I know it’s been a while since I last posted. I am truly sorry to have left you stranded out here without any meaningful content from me. However, I would also like to point out that you had a part in this as you have left me feeling uninspired with nothing to satirize. Amidst the current political climate and chaos that is our country, I’ll admit I’ve been a tad too disheartened and nervous to release any attempts at humor. Pair that with laziness and bam, blogless. But we need comedy now more than ever because if you’re laughing you cannot be crying. Although it isn’t unheard of to cry from laughter at my writing. It is that powerful. Joke #1, check! I’m not saying I need constant positive affirmation but I also wouldn’t hate it and I do need it. That said, once you finish reading this, do go find some comedy.

I wanted to do something slightly different with this comeback post. Is it a comeback if it hasn’t been that long and no one has asked for it back? At the risk of sounding desperate, don’t abandon me yet. This particular blog post is an inside look into the inner workings of my mind while writing a blog post. (**UPDATE upon completing this post, I must let you know that it took a turn toward the end and it is no longer about what I just said it’s about. Full transparency, check! OK CONTINUE**) Often I gift people with things they did not want/ask for. I invite you to peer in and observe what goes through my head while I write. What a terrifying invitation. But writing is really re-writing, right? Write? Wright? Occasionally I repeat words in my head in all their, there, they’re various forms. Mark of a genius? You tell me.

Transition. So back to my point. I have relied on current TV shows to be my source of inspiration. Whenever I watch a new show or movie, I immediately become angry because I have thought up its exact plot and I wonder why I didn’t just write it down? To be fair, that is actually true for maybe 1 show or movie I’ve ever seen, (it was “No Strings Attached” and if you didn’t come up with that plot before the movie came out, I don’t trust you) but I think it every single time. Like, Katie, you wrote, directed and produced this movie and/or show a thousand times and you’re not making any sort of back-end off your ideas. WRITE DOWN YOUR THOUGHTS DUMBASS. But then I do write down my thoughts and these are them.. Update – financial situation remains unchanged.

I am going to share my possibly controversial opinions of the most recent shows I’ve seen. If you’re thinking I didn’t ask for this, well I didn’t ask for an energizingly sunny disposition either but I am burdened by it every single day. Let’s start off strong: Pretty Little Mamas on MTV. This show is a classic. Well it was a classic. Until it disappeared. I am confused and hurt and I need answers as to why MTV is trying to pretend the show never existed. They deleted both current episodes and then quietly added them back without explanations as to why the next episode didn’t air when it was supposed to. I can’t even turn to Instagram – the universal go-to in times of reality TV crises – because everyone involved went silent. I feel betrayed, especially since The Bachelor won’t be back until 2019 and this season will be an uneventful chore to watch anyway, so I have this gaping, reality TV-sized hole in my heart and I don’t know what to do.

I did not realize how emotionally torn up I was until I began the previous paragraph, and I feel that I must end the post here. However, since I did say “…opinions of the most recent shows (plural)…” I’ll mention a few others. I just started watching Westworld and honestly it’s fine. Calm down. I prefer You’re The Worst and I would’ve liked another season of Great News. I understand that these shows are not related nor should they be grouped in an impression as if they are. Hey, that’s a thought/the inner workings of my mind. I guess I was right about the intention of this post! Moral of the story: I’m always right, regardless of context.

Boys v Girls

What’s the difference between men and women? That seemingly simple question could lead to hours, days, weeks of discussion. But I believe the answer is easy: it all boils down to a recent text exchange between my co-worker Adam (2nd shout out in a row, killin it) and a stranger.

Earlier today, Adam received a text message from an unknown number. It was a picture of some car part. There wasn’t any explanation or text sent along with the picture. But that’s really not what’s important. What’s important here is that a complete stranger sent Adam a text and the difference between men and women can be determined by the way Adam responded.

Now, I’m not an expert on gender differences or psychology or, anything really, now that I think about it. I can sing the presidents’ names in order of office, but my superior intelligence is neither here nor there. I just want it to be clear that I do not consider myself to be proficient in male/female dynamics. But I am peculiarly observant and you’re still reading, so, hear me out.

I’ll start by saying how I – a woman – would respond in this situation. When I receive texts from unknown numbers (which doesn’t happen as often as my wording would lead you to believe), depending on whether the message sounds like it was meant for me, I almost always respond right off the bat with a polite “sorry, who is this?” I polled a few women and they all gave more or less similar responses – all of them asking for an identity.

I also asked a few dudes how they typically respond. I received an array of answers ranging from “I would just answer the text, I don’t understand the question” to “idk is she hot” all the way to “this has happened to me several times, I’ve made some of my best friends this way.” But the common denominator in these mixed responses was the lack of and/or beating-around-the-bush-of asking who the unknown number belongs to.

Back to my example with Adam. He responded to the photo of the car part with “what is that.” When he showed me the text initially, I said “who’s that from?” and he said “no idea.” I paused. Baffled. He asked about the picture before he even knew who sent it. I really had trouble grasping this. I shared this with some of my previously polled guys and they almost all said they’d have answered the same way: asking questions about the car part.

The stranger answered, “thats the trans mount” to which Adam responded, “Gotcha. It looks broken”.

STILL no identities revealed! We’re 4 texts deep, y’all, and neither participant has knowledge about the other’s existence. I practically screamed “how are you still in this convo?! You have no idea who you’re talking to!” But Adam calmly expressed that it didn’t matter who it was, what mattered was that the trans mount was broken and the objective now is to figure out how to fix it.

I was just beyond perplexed by this situation. For a second I thought perhaps Adam was just more compassionate than other people. But then I remembered that I share a cubicle with him and that isn’t the case.

I’d like to tell all the women out there that we discovered who the text was from and I’d like to tell all the men out there that the trans mount was fixed. But unfortunately our new stranger friend stopped responding after a while, nameless, so instead I’ll tell you this: men and women need each other. Women need men to point out when something is broken, and men need women to stop them from casually engaging in conversations with potential serial killers. Honestly Adam.

Chipotle Experiment

Well it was about 12:30pm and lunch was right around the corner. My co-worker Adam suggested Chipotle for lunch.

It seems like there are two primary schools of thought surrounding Chipotle: Chipotle is either your all-time favorite restaurant and you suggest it as a restaurant option even while at another restaurant, or you openly detest Chipotle and express that loudly while in line at Chipotle. Both are annoying. I don’t fall under either of those as I am mostly indifferent and not annoying, but I guess I’ve had generally average experiences. All this to say, I agreed to go to Chipotle.

My only (very) real issue with Chipotle is that they have cilantro in both their brown and white rice. That is ALL the rice. Unlike my attitude toward Chipotle as a whole, cilantro is something I am vehemently against. I hate it. Cilantro is that person who puts a dirty fork in a dishwater full of freshly cleaned dishes. Cilantro is that friend who spoils the movie like, while you’re watching the movie. Cilantro is that guy at the party who trips over the power cord and shuts off the music and subsequent fun. Basically cilantro ruins everything.

However, despite how much I hate it, I usually order the rice anyway because what is a burrito bowl without rice? It is a salad.


Anyways, I’ve been tolerating this disgustingly flavored rice in my burrito bowls for years. I guess I’m just a silent sufferer, a martyr of sorts. But for some reason, today I decided perhaps I could try to find an alternative to misery. While in line at Chipotle, I began plotting.

Once it was my turn to order, in true entrepreneurial fashion, I boldly asked, “do you by any chance have rice without cilantro?”

What my voice lacked in hope, it made up for in desperation. The expression on my face was that of someone who had been burned before at restaurants – been brought the wrong order, been left too long without a drink refill, been told “wow someone was hungry!!!” on a date by a waiter, etc.

So I stood there, hands shaking, eyes wide, unsure of what was to come, wondering whether I should’ve even asked, hoping for the best but anticipating a burrito bowl being thrown in my face. Until finally the woman taking my order responded: “yeah hold on.” and then turned around.


YEAH”!! I WOULD hold on!! So many thoughts raced around my head. I can enjoy my meal! Why haven’t I ever asked about this before? What other cilantro-less options have I been missing out on? Should I ask about dairy-free queso too? (negative.) Should I ask about cilantro-less guacamole? (negative.) Should I dye my hair darker? (unrelated but have been toying with for a while so naturally it came up.)

Today was ground-breaking. My burrito bowl was unforgettable, but more importantly, I learned a valuable lesson about knowing what you want and asking for it –

– at least, knowing what you want and asking for it in terms of ordering food at Chipotle. Because when it comes to my dietary restrictions and overall pickiness, asking for alternatives usually results in disappointment and being deemed as high maintenance. So I didn’t really need this lesson because I indeed know what I want and I ask for it constantly to no avail. But in this specific instance, at Chipotle, in the form of relatively decent rice, lesson learned!!!!

Sans cilantro, my burrito bowl was less bad but not necessarily any better, so I’d still rate Chipotle around the same as before today. But I digress.

How I Almost Destroyed Love

Upon boarding my flight back to LA yesterday, I contently plopped down in my window seat, stuck my earbuds in and prepared for a lovely return home. To my dismay, a lady and a dude approached me from the aisle. The woman nervously asked, “excuse me, I’m so sorry to ask this, but do you mind switching seats with my fiancé so we can sit together? He’s 2 rows up in an aisle seat.”

Come ON. Not only do I hate the aisle, I also hate spontaneity. I’m a creature of habit, and I need plenty of mental prep before my plans are altered. I can’t help but laugh when people tell me to “go with the flow.” I’ll go with the flow once I have the exact location of the flow, the time at which I’ll be going to and returning from the flow, and the names of each and every other person who will also be attending the flow.

But anyways, this plane had two seats per side rather than three, so my switching with her fiancé was the only way they would be able to sit together. Cool.

Before answering, I instantly crafted two scenarios in my mind. You may find them below:


If I say no:

I potentially destroy a relationship. I mean who knows? This could have been a last-attempt 1-on-1 romantic excursion meant to save the relationship, but they ignored that elephant in the room for the whole trip and this flight home is their final opportunity to dive into the issues. Do I want to be responsible for breaking off this engagement? Do I want both of these heart breaks on my conscience forever?

And when they inevitably tell this story in the future to their friends and family, will they dismiss all other factors leading up to the end and instead lay the heap of blame on me, the heartless bitch who wouldn’t trade seats?

Or, perhaps, this story will be told to their respective lasting partners and my role will be symbolic of fate: solidifying the fact that they should not be together. I single-handedly (a.k.a. indirectly and solely due to many, many external forces) led each of them to the true loves of their lives.

But, for the purpose of drama (the only purpose that matters), let’s assume my saying no ultimately leads to their downfall as a couple. Aside from future implications of my decision to not switch seats, the immediate result is much worse. Because, awkward. Just, how incredibly awkward.

I would be sitting, in silence, next to a woman who is not only upset about the state of her relationship, but is now also annoyed and offended that she can’t even talk to him about it. And I’m the reason. Because I booked my flight first. Has “finders keepers” lost all significance in the world of transportation? I wanted a window seat. I got myself a window seat. That’s how you get shit done in this world.

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that you have to wholeheartedly, boundlessly go for what you want. Now, I haven’t yet accomplished that in Hollywood, but I sure as hell did that when booking this flight. I knew what I wanted and I wholeheartedly, boundlessly clicked “window seat.” And I probably did it before these dysfunctional lovers even turned on their computer.

And now I’m being punished with hushed anger and cold, pointed judgment from all the other passengers who were watching the situation unfold.

Well, fine. FINE. Go ahead and hate me. Hate me for proceeding with my business as I planned. See if I care. You can be angry all you want, but that won’t stop me from getting up and crawling over you to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes. Even if I don’t have to go. Especially if I don’t have to go. You want to pick a battle? You’ve got yourself a war, lady.



If I say yes:

I would kindly agree to let him sit in my window seat. I gather my things, smiling all the while, and relocate to his aisle seat. I sit down, turn to my left, and lock eyes with the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. We instantly begin chatting, connecting on every level. By the end of the flight, there’s no doubt in our minds that we were destined to be seatmates on this flight. As soon as we land, Harry (the man is Prince Harry if that hadn’t been clear before) drops to his knees and proposes. I shout “YES” over and over as the passengers and crew applaud, overwhelmed with emotion. We become best friends with the couple whose relationship I just saved (they name their first child after me), and the four of us live happily ever after in Harry’s beachside palace.


What really happened:

I said yes because it was a little awkward and I’m a relatively nice person, moved over to his aisle seat and promptly fell asleep until we landed. Least eventful flight I’ve ever had.