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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.

There are a few extremely important things to filter for when drowning in navigating the online dating cesspool: fuckboyness, serial killer potensh, and height.

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.

What's up, the three friends I harass into reading my articles fans.

Tomorrow officially marks the first day of basic bitch szn fall, so you know what that means.

Remember when you first got Tinder?