was and how Stacy was acting weird around you ever since you became friends with her ex-boyfriend and all that jazz. And now, maybe a few months or years later, you are lucky if they invite you to a group dinner when all the old crew is back in town or even write a generic ‘Happy Birthday!’ on your Facebook wall.

It’s sad really. But is it? I mean if you really wanted to stay friends, one of you would have made the effort…and maybe you did at first…but LIFE HAPPENS PEOPLE and there is no way that you can stay close with every single person you ever considered a friend. Think about it. Do you really want to tell you ‘friendquaintance’ about how everyone at work thinks your name is Marcy when its Macy? Do you want to share with them how hard it was for you when your sea monkeys died (RIP little guys)? Do you think they care that the quesadilla you had for lunch made you so gassy you had to cancel that movie date with Brad?

You don’t want to tell them and they don’t care. And there is nothing wrong with that!

But when you run into them at your best friends brother’s graduation party and you both realize all this while simultaneously trying to decide if you should hug them or just make small talk, it will be glaringly obvious that…

This is awkward.