Cheers.

Recipe 49/52. Dreary, we reach with feeble limb for the bitter end. The end, once but a pale apparition, has never furnished with such light. Death... is nigh.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! As it is now January, thanks to time, it's been one year since my last post on online dating. It seems only appropriate to update you on the online dating culture, since it has to have improved in a year. Right? 

My Christmas tree is still up, so I present to you An Unassuming but Intelligent Old-Fashioned Woman's Journey from Timidity to Judy Garland: a new classic holiday story. 

Ingredients

• Boredom
• Nerds (people, not Rope)
• Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance audiobook, so you'll miss all the graphs
• "Hey"
• Whammy!
• Holiday MAGIC, or time

Instructions
Where else to begin a modern holiday classic but with a winter flashback: The last time I cooked with online dating, the ingredients I shared were all cockamamy dingbats' attempts at messaging/texting me via our connection on the dating app Hinge, and I poked fun at the mobile dating culture in which I was apprehensively participating. Shortly after, a male friend and I were having a conversation about the "who should pay first" Abbott & Costello-like debate. As a straight male actor, he struggled with the expectation most of his own Hinge matches had that he'd automatically pick up the check, when in fact most of the women he met there made much more money than he did. He pointed out my blog post, in which I'd joked that I'd use dating as a way to finally dine out in NYC, to prove his point. My blog! Obvious satire in highest intellectual form! But he knew there was a layer of truth under there-- I'd blown my own old-fashioned expectations into not-so-exaggerated satire of using dating apps to snag free meals. I'd written the recipe in the short period of time in which I really was excited about the possibilities of dating-- still shocked that there existed, so close in proximity to me, guys who were willing to pay for things. Oh, youth. I had no idea the cobwebs through which I needed to weed before I got to that food-- and how little I enjoyed the reward. 

Why, then, after deleting Hinge fairly quickly, would I return to it 4 months later? I claimed I didn't enjoy my time talking to or spent with my matches because they were all finance/business guys. I knew it was because I'm a romantic traditionalist who would never take a dating app connection 100% seriously. Regardless, I'd become fascinated by Hinge-- stories of other's experiences with it, articles written about it, etc. Also, it was May and I was a little bored. Combo? The plan to beat Hinge.

If Hinge updated my matches based on which profiles I liked/disliked, could I not turn it totally on his head? If I was matching with only business-finance Ivy League boys (or guys from Ohio), could I completely 180 it to match me with solely unemployed comedians? Turns out the answer is... yes.

See how we're already close to Judy Garland?

In less than 2 weeks, I rid my matches of Harvard grads working at Goldman Sachs and replaced them with diversely educated funny guys working at Nickelodeon, their own production companies, or nowhere. Here's the silly part: I had no intention of meeting up with any of them. Albeit for research's sake, I was a dating app troll. Months later, I proudly told my plan's success to 5 male friends of mine and one declared that this is exactly "what's wrong with online dating." Looking back, I can't say I fully disagree. Well, despite my intentions, I met Nickelodeon, Sk8rboi Freelance Photographer, and Loyola Boy (you can find his story here, as well as a picture of a baby monkey) for my 2 longest Hinge stints: with Skr8, a fun chunk of weeks (including the 4th of July, romance's most serious holiday!) that fizzled out so naturally it seemed wrong; and with Loyola Boy, the true definition of "The Long Con." (While we were seeing each other, I used it to describe our situation because I thought it meant "the long conversation." Then I found out what it actually meant... and unfortunately could keep using it.)

Leading us to late September, the perfect pre-climax to a holiday classic: frustrated with modern dating and angry, yet again, that I live in this millennia. As per previously mentioned, one of my best friends Caroline is a natural font of wisdom. From her flat in London, she advised that I stop sitting around complaining and instead go forth and set the world on fire... ... Nope; no, that was my single year of Jesuit education. Here, you'll see how I got confused, they're so similar: 

"When you meet the right guy it'll feel so right, so perhaps this suffering is key to true happiness. Otherwise you'll end up marrying a f#$*boi and then you're stuck with that shit for life (or until you get a divorce) 

Keep going  

Use bumble [a dating app for which I'm convinced she works, due to how much she pushes it] 

Date around 

Treat yourself"

Like a true holiday heroine, I jumped back on my smart phone-- but this time with Coffee Meets Bagel. What a difference! CMB, as we on the inside call it, is for, you guessed it-- nerds! You see, Hinge, Bumble, and the other slew of dating apps? They claim to be different than Tinder (widely known as the hookup app), yet they display the same interface; the expectations are so muddied that, at the end of the day, I'd rather use Tinder and know what I'm getting into. CMB does not, by any means, scream "casual sex." On the scale of Tinder to paid eHarmony and Match.com memberships, it is somewhere nicely in the middle, whereas Hinge bounces towards the middle like a mindless hyper leprechaun trying to sneak up on it, only to get too scared and quickly soft-shoe it back towards Tinder. 

Also importantly, CMB fit in perfectly with what I was reading/listening to in Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance, which I suggest be read to all babies in the womb. Aziz, my main man, presents fascinating research and experts, and makes some arguments of his own, like contending that calling online systems like Tinder "dating" apps/sites is misleading.

“Online dating is just a vehicle to meet more people,” says the author and dating consultant Laurie Davis. “It’s not the place to actually date.” The anthropologist Helen Fisher, who does work for Match.com, makes a similar argument: ... “They should be called ‘introducing services.’ They enable you to go out and go and meet the person yourself.” (Aziz's New York Times piece "How to Make Online Dating Work")

CMB kicks you & your match out of your chat window after 7 days. Right before that 7th day, it bugs you repeatedly to make sure that, if you want to, you've set up a time to meet. Because who the F wants to date within a chat window?! (I know, we all know them, but let's be serious and not talk about them right now, OK.)

Here's a quick Run-DMC-down of my brief (shocker) time with CMB:

1. The textbook perfect awkward end-of-first-date kiss 

Sadly he ended up being judgmental and conniving. Alack.

2. My first encounter with someone who looked nothing like their profile

3. A hibernating med student 

Planning a date 2 months in advance is oddly moving too fast.

4. A fellow Wildcat who went immediately from promising ice cream partner to an idiot who thinks offensive undermining is effective flirting

And that was that.

5. Proof of the uselessness of the greetings "Hey!", "Hey," "Hi," or "Hey what's up," "What are you up to," or "Cool" amidst other actually engaging conversations

... honestly forgot to respond to these.

6. I'd like to say this: If you can't respond to a date offer, which you initiated, for 2 days, I lose interest. Because you're a stranger I've never met so this is the only info I have to go on.

Also, here we see that I, too, am guilty of "ghosting"... Where did I go? Perhaps to a maze in my brain where I was figuring out why the more time passed, the stronger he came on?

7. Slight & subtle sexism = confusing & unnecessary (oh, and also still offensive)

At least we agree people are stupid.

8. ALMOST finally getting down to exactly what one guy wants-- almost!!! 

If only I'd had a better understanding of his version of the conventions of the English language, we could've had an enlightening conversation! Alack again. 

9. An eager beaver who immediately texts pics of his Halloween costume and continues texting heavily all weekend-- only to drop that he'll be in Germany for the next 2.5 weeks. As in, "How's a date 3 weeks from now?" No lie, 3 weeks is just enough time for me to start dating someone else and spearhead a major crowdfunding campaign to raise $20k for my nonprofit. Sorry, dude. But thanks for all those pics from Germany... I hope you weren't using your data.

Take a knee, kid. 

10. Rude finance flakes with no respect for your time because nothing ever changes. Standing taller.

Except for meeting up with the guy who didn't end up looking like his picture (but only because he's smart and asked me to a cider festival-- man, does asking someone out to a specific fun event work), I challenged myself to not do or say things I didn't want to do or say this time around. Given my low expectations, I gave zero f*#%s. If someone didn't text me back, I didn't care because, like, whatever. It's Coffee Meets Bagel! If someone offended me, I spoke up. If I didn't want to see someone again (poor cider fest guy), I let him know. My first test of this was up there in #10. Some frat boy from my own alma mater, of all places, asks me out, claims he'll choose the place, and then disappears, only to cancel the date 4 hours before the time he chose for it to start. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened, with "swamped at work" always the excuse. OK, fine. In that case, don't schedule a date during the week!! What on earth makes a job with a flexible end time a suitable prequel to a date?! This time, I didn't want to deem it acceptable... but for some reason I was so nervous to send my pointed rejection. This guy went to my college! We had, uh, maybe 10 mutual friends! I can't come across as a b...iiii...tt...cchhhhhhhhhh.

I obvs got over it. And then the craziest thing happened... he answered. This careless boy, whom I don't know at all, wastes my time, then sends a plea of "apology," clearly waiting for me to forgive him. Fine; you want me to give you a second chance, sure, but I'm not about to pander and forgive you for disrespecting my time. Thus, I'm a bitch, and I don't get a date. Well, cool, because that Sunday I GOT STUFF DONE.

My last bout with online "dating" has taught me that I'm learning what I want. I want to date someone whom I meet in real life, naturally and without the help of an electronic introducing service, because that's a stubborn romantic ideal I've had my whole life and can't shake, and that's OK. I want someone whom I don't have to badger to meet up, who respects my time, gender, and career. I want to feel like we are on the same page, not attacked or ignored. And I'm 100% not afraid to admit it. 

CMB brought me the longest "relationship" I've had since my first boyfriend (1.5 months, score!). I've not included him in the list of 10 above because he was genuinely great. Completely vetted through a close friend of mine, cute, 100% respectful. Unfortunately, life sucks. Our bodies betray us by means of housing a random mystery called "chemistry," which I picture as a the devilishly happy red gremlin from Whammy!.

Love/hate this dude.

While I could easily claim, "I wish I knew why my Whammy threw a whammy at this situation!" I can't blame it all on unexplained physiology. That's a cop out and we all know it. This "it's no one's fault" mentality makes us feel better about ourselves for breaking up with someone or turning someone down. And while it is no one's fault, because no one is at fault for being the uniquely holiday cut-out cookie he or she is, stifling the honest and justifiable reasons for not wanting to date someone denies us the opportunity to learn from our relationships. I do not suggest when you decline a young lady's date request that you also text a detailed list of why you do not wish to date her; similarly, handwritten letters have incredible sentiment, but I don't wish to see you passing one containing a memoir of your romantic needs to that guy with whom you've been on 3 dates. However, I dare you to speak up for yourself to yourself. And if you have been dating someone for a while, to speak up for the both of you. Equally respect both each other's intangible Whammys and concrete time. Unapologetically own your needs as confidently as you acknowledge the stupidity of love. 

Bartholomew, it's not Helena's fault she doesn't get along with your brother, which is a deal breaker for you, just as it is not Portia's fault for being a homebody, which happens to work against Septimus's extrovert mojo he's got going on right now. You are not cruel for wanting your girlfriend to be friends with your brother; he's the sheath to your sword, part of you! Portia, you are not lesser, you don't need fixed, and you're stellar for being a homebody! Somewhere out there is a lord or lady who wants to spend every night on the proverbial couch watching the proverbial Game of Thrones with you, because other people are scary and you gratefully don't need that consistent haunted house experience. 

When we're honest with both our hearts and brains, because we're humans and have both of those things-- I hate to assume, but let's say 100% we do-- we grow. We'll (hopefully) not mess up the same exact shit next time. We'll progressively wade through the crap instead of being stuck... behind the crap... Gross. Caroline was right: the more people you go on dates with, the more life experiences you gift yourself, the closer you get to figuring out what you want. No, you can't always count on your fingers tangible reasons that you don't jive with someone, nor can you define what you want and need during or after every romantic endeavor. Sometimes you realize months later what you liked and disliked. The more we allow ourselves to honor what we know we need, though, the less we swim around in exhausting dates we want to escape. Listen, I'm all about giving people a fair chance, because you can't judge a book by its cover and other quotes like The Golden Rule, but I'm also allowed to say, "You know what, Fulvia, I know Constantine doesn't want a relationship right now and I'm personally not interested in something just for fun, so I'd prefer if you didn't set us up. Thanks for checking in. Bt-dubs, your toga is hot." 

(Tryna bring old-fashioned names back on an extremely old-fashioned 1st century level)

I wrote a list of my relationship needs. I expect it to change. I expect certain bullet points to never change. I respect it and love it, for it is product of pain and assholes. Oh, let's not write pain and assholes together like that. It is product of pushing and shit. You know what, never mind.

I do not regret my 3 short stints with online dating. I'm done pretending it is for me and give props to those who use it. My step-sister is marrying her best friend whom she met on OK Cupid, so like, how the flying fish can I claim it's baloney? I dare you! But I am finally comfortable allowing myself to wade in my now less shitty crap in corporeal, old fashioned life, recognizing that my Year of Dating (2015, if you're lost), in which I unpreparedly threw my middle-school-level self into the Russian roulette of modern dating in New York City, left me unfulfilled and, ah, can end! I tried, I risked, I enjoyed some of it but mostly none of it. What I did enjoy, though, was thoroughly enjoyable-- yeah, I'm talking to you, you awesome dudes who were unfortunately outnumbered by awkwardness or ignorance this year! 99% not into dating or talking to multiple guys at once, 99% won't see someone who dislikes seeing comedy shows, and 100% still figuring out texting, flirting, first dates, and "defining the relationship," because quite seriously what the frick. I have zero answers, and that's better than the negative quantity I used to claim. 

I feel like zero is an undefinable entity I can hold. 

Well, we've made it through this Hallmark holiday classic without a workaholic ignoring the holiday season, some girls having one last shot at friendship, or finding out Santa is real. Perhaps, in my journey, you've taken offense or questioned your own behavior. That's either because it was a successful modern holiday flick or you think I'm overreacting, overly judgmental, aggressive, or stuck up. To which, ladies and gentleman,

Be a Picky Eater

Ingredients

• "You're very deferential."
• "That is pretty much humanity and respecting people."
• "Because I like you but I think it's shitty of me to keep seeing you if you want a serious relationship and I know that's not going to work for me."
• "That kind of behavior is not acceptable. Let me know if it happens again."
• "That explains why you're so nice!" 
• "You're precious."

Instructions
[The names have been changed to protect the innocent. The story has not, as I'm fairly certain our 3 mutual friends are not reading this blog. Prove me wrong? I'll bake you cookies.] 

I misread signals from a guy that I had been talking to and/or seeing for over 4 months as shyness. I saw his endearing nerdy nature (he's an MD/PhD student) as an excuse for his distancing of feelings/emotions and lack of public affection. I chose to see the best in him. Or did I?

Since he ended things a few weeks ago, via text including the "shitty" message above, I've been contemplating how much my choosing to see the best in people is a choice. Having grown up Catholic, raised by two deeply compassionate individuals, constantly surrounded by patience (my mom worked in special ed and my dad in a steel mill about which he rarely complained), hoping for the best in others and situations has always come naturally-- so naturally that I hadn't even realized I've been doing it. Thank goodness there's always an MD/PhD student to show you the way.

Let's get back to the juicy gossip: I had excused-- let's call this guy Long Con, as through his actions I learned the meaning of that term-- Long Con's previous long breaks of communication because he'd given due reasonings behind them (final exams and then later an emergency trip back home). I told myself that he was busy in such a chaotic curriculum, so of course I, as an incredibly busy person myself, understood why he'd prioritize studying over seeing little old me. When we did hang out, he was so funny, sweet, interesting, and interested; and in between, he'd initiate texts, make me laugh, ask to see me soon. I believed that he would truly come around... until I didn't. Because I'm not stupid. I started to excuse his final, last break of communication... until I couldn't. Because I'm not totally hopeless. I realized the ship was going under, and, since I like a good disaster, I went out with a bang: I texted him again. Then, even after his much belated and poor excuse to his absence, without my wanting to, I still asked to hang out two more times-- because in order for me to fully relinquish hope in something, I must burn it to the ground. There, I'll receive my final, clarifying message from the boot about to stomp on me. 

This particular message, in Long Con's case, was a text that barely apologized and instead placed blame-- subtle, but there-- on me for assumedly not wanting "something casual." Index finger pointed up in the air: When someone says sends a series of 3 long block texts stating "I don't want to lead you on at all if we have different expectations, taking it upon himself to not be "shitty," he is actually saying he's doing you a favor by doing the right thing. A quite advanced "it's not you, it's me," this message actually places the noble crown on the one doing the let-down. You want more, but he is too busy, and even though he likes you he will-- martyr-like-- sacrifice his liking for the betterment of your mental health, for which you should be grateful, and therefore you should feel guilty for his attaching the word "shitty" to his behavior. Damnit, you have been saved!

Again, it barely apologized-- and also insinuated "something casual" for a busy man of letters who enjoys disappearing from communication for a week or three to mean "selfishly see you whenever I want you"-- for his sudden silence and, whether it be necessary or not, his months-long period of leading me on (which he did). AND YET. And yet, my text back included the words "appreciate" and "thanks" and the apologetic "I simply wanted to know what was going on." 

WHAT?!

The next morning I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on my run and texted my mom, "Is giving everyone the vendor of the doubt a Catholic thing?" 

She answered, "What are you talking about?"

I corrected my autocorrect and retyped the question. However, that wasn't her confusion: "But what are you referring to?"

"Well, I guess forgiveness and believing the most/best of people... So yeah that sounds pretty Catholic."

"That is pretty much humanity and respecting people."

Right.

That night, my improv 401 teacher gave our class our first personal notes-- my first ever personal notes as an improviser. Seeing as UCB would like to see us continue paying into their system, and this is still is a core level class, our notes were compliment sandwiches. After sitting through everyone else's sandwiches and sandwich-utilizing scenes, my name was at last called. My leaning-positive note? 

"You're very deferential."

[I nodded as if I knew what that word meant. I swore I did, anyways, so it was easy to pretend.]

"You typically defer to your scene partner. You tend to always play other people's games."

Great.

The following week, the kid I babysit had a friend over and sass-mouthed me in front of him, because that's what you do when you're 10 (read: my excuse). Immediately, his dad opens the bedroom door into the living room and bellows in his commanding presence, "What did you say?" (His dad sometimes works from home, so it's like I have a Secret Service or something.)

After pulling from the kid that he did indeed say what he, the father, did indeed hear, and after the boys went to shoot some foam hoops in a different room, the dad said, "He shouldn't talk to you that way." And I made up some lame reasoning of his friend being over, etc etc, to which he rightly replied, 

"It doesn't matter. That kind of behavior is not acceptable. Let me know if it happens again."

That next weekend, I get new headshots taken. My friend, the illustrious and talented Justin Schuman, did an incredible job and we had a jammin' time. Though there was an entire series in my navy dress that he labeled "I'm not 16 anymore, bitch," what ended up being the catchphrase of the shoot? 

"You're precious."

Thank you.

You know what? I am. I am damn precious. I just now pasted that GIF of Boo above and am having difficulty concentrating because I'm thinking about how great that Halloween costume would be, especially following my past two years as a Beanie Baby and an American Girl doll! I am precious and I know it, but I'll be damned if that makes me soft. 

I'm sick of playing other people's games-- in dating and otherwise. I mean, sure, it's currently more apparent in dating. Also, I'm not sure I really know how to play that game. There's an amazing TED Talk by analyst Amy Webb entitled How I Hacked Online Dating chronicling how, frustrated by the losers she was meeting online and the winners who didn't like her back, she made a spreadsheet of data points-- stay with me. 

So I said fine, I've got a new plan. I'm going to keep using these online dating sites, but I'm going to treat them as databases, and rather than waiting for an algorithm to set me up, I think I'm going to try reverse-engineering this entire system. So knowing that there was superficial data that was being used to match me up with other people, I decided instead to ask my own questions. What was every single possible thing that I could think of that I was looking for in a mate?

There: What do I want? What is important to me? Where's the nearest spreadsheet in which to type it? Guys, this Picky Nicky found her husband this way. She found a guy that met her criteria-- one of which was an appreciation for spreadsheets! I'll never create something as intense as Amy Webb's scoring system-- which mathematically calculated matchability, so a guy with 700 points got an email, 900 points a date, and 1,500 points a mere consideration of any sort of relationship-- but mainly because I'm not good with numbers and I've never really figured out Excel. I did take this away, though: 

...there is an algorithm for love. It's just not the ones that we're being presented with online. In fact, it's something that you write yourself. So whether you're looking for a husband or a wife or you're trying to find your passion or you're trying to start a business, all you have to really do is figure out your own framework and play by your own rules, and feel free to be as picky as you want.

In her interview for the TED podcast, Amy made an eye-opening point: People turn up their noses at the idea of having a defined, specific set of high-standards criteria for a mate, only to go make grocery lists 3 pages long. It has to do with standards. It has to do with confidence. It has to do with being outspoken in addition to being polite. I? Will never not be polite. Here's how meeting new people usually goes:

"Wait. Where are you from?"

"Ohio."

"Oh, that makes sense. That's why you're so nice!"

I don't know if people think that, since we Ohioans seemingly deal regularly with this:

 and this,

and this,

and also this, 

that somehow our only way of avoiding a total devastation of existence is to be polite. I don't know; I'm not an outsider to the Midwest (though Ohio easily seems to have a stronger "nice" correlation! Why?! Someone let me in!). Clearly none of these people went to my high school. 

And this is fine!-- my politeness, not people stereotyping me in an incredibly positive way. My parents are two of the kindest, most giving people I know, and I'm grateful to have been raised with their values. What's not fine is my inconsistent but general lack of spine. Even though I have incredibly mild scoliosis, my spine can afford to metaphorically stand a little taller. This includes truly questioning every time I give someone the benefit of the doubt-- because I do always give everyone the benefit of the doubt. It's not always helpful! I have such a strong inclination towards positivity and hope, towards finding the best in people and trying to understand the reasonings behind their not-so-stellar actions. As my mom said, this is a good quality. But there's a balance. I need to learn when to stand up for myself and put my foot down. Kindness doesn't equate passiveness. Compassion can live alongside pride and confidence. Would you be surprised if I pulled out another TED talk? No? Smart reader. Journalist Krista Tippet sums up "Has The Word 'Compassion' Lost Its Meaning?": 

I mean, listening is a hugely powerful form of attention. It's presence. And if you are really listening, you are genuinely curious. And you are open to be surprised and changed by what comes back at you. So compassion is not necessarily about agreeing with somebody else. It's not even necessarily about liking them. It is about making a choice to honor their humanity.

Thinking about all of this fueled me to do something today that I may not have done a year or so ago (though I'd like to think I would've). I had an audition for a fun role, perfect for my type, in a nicely paid short film. I was digging the logline and snappy script, except for one single word: retarded. My character used the term "retarded monkey" 3 times, and in no was the R-word necessary in any case; it could so easily be replaced, as the joke (I hope) was in the word "monkey"-- that a monkey could run the company I worked at, not a differently abled individual. So when the director asked if I had any questions, I calmly & confidently asked if I could replace the word "retarded" with something else. And you know what he said?

"Yes."

He went on to say that all of the lines were open to change once the actors get on set. He went on to give me great notes and adjustments on my scenes. And he went on to emit a positive, welcoming energy that made me forget I'd even asked the question. I jumped off a cliff to stand up for what I believe in and I didn't die. Instead, I got to say "monkey fetus" 3 times in an audition and have the reader repeat it to me each time, and that's a pretty good day. 

We all want to be seen as nice, as good people. Compassionate people. Let's try to get less caught up in how we're seen and more concerned with what we believe in and need. The more you stand up for yourself, the taller and stronger you'll be-- which you need to handle all the shit to which you have to show compassion. And if you live in New York... that's a lot of shit.

All-Natural, Grass-Fed Human Laws

Ingredients

• 1 person, other than the performers, in the audience of your improv gig... and it's your roommate
• 1 actual 16-year-old in your commercial audition (for a 16-year-old)
• 1 totally separate actual 16-year-old playing your friend in your filmed scene (as a 16-year-old)
• 2 overnight shoots
• 2 times that you throw up in front of your date
• 2 weeks until your day job starts
• $3 for a bottle of water
•  3 career aptitude tests
• 3 teenage tutoring clients
• 4 days as the only woman with 3 straight guys
•  $4 pints of pre-made margaritas
• 4 days in New Jersey

Instructions

1, 2, 3, 4. The simplest numbers... a pattern as old as time (not really, technically.) Today's recipe is brought to you by the idea that all of life's greatest mysteries can be solved by life's simplest lessons-- lessons so basic, so ingrained that they're easily forgotten. But enough with this flippancy! Castrate your carelessness! Do you see that list of ingredients up there? You don't have time for this forgetful nonsense-- you must dig way down deep and selflessly extract some Laws of Nature, or else you'll continue to be subjected to date vomits, shocking career test results, and countless days in New Jersey. 

Lucky for you, I spent the last 2 weeks excavating incredibly simple, inherently necessary human lessons to help you process this batch of ingredients. I know we're working with the basic numbers 1 through 4 so far (totally arbitrarily, by the way), but, since you've all been such good kids lately, I thought I'd spoil you a bit with DOUBLE the amount of Natural Laws-- that's right, double that arbitrary number of 4! Get these 8 Laws into your body, because summer is almost over; the ocean can't wash off your mistakes much longer.

Law #1:

Anything in a script that takes place during the nighttime will be shot during the nighttime. 

(That means that, even though you have narcolepsy, you can’t avoid overnight shoots. Welcome to the rest of your career!)

Law #2:

Drinking on an empty—entirely empty—stomach is never a good idea. 

(That means that, even though you weren’t hungry, that little voice in the back of your head telling you to eat something all day was right. Ms. Monday Fun-day, say "Hellooo!" to Ruined Tuesday!)

Law #3:

When you’re 5’1, roughly 100 pounds, cute, and blonde, don't be surprised when you keep getting type cast as a high school cheerleader. 

(That means that, even though you are 24 and never were anything remotely close to a cheerleader in terms of both physical ability and popularity, you’ll finally be able to live out that childhood adult dream. Cue Hilary Duff's "What Dreams Are Made Of!")

Wanna play a game called "Spot the Real High Schoolers?" 

Law #4:

When you don’t get a weekly paycheck, you don’t get weekly money. 

(That means that, even though you’re tutoring at $90/hour, you won’t see that lump sum of money until the middle of next month when your paycheck comes. Another dinner of homemade, bulk black bean/quinoa/lentils/rice mash, please!)

Law #5:

People like it when you treat them like people. 

(That means that, even though there is one sole woman hanging with you and your boys, you can still tell your boner stories and make explicit sex jokes! Does this mean you really needn't mention how she's cool "not like most girls" and you don't have to reassure her that she’s funny-- no, like, really funny--  at some point, completely out of context? MIND BLOWN!)

 

Law #6:

Deals on alcohol are no different than deals in the clearance section. 

(That means that, even though it’s $4 Margarita Monday, you don’t really want those margaritas. Mmm, this drink tastes not nearly as good as how quickly it was prepared!)

Law #7:

Career aptitude tests make you feel bad about your life. 

(That means that, even though you already know what you want to do and are simply taking a few tests for fun, seeing "Clergy" as your top match is confusing and upsetting. Ooo, here, a "Vice President," you say?? Ain't nothing like knowing I should aim for 2nd best!)

Law #8:

Any venue's drink minimum also applies to you. 

(That means that, even though you've decided not to drink for a while [see above] and you're performing at this comedy venue, you're not special so you're not exempt. That's right, "strongly encouraged" actually means "if you don't, you're an a$$hole!")

NO. No, YOU'RE NOT.
BUY THE $3 WATER BOTTLE.

... Fun stuff, right? I can see that your body is adapting to the rediscovery of these innate truths, and I hate to interrupt enlightenment. So, I'm going to let you sit motionless & affected for a bit while I go make myself a smoothie. You be careful out there, ya here? There's teenagers in these hills... Let's not make the same mistakes they're making. 

Post Script

We've hit the final countdown, lovers. There are only FIFTEEN (15) more recipes left before we hit the mark! It's only taken 2+ years, too! In honor of true & tangible DISASTER, these last 15 recipes will be coming at you daily. That's right. I said DAILY recipes for complete and utter total devastation to your livelihood. I'll see you on the flip-side on September 17th. 

Thanks, Michael.