Cher
Betchowitz

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Have you heard The Weeknd’s new album?

The other day I was chatting away with some guy named Chase on Hinge (is anyone ugly ever named Chase?

A few things happen as one glides gracefully (or, in my case, not at all gracefully) through her twenties: you find out you can no longer drink a full bottle of tequila without ending up in a body bag; you realize Forever 21 bodycon dresses are flattering on exactly no one, and, my personal favorite, you just stop giving a fuck about what people think.

Remember the days when the only way to predict what kind of man you’d end up with was to spend $200 on a psychic, another $100 on crystal healing stones, and then wait for a “man of great riches” to show up in three to six months?

There comes a point in every betch's life when she realizes she needs to stop acting like a serial Bachelor contestant and get serious about not dying alone.