Dear New Friend,
When we connected in line at the pharmacy over the insufferable wait time, I thought this friendship could be the beginning of something gr—well, not great, but.. enjoyable? After all, is there any bond stronger than the one formed over mutual annoyance? I foresaw us graduating from complaints over waiting 30 minutes just to grab a single box of Sudafed (“At this rate,” you remarked, “I might as well buy enough to open up a meth lab. It’s like they want me to do it.”) to higher-level gripes, such as the inconvenience of doing your own laundry and the persistent lack of motivation to grocery shop. In this brief fantasy of mine, I imagined that maybe we’d even moving up to sh*t-talking celebrities or people doing weird stuff on the subway (“did that guy just remove his mask so he could sneeze into his elbow?”). I had average-sized hopes for us, I really did. Like, maybe a brunch reservation that we only canceled twice before going through with it?
Unfortunately, after my one-month trial from this friendship, I regret to inform you that I would like to unsubscribe. It’s not you, it’s… definitely you. It’s the random complaints that come into my phone at all hours with no context (“ugh”, “I’m gonna lose my sh*t”, “my foot hurts”), leaving me to play Robert Langdon in a game of whiny Da Vinci code that I never wanted to play in the first place. It’s one thing to want to vent, but I just feel like a storm drain.
It’s made me wonder why you don’t have any actual friends to share this with, before I realize… oh, right. That’s why you were so keen to befriend a complete stranger who was just trying to pick up her birth control.
I suppose I should have seen it coming—a spark borne out of negativity tends to only breed more negativity. I like to complain as much as the next
millennial in a big city person, but I’m honestly exhausted. I’ve spent more quality time with certain Netflix shows than with you, and still I feel like I know more about your traumas than your therapist does. Which reminds me, I feel like I could be charging for some of this emotional labor. I do have a sliding scale. I’ll have my people call your people.
Listen, we had a good run, and I’ll always remember the barrage of reels you sent in my DMs (which I “heart” reacted to without watching because I almost never watch videos with the sound on). But much like my Netflix subscription, the cost of maintaining this friendship has gotten way too high for what’s actually being offered.
Please consider this message my written notice of cancellation.
Image: Kayla Snell / Stocksy
Dear Pizza-Loving Lovers,
Weddings are a trade-off. You get to rub your supposed marital joy directly in the faces of your family and friends (and Facebook feed) for an entire day, and we pretend to be happy for you. In return for our cooperation, you owe it to your guests to deliver on certain traditions: an open bar, hot groomsmen to keep us entertained, and the excuse to binge on wedding cake until our Spanx threaten to split open. Unless you’re some romantic idiot, free alcohol and cake are literally the only reason to sit through the torture of a wedding ceremony, but you had the nerve—the audacity—to serve a pizza “cake” at your wedding. I ask you: What the fuck?
Obviously, betches love pizza. Fucking everyone loves pizza. That’s why there’s a pizza place on every corner of every street in America. It’s so cheap that you can get a slice for a single dollar, which is like half the reason pizza is the perfect drunk-binge food. Waking up hungover and surrounded by pizza boxes means you’re out, like, $30 at most for the food (and $90 for the vodka, but whatever). But pizza at a wedding is an abomination.
Yes, weddings are expensive, but really? You’re so broke you had to order a bunch of delivery pizza like it’s your 11th birthday party and you couldn’t convince your mom to take you to Chuck E. Cheese? I barely understand the meaning of the word “budget,” but even I know that if you’re that strapped for cash, you can just fire the DJ and make a Spotify playlist for the reception.
Instead, you served pizza. As I already pointed out, drunk pizza binges are practically an American tradition, so I guarantee 95 percent of your single guests had eaten it in their hotel rooms the night before, when they were drinking away their fear of dying alone. You think they were excited when they saw you bring out four fucking pizzas stacked on top of each other instead of a wedding cake?
This couple had pizza cake instead of a wedding cake because not all heroes wear capes: https://t.co/cEP4qbTB7B pic.twitter.com/BmSwD5kqKG
— BRIDES (@brides) March 30, 2017
The answer is clearly no, they were not. I don’t care if it was “what pizza dreams are made of”—everyone was expecting cake, and you reneged on that promise. And how did that work, BTW? Did you bring the “cake” out after everyone had already eaten dinner like a couple of monsters? Have some fucking respect for the people who are currently showering you with wedding gifts you clearly don’t deserve.
By the way, despite what you may believe, a gelato option—which they served—doesn’t make up for the lack of wedding cake. Sure, it tastes good, but the two foods are in no way equivalent. Bingeing on cake at the reception is an integral part of eating your feelings before you progress to drinking away your feelings and banging the semi-hot bartender in your car when the maid of honor calls dibs on the one hot groomsman. Bingeing on gelato just gives you a brain freeze. Do you see how these two activities are not equivalent?
Honestly, I’m not sure why there wasn’t a revolt immediately after the “cake” was brought out. Are your friends that polite? Was everyone so wasted they had already reached the pizza bingeing point of the night? Either way, please spend your honeymoon considering how to word your apology letters, and repeat after me: Pizza will never count as cake.
We here at Betches celebrate moms. Moms are great to talk shit with. They always take your side. And, most importantly, they gave us at least 50% of our current beauty. But just like all things that are great—like cheese and my regular coke binge—limits are key. It’s great to be close with your mom, but you’ve got to have boundaries. Otherwise it’s just plain weird. And that’s why I’m here, to write a response piece to an article I read called “My Mom Is My Best Friend And That Is More Than Ok.” I, a random Betches writer with literally no personal interest in the matter and who doesn’t even know you, am here to tell you that no, it’s not okay—it’s fucking weird.
Literally the first words of this piece are “Thank you for being the Lorelai to my Rory,” so I was already suppressing my gag reflex to begin with.
Things did not get any better for me when I came across passages like:
“Many people can see this as a bad thing or that it means that your mom is your only friend, but that is far from the truth.”
Okay, I am down with the whole “mom as a friend” idea to an extent—which we’ll get to later—but your ONLY friend? Honey, that is concerning. You need to have friends your own age, and you need to have friends that aren’t basically required by virtue of being related to you/having housed you in their womb to be your friend.
Like, if your mom is your ONLY friend in the entire world it means either of a few scenarios are possible. 1) You just moved, which, okay we’ll cut you some slack, Squid. 2) You can’t relate to people your own age which indicates that you should stop watching Oxygen and go to a party or something. 3) You just suck as a person so nobody who doesn’t have to be your friend will. Both the latter two options are troubling, to say the least. If you have ZERO friends other than the woman who carried you in her uterus for nine months, it’s time to look at your life, look at your choices.
“I may have seemed unappreciative growing up, but truthfully I just did not appreciate you enough.”
That … that is literally what unappreciative means.
“My mom is always the first person I call in the morning and the last person I call at night.”
Oh, so you’re one of THOSE. Look, I’m sorry, but between the time you called your mom at night, slept, and woke up, what could have possibly happened in your life that you need to fill your mom in on? Did you have a bad dream? Sorry, but seeing as you’re not Martin Luther King Jr., literally nobody cares. Not even your mom. Yeah, I said it.
“She knows all there is to know about my life and I would not want it any other way.”
See, this, this right here is the problem. Is it great if you’re close to your mom? Yes. Sure. By all means, have a ball. Should your mom know ALL THERE IS TO KNOW about your life? Hell to the no! It’s all about BOUNDARIES. Say it with me now. For instance, it’s cool to tell your mom you went out on a date. It’s even fine to tell her you met your date on Tinder. It’s NOT cool to tell your mom you and said Tinder date met up in an Kroger parking lot and you sucked his dick in the backseat of his car. I’m using a completely random and made-up example for illustrative purposes, obviously.
See what I mean? If your mom really and truly knows every detail about your life it means there’s something wrong with the both of you. Like, my parents love me and are interested in my life and all, but when they asked me what I was doing last Saturday night, they didn’t really want to know what I was actually doing, which was mixing vodka and
Adderall emotions at a lingerie party in Brooklyn. They just wanted to know that I was going out with some friends. Both statements are technically true, but only one allows me to keep my inheritance. Feel me?
In short, if your mom is really your best friend, it’s fucking weird, and I don’t think it means what you think it means. I tell my mom about 20% of what I tell my ACTUAL best friends (sorry, Mom). If you think of you and your mom like Rory and Lorelai Gilmore, there’s probably something wrong. Then again, I never watched Gilmore Girls.
Appropriately Distant Kisses,
As anyone with even a casual attachment to Twitter already knows, United Airlines got into deep shit this weekend after forcing two young girls, one of whom was only 10 years old, to change out of leggings before boarding the flight. The girls, who were flying on free employee passes, were deemed too slutty to board, as per United’s dress code for pass riders. Predictably, feminist Twitter flipped the fuck out, as women everywhere were triggered into remembering the first of many times they were forced to change by school officials who decided their arms/legs/shoulders/clavicles/whatever were far too tempting for the impressionable men around them to concentrate on their important man-tasks. United’s response was basically to throw two fingers in the air and tell the world that if 10-year-olds wanna ride fo’ free, then those 10-year-olds need to step up their fashion game. A bold stance.
The passengers this morning were United pass riders who were not in compliance with our dress code policy for company benefit travel.
— United (@united) March 26, 2017
Now there is a debate here over whether or not the parents should have been more attentive to the dress code, and what United should or should not have done. A lot of frequent pass riders are saying this dress code is well known, and the girls should have known that such sinful, form-fitting attire would not be permitted. Others are appalled, not just at the fact that two children were slut shamed in front of an entire airplane, but also at the suggestion that anyone would wear anything other than leggings during air travel. You want me wearing pants? Like with a button and a zipper and shit? On a plane? Hard pass.
But like I said, that conversation is already happening all over Twitter. If you want to read about it, just check United’s mentions and go to fucking town. It’s all there. I’m not here to talk about that, and I’m certainly not here to get into the extremely divisive “are leggings pants?” debate. I don’t need the death threats. What I am here to say is this:
United fucking sucks as an airline. And I know from experience.
Over the new year I flew from D.C. to Wisconsin to Chicago to Denver, then from Denver to Chicago to NYC, all on United. It was a risk, but the prices were good and the times were right so I said what could go wrong? Everything, apparently.
Being that I, like every modern woman, have an anxiety disorder, I don’t like to check my bag. What if they lose all my shit? I need all my shit. My vibrator is in there. All my Christmas presents are in there. What kind of life would I lead without my vibrator and Christmas presents? I don’t want to know. That’s why my travel/baggage motto is always “Keep Calm and Carry On.” The “calm” brought to you by Xanax. Ty.
From Wisconsin to Denver, I volunteered to gate check my bag because the gate attendant was asking for volunteers and I’m a literally incredible person who was overtaken by the Christmas spirit. This detail would later be used against me, so fuck trying to be a nice person. Never again.
Cut to my return flight from Chicago to NYC. The flight is delayed two hours, which makes sense because it’s snowing a lot. I’m not bothered. I’d eaten like, a large amount of edible chocolates plus the Xanax so as far as I was concerned Chicago’s O’Hare airport was as comfortable as my own damn bed. I’m very chill.
Someone who is distinctly not very chill is our gate attendant. He is continually making announcements about how the plane is “being held in the terminal for no reason” and how the pilot “has no idea what he’s doing.” Not something that you want to hear about the person who is going to be behind the wheel of your sky-car, but again, I am heavily sedated and it would take nothing short of a terrorist attack to get me to feel anything but warm and slightly sleepy. Little did I know, the gate attendant would soon reveal himself to be my personal Osama Bin Laden.
Is that too extreme? Maybe. But I stand by it.
Finally, we are boarding. Things are going fine. I go up to get on the plane and come face to face with Angry Gate Attendant. He takes one look at me and yells “WELL I GUESS I HAVE TO CHECK YOUR ENORMOUS BAG.”
I pause. Surely he’s not talking about me? Me who has carried my bag on 4 out of 5 flights? Me who gate checked just recently out of the kindness of my own heart? Me who is existing in a bubble of chill vibes? No way. No fucking way.
So I say something to the effect of, “Oh really? I carried this on all my other flights.”
Here’s where being a good person comes to bite me in the ass. He snatches up the ticket that’s still stuck to my bag from when I gate checked and says “Clearly you didn’t!” and grabs my bag from me. He stands in between me and my vibrator.
I tell him again that yes I did carry on my bag previously, but it’s fine, I’ll gate check it, and I turn to leave. Next thing I know this dude is running after me, screaming “MA’AM! MA’AM!” he grabs the bag from me and drags me out to the line. He then tells me that I “appear to think in the wrong” and that if I want to get on the plane, I have to stand in front of the line and admit that he is “right in his assessment of the size of my bag.”
Deadass. This dude wants me to declare him right and myself wrong, in public, before all of the people in boarding group 4, before I am allowed to board the plane. At this point, my Xanax and edibles combination is turning against me. I start crying immediately. Big, wet, “I’m fucked up on drugs” tears. Ya’ll know what I’m talking about.
So, I mean, I do it. I announce to the airport that I am wrong about the size of my bag. That my bag is actually very large. Far too large to ever be allowed on a plane. I must have dreamed that I carried the bag on my other flights. In fact, I didn’t dream it. I made it up. Purposely. To sabotage Chicago O’Hare airport and Angry Gate Attendant personally, because I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the airport. I’m jealous of Gate Hitler. I’m a jealous, messy bitch, and I’m deeply sorry.
As a result, my flight was less than ideal. We arrive in NYC at 2am and all I want to do is get my bag and GTFO. But my bag never comes.
For those of you who have never experienced the horror that is watching every single person on your flight pick up their bag until the carousel is empty and your life flashes before your eyes, you’re lucky. It’s like, getting your period when you weren’t expecting to x1000 and all your Christmas presents are gone. The now drunken Xanax-and-edible tears start back up again, and do not stop until I am safely in my bed, again, sans vibrator.
My bag and I were eventually reunited 48 hours later, when a random man delivered them to my apartment at 2am. I didn’t even get a free voucher or an apology or a separate bag with the gate attendant’s head in it or anything. And before you ask, of course I sent a thousand angry DMs to United’s customer service account. It’s 2017. Getting pissed off at companies on Twitter is like, a human right. Whoever runs their account apologized for the gate attendant’s behavior, but again, I’ve yet to receive an invitation to his funeral, so I am not satisfied.
All this is to say, leggings or no leggings, United fucking sucks. Their gate attendants are mean, and they clearly have issues with normalizing their policies across airports. My athleisured ass will be flying Southwest from here on out. Or maybe Jetblue. Or even—dare I say—Virgin. That’s right, I’d rather watch their truly insane in-flight safety video before every single one of my connecting flights than step foot on a United plane ever again. And that’s really saying something, because this shit is pretty fucking extra:
Dear Chauvinistic Assholes,
I’ve been seeing a very, very unfortunate trend in modern millennial dating in which guys throw out the terms “crazy”, “psycho”, or “stage 5 clinger” when a girl so much as texts him to be like, “Hey u up?”. News fucking flash: It’s 2018. You know what’s really “crazy”? Here’s a refresher, losers.
- Donald Trump being the goddamn President of the United States
- ZAYN leaving One Direction and his last name in the dust (RIP)
- North Korea lauching missiles … YES THAT IS HAPPENING
- Permanent freckle tattoos. Somebody please tell me why that is even a thing.
- This little thing called ISIS and global terror—ever heard of it?
I hope that puts things into perspective for you. Trying to communicate and show positive interest and affirmation (aka, texting you 1-2 times a week) doesn’t make a girl “thirsty” or “insane.” It makes her a normal fucking person—and BTW, you should feel #blessed that a betch is into you in the first place.
Of course, there are real “stage 5 clingers” out there, both men and women. Case in point: My (female) best friend once met a perfectly nice, cute guy in a bar. They exchanged numbers and went on one date which was pretty okay. Next thing she knew, she’d be looking at her Instagram notifications and he’d be tagging her in AT LEAST SIXTEEN posts per day. He’d send her paragraphs and paragraphs at a time, Snapchat her twenty times a day, and even put a down payment on a puppy that she mentioned she wanted, assuming they would raise it together when their one mediocre dinner date turned into a fruitful marriage. (He actually raises the puppy alone now because obviously she had to ghost him.) Does this guy warrant a “crazy” label? Absolutely. But unless you can honestly say that every girl you’re calling “crazy” acts like this—in which case, you have bigger problems, like why you’re a magnet for the mentally unstable—then it’s time to reassess your vocab.
There is a very problematic, gendered paradox when it comes to men and women in romantic relationships. For example, T-Swift gets called “crazy” all the time for writing songs about her exes. When Robin Thicke wrote and performed Paula, AN ENTIRE ALBUM that was a desperate plea for his ex-wife Paula Patton to take him back after he got caught cheating, it was dubbed by the media as “a heartfelt reconciliation”. WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?
Bottom line, the word “crazy” is a convenient term for men, and an often discriminatory word for women. Some men (#notallmen, wouldn’t want you to get too butthurt) simply throw out the term because it’s easier than getting down and dirty with their real emotions and addressing real issues within their relationships in a healthy way. So, next time you’re about to call a betch crazy, boys, think before you speak. It’s like, the rules of feminism.
Not your BSCB,
Logging on to social media today consists of scrolling through pictures of dogs doing cute shit, engagement photos, weird fucking memes, racist posts from people in your Trump-supporting hometown, and an inexplicable showcase of really, fucking godawful grammar.
There are obvi more egregious offenses on social media than the occasional confusion of “your” and “you’re,” but it’s really just unbelievable that Americans are so incapable of fundamental English—especially when those same Americans accuse immigrants of not speaking English. But that’s for a different letter. I mean, really, have you ever checked out the comments on a celebrity’s Instagram?
“Your the worst.”
“They’re really aren’t any reasons you should have done that plastic surgery on you’re body”
“Chrissy Teigen, you can do whatever you want weather or not I like you.”
1. I was really hoping 2017 would bring about a new generation of people commenting on celebrity social media platforms who don’t actually expecting a response.
2. HOW do you fucking idiots not know basic grammar?
There’s honestly nothing worse than hitting it off with a bro at a bar and getting a text the next morning that says something to the effect of “your something else lol.” Charlie from the University of Wisconsin, you are now dead to me.
Let’s assume that (unfortunately) most of the individuals in our great country posting these innocuous messages have some form of formal education. In the 2012-2013 school year, the United States had an 81 percent high school graduation rate, its highest ever. Inevitably, a portion of these graduates are receiving a diploma without a basic knowledge of English grammar.
Before you write me off as a huge raging bitch, I’ll concede there are certain rules that I am perfectly fine with my creepy uncle never mastering in his Facebook rants. The proper use of “who” and “whom,” for example. I don’t give a shit.
But the next person who tries to diss me with a “your the bitch comment”….I’ll realistically do nothing, but I’ll continue to be really fucking annoyed.
If Ross from Friends can sum up the difference between “your” and “you’re” in one fucking sentence, your ass should have figured it out in the two-plus decades you’ve been alive. Honestly, the fact that Rachel fucked it up in her 18-page letter should’ve been all the reason Ross needed to walk away from her and never look back, but we’re not here to critique the merits of one of the greatest shows of all time. But for all of you who are grammatically challenged:
Now get YOUR shit together.
There’s nothing wrong with New Year’s resolutions. We’re all about being motivated, and if you need to set goals like that, go right ahead. But for the love of god, get that shit off our newsfeed. We’re only a few days into 2017, and already our Facebook and Instagram feeds are flooded with posts about new diets, new workout plans, and a bunch of other random shit that we don’t need to know about.
We just love hearing about all the fun dietary restrictions people give themselves. Like, okay Gillian, that’s great that you’ve decided to “leave meat in 2016,” but come President’s Day your drunk ass is going to be craving a burger and you’re going to be sorry that you told everyone you know that “meat just doesn’t make sense.” Same goes for gluten, because Jesus fucking Christ. If you want to eat less carbs, we applaud you. We all want a spring break body, no shame. But when did someone decide that the best way to look good is by just giving things up altogether? Eat gluten, you’re supposed to eat gluten!!
New workout plans are the worst. People get so fucking excited about going to the gym for like, a week, then they have to go back to school or work or whatever and literally forget what an elliptical even is. If you want to go to the gym more, just go to the gym. We don’t need to see a status and an Instagram and a Snapchat when you haven’t even done anything yet.
How about we make a new rule: You’re only allowed to post about your resolution for 2017 in the last two weeks of December, and only if you’ve made it the entire year. Guess what? Literally no one would be able to post, because who the hell keeps a New Year’s resolution past February?
That rule goes for Facebook. In terms of Instagram, let’s make the new rule that you’re just never allowed to post about it. At this point, Instagram should be for beautifully edited photos of food and landscapes and less beautiful photos of fun nights out. There is no place for mirror selfies in which we’re supposed to be able to see your “gains.” Chill the fuck out, Ronda Rousey, nobody’s forcing you into a UFC ring so just walk on the treadmill like the rest of us.
So basically, good luck with your resolutions this year, but we better not hear about them until December 15. Until then, we’ve got bigger shit to deal with, like our nightmare of a new President and why Kim Kardashian only just returned to social media. Have fun not eating meat, we’ll miss you!
New Year, New Nothing