2015 is my boyfriend

It was one hellova year, 2014. After telling ourselves we moved to NYC to “figure shit out” and “live our lives”, we realized that we only took last year to distract ourselves with rampages, dinner/dining, hot guys, and alcohol. Yes, copious amounts of alcohol (hell, and hot guys). Sure, this past year we HAVE figured some stuff out, we’ve moved 4 times together and had our hearts broken half a dozen times, but mostly I think we just had a blast. We lost ourselves, tried to find ourselves, and in the end lost ourselves again, and who cares? That’s what we wanted.


… So what happens when it doesn’t make you happy anymore?

Start a blog. BAM.

Think about this as our literary pilgrimage. Our broke-single-ladies-in-the-city-trying-to-grow-the-fuck-up pilgrimage. Only without actually leaving NYC and voyaging into the world. But let’s face it, New York City is kind of its own world so we’re not cheating THAT much.

We’re starting a relationship with 2015. Let’s hope it’s not as emotionally abusive as 2014.

Sure, sure. We’re walking emblems for feminist power. Independent women.  As Beyonce stated, “I’m a grown woman- I can do WHATEVER I want”. Yes, Beyonce, you can. You run the whole damn world. Try to convince the millions of single women living in New York City this is a God-given privilege that needs to be commemorated by dancing around in ripped tights and a leather leotard.

So if you were hoping for grandchildren anytime in the near future.

Sorry, mom.

2015 is my boyfriend.


(This first post is brought to you by 2 beers, 2 shots of tequila, Makers on the rocks and half a rack of BBQ ribs.)


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