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A group portrait of female punk and new wave musicians in London, August 1980, L-R (back) Debbie Harry of Blondie, Viv Albertine of The Slits, Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie And The Banshees, (Front) Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders, Poly Styrene of X-Ray Spex, and Pauline Black of The Selecter.
I have a guy I briefly worked with in 2001 who still sends me LinkedIn invites, G+ invites, FB friend requests, and follows me on Twitter. Did I mention that we don’t even live in the same city and haven’t for ten years? Get a life, former co-worker!
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Real Talk: Bad Boys Over 30 Must Die -
You meet him, pounding whiskey gingers at the bar with “his boys.” You know the type; the kind that shows up to dive bars at 1:15am. He has a motorcycle. He thinks Facebook chat is a legitimate way to hit you up. He doesn’t offer to buy you a drink but he leans up next to you, his shirt barely buttoned. His tan looks sorta fake and his teeth are a bit too white, but he’s smooth. He’s handsome. And you’re down to kick it even though there’s a 99.9% chance he’s a douchebag.
He tells you he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. He’s been hurt before, a long time ago. He doesn’t take girls out on dates…anymore. And for a moment, you think, “I accept the challenge to transform him from mediocre bad boy to above-average boyfriend! Girls everywhere will talk about me for years to come. I’ll be known as the Bad Boy Slayer and they’ll made a limited-edition, high ABV-content beer to commemorate the achievement.”
And then two days later you shake out of it and realize that your life is NOT a Reese Witherspoon rom-com. This guy isn’t intriguing; he’s just an asshole.
There should be a rule that once you hit 27, games are off the table. Let’s accept the fact that we have lives. Look, I work 40 hours a week, PLUS I freelance AND I blog. Add into the equation that I enjoy being with my friends, working out during the week, cooking myself food, doing laundry, and I really love taking baths.. I don’t have time to sit around and wait for him to ask me to “grab drinks” aka keep me up til 2am on a work night for, let’s be honest, nothing to write home about.
This isn’t pathetic Julia from sophomore year in high school, eating Nutter Butters on a Friday night and watching “Futurama” hoping some senior calls my parent’s landline. This is big, city girl Julia. The Julia that can stumble through Old City cobblestone after three Kettle Ones on the rocks in 4 inch heels like it ain’t no thing. So don’t think I’ve got the time to wait around for him to drunk text me “Sup?” last minute as hell on a Thursday night.
So let’s lose the schtick and be blunt, gentleman. Buy me a glass of Riesling and let’s get this show on the goddamn road.
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