The past four months of my life were really, really s**tty and hard. I got dumped suddenly by someone with whom I was in love. I moved out of the apartment we shared together and back in with my parents for three months. The Frisky was sold to new owners and we’ve all had to adjust to that (with a smaller staff) while working from home since we don’t, as of yet, have a new office space. All of that happened within a few weeks of each other. Can you say stress? My coping mechanisms were crying jags and burying myself in my bedsheets with “Keeping Up In The Kardashians” on Netflix Instant.
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I’m 25, going on 26, and I am very proud to call myself a feminist. I think the standard of beauty in this country is bulls**t. I like to question authority and talk about the meaning of life and also I’m really stressed out about fine lines that are starting to show up around my eyes…
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If you have sex with 20 people, you will get genital warts. At least, that is how I framed it to my friends. My pillows had seen more than a few DIY haircuts when I saw something downtown, too: bumps. I knew it was an STI. Genital warts, to be honest, but I wasn’t ready to be. Maybe it’s razor burn? I thought, instead of facing facts. Or just ingrown hairs? Maybe if I grew out a ‘70s bush it will go away?
Yeah, it didn’t. Keep reading »
So, you know, I have a boyfriend now. It’s pretty awesome. I’m psyched. I’m happy. I must be radiating blissfully coupled up vibes into the stratosphere because in the last two days, three dudes with whom I have had serious romantic feelings for, hooked up with and/or dated have come out of the woodwork after a lengthy absence and have tried to bark up my tree. It’s like Cupid’s Evil Cousin whispered in their ears, “Amelia is happy, fulfilled, and no longer interested in dating or DTF — don’t you suddenly want to give her a shout?” Keep reading »
This month, I turned 22. Young, I know, but for me the birthday served as another float in the parade of reality that my graduation day is marching closer with each passing moment. Instead of the usual array of fun and frivolous gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper, far too many people chose to get me “work clothes” for my birthday this year.
I am graduating from New York University in May. And it’s not just others who are preparing me for the life change that’s about to happen. Each morning, I wake up and remind myself that I need to get a job—and not of the smoothie shop variety. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit contemplating how to craft the perfect employer-alluring business card and website. And if all this worrying, wondering and work wardrobing wasn’t enough, almost every conversation I have had with someone 25+ over the past five months has turned into a mental probing of my potential to deal with “the future.” Keep reading »
So, a male porn star walks into a bar. I’m going to call him PS for short, to keep things simple. I’ve seen PS around Chicago before; a couple years back, we ended up at the same karaoke event until 6 a.m. But we hadn’t talked much until I ran into him at the aforementioned bar, attending a fundraiser for sex workers’ rights. See, I write about sex with a focus on S&M and I do activism around it as well, so I end up coordinating with sex worker activists a lot. Plus, sex workers totally know how to put the ‘fun’ in ‘fundraiser.’
As we sipped on drinks, PS and I chatted about sex education, work/life distinctions, and that sex toy demonstration at Northwestern that landed a professor in the center of a controversy. Keep reading »