Thought Catalog

32 Hilariously Thirsty Texts From Desperate Fuckboys Who Are About To Get Shot Down

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 07:00 PM PDT


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Stop Telling Me To Get Over Him, Because I’m Allowed To Be Heartbroken

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 04:00 PM PDT

Noel Alva
Noel Alva

1. I won't apologize for my feelings.

Don't tell me he's not worth my tears. If I want to cry, then I'm going to cry. I'll bawl my eyes out until my mascara creeps down my cheeks and my contacts are all dried out. I'll even turn myself into a cliché, scooping ice cream straight from the container and drunk texting him after a few too many shots of tequila, but I won't feel bad about it. I'll never apologize for having feelings.

2. I won't get over him unless I freak out first.

I know I don't need him. I know I'm better off without him. I know any man would be lucky to have me. But I'm never going to get over him, not completely, unless I freak out first. It's how I get my closure. So let me destroy myself, at least on a small scale, so I have a chance to put myself back together. Otherwise, he'll always be hovering in the back of my mind.

3. My mental health matters.

Why should I have to hide my pain and put on the happy face of a girl with a steel heart? When I have the flu, I'm not pressured to pretend that I'm in perfect health. So when I'm depressed, why do I have to cry behind closed doors? I'm not going to lie to my friends and family about being fine, just to make them feel comfortable. Life isn't comfortable.

4. Little things mean a lot to me.

I know that single life isn't all that bad and that boys aren't everything. But my part-time job isn't everything either, and I'd still cry if I got fired. And the finale of How I Met Your Mother wasn't everything, but I still cried when I saw the shit show of a finale. I get upset when bad things happen. It's the way things go.

5. Love is all we talk about.

Half of the time, I'm told that I should be happy without a boyfriend, and I know it's the truth, but it's hard to believe when the other half of the time I'm bombarded with commercials about happy couples, Instagram photos of #RelationshipGoals, and articles with tips for finding a boyfriend. It's hard to be happy being single, especially after going through a rough breakup, when I'm surrounded by reminders that I'm alone.

6. I don't care how I look.

Screw my reputation. I've never tried to be "cool girl" to get a boyfriend, and I won't pretend to be "a classy lady" after a breakup. I don't care what I look like in other people's eyes, so I'm not going to hide my crazy. I'd rather embrace who I am.

7. I'll get over him eventually.

One day, I'll look back and laugh at how heartbroken I was over losing such a loser. But today is not that day. Today, I need to bask in my misery. Today, I need to think about all the romantic dates we went on and look through the old texts he sent me. Today, I need you to let me mourn my failed relationship, because it's the only way I'll be truly happy tomorrow. TC mark

I Should Have Believed My Daughter When She Told Me About The Thing Living Under The Bed

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 03:00 PM PDT


When my daughter was 5, she really liked to play with blocks.

You know the ones, they have colorful letters and numbers printed on the sides. My daughter started reading at a young age, and she could already spell a lot of words by the time she hit kindergarten. She loved spelling, and she'd play with those blocks for hours. She'd often try random combinations of letters and ask me what they meant. On those occasions that she'd stumble on a real word, she'd clap her hands with delight and giggle.

She was a very sweet child.

One day, I noticed that her collection of blocks had shrunk considerably."Where did your blocks go, Kiki?" I asked.

"I gave some to my friend," she said, setting her remaining blocks up into a tower to imprison a hapless Polly Pocket.

I was both proud and exasperated by her answer. Kiki was so generous, she was forever giving her toys away to other children. I was often tasked with tracking them down when she decided she wanted them back.

"And what friend did you give them to?"

"The Wordeater," she said.

Well, that was new. It must have been a new game – Kiki was very inventive.

"And… who is the Wordeater?" I asked, crouching down next to her on the floor, watching a Polly

Pocket hurl herself off the block tower, presumably into a pit of molten lava.

"He's the Wordeater!" She said, giggling at my ignorance."He likes words so much, he eats them."

"I see," I said very solemnly."And what does the Wordeater look like?"

"Hm…" she thought, tapping a tiny finger to her lips. "He's fat," she started, "and has real little eyes… and a trunk! Like an elephant!"

I frowned. "We don't call people fat, Kiki."

"But he is!" She protested. "And he's not a person, mom, he's the Wordeater!"

Now I was getting genuinely curious about the little friend she'd made up. I left off my admonition, instead asking, "Where does the Wordeater live?"

She pointed across her room. "He lives under the bed. It's warm down there, and dark. He likes the dark."

A strange little shiver crept up my spine at that. He likes the dark. Kids are creepy. Shaking off the feeling, I walked across the room and checked under the bed.

Sure enough, there were Kiki's blocks, scattered as though she'd tossed them underneath the bedframe, sort of like feeding an animal at the zoo. I smiled, somehow glad that those blocks were the only things I found under there.

"Well, make sure the Wordeater gets enough to eat," I told Kiki before leaving the room to start dinner, "And that he goes to bed at a decent hour!"

"I will, mom!" She answered, casting yet another Polly Pocket into the den of carpet lava flames.

Kiki made good on her promise.


I didn't think much about the Wordeater for a few days after that. Kiki didn't mention him, and I was busy filing taxes and waiting on pins and needles to see if my husband got the promotion he was aiming for.

No, I didn't think about it one Saturday morning, when Kiki was helping me bake cookies.

"Mom," she said, her voice lilting with the absentmindedness of childhood, "What's your favorite word?"

I had to think about that."Hm… why, my favorite word is 'Kiki,' of course!" I teased. Kiki giggled. I loved her giggle.

"What's your favorite word?" I asked back as I rolled the cookie dough into balls and began spacing them on the cookie sheet.

"The Wordeater has been teaching me lots of new words. I like them all," she said.

"What kind of words?" I asked.

She looked up at me, grinned proudly, and said,



Being a parent is a constant tug of war between wanting to scream at your kid and laugh your ass off.

It was pretty damn hard keeping a straight face as I told Kiki that was a bad word. I realized very quickly that she had no idea it was naughty – wherever she'd heard it, apparently she hadn't picked up its meaning or connotations. I was firm with her, but kind, all while trying to stifle my own giggles. Oh, that story was definitely going to be great fun telling at Kiki's graduation in years to come.

I tried asking Kiki where she'd heard that word, but she just kept insisting that the Wordeater had taught it to her. "I give him my blocks when he's hungry, and he teaches me new words," she said.

Eventually, I gave up asking, telling her to ask me from now on what the new words she learned really meant. She had probably heard it at school or on TV, anyway. I didn't think much of it, other than to tell her father later that night. Unlike me, he was unsuccessful in preventing his laughter, and tears rolled down his face as he listened to the shenanigans our daughter had been up to.


It wasn't long before I noticed that Kiki had begun acting… strange.

She wasn't any different during the day or anything. No, it had more to do with what happened at night.

The first time it happened, I almost screamed, I was so startled. I walked into her room around ten at night to check on her – I'd put her in bed almost an hour earlier – and was surprised to see her sitting on the floor facing her bed. She was cross-legged and rocking just a little back and forth, as though trying to lull herself to sleep.

"Kiki? What are you doing up? I thought I told you to go to bed an hour ago." Kiki and I had already had several discussions about her inability to go to bed when she was told. I walked over to her and saw her closed eyes, realizing with surprise that she seemed to be asleep. Kiki used to sleepwalk when she was about three, but it had only happened a few times. I'd thought she'd grown out of it.

I reached down to pick her up when I saw that her lips were moving. She was saying something. I leaned forward to listen, but I couldn't make out what she was saying.

Then, suddenly, the little whispers stopped. In fact, Kiki stopped. She stopped moving, and it almost seemed like she stopped breathing. I reared my head back a little, disconcerted.

Kiki lifted her arm, extending it towards her bed. For one moment, in that small, dark room, she held perfectly still, like a statue of an angel child on top of an infant's headstone.

It took me a full minute to collect myself before I managed to reach out and pick Kiki up, tucking her back into her bed.

Looking at Kiki snuggled up in her bed, the moonlight casting a waxen glow on her face, I began to feel suddenly that the room was too small. The darkness of the walls crept in on me, and the brown carpet seemed to be swallowing me whole. The door, with its small patch of light coming in from the hallway, seemed very tiny, as though I'd never be able to squeeze through it. I felt something akin to a rat in a dry trap, and it made me terribly anxious.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the feeling. I'd always been terribly claustrophobic. I switched on Kiki's nightlight – for my sake more than hers – and left the room.

There were a few more incidents of the whispering, the rocking. I mentioned it to my husband, who actually seemed more worried than I was. He said we should take her to a doctor, just to make sure it was normal. I agreed, knowing that it would put our minds to rest, even if we ended up having to pay a few hundred dollars to learn that we were making a big deal out of nothing.

In the end, we never got the chance.


A few days before the doctor appointment, I walked into Kiki's room to find her rocking in front of her bed again, muttering to herself.

I sighed, a little exasperated, a little scared, and leaned down to pick her up, wondering if maybe I was being too overprotective after all. Trying to rationalize. Trying to reason.

If I hadn't turned my head ever so slightly, I might not have seen it. I might have lived my whole life not knowing. But the fact of the matter is, I DID turn my head. And I DID see it.

My brain froze and my body turned to stone. Something was under the bed. Something was under the bed.

No, it can't be, I told myself, even as my heart began to race and my palms began to sweat. I straightened back up, my hands shaking, leaving my daughter where she sat, rocking to herself like a lunatic. My hand reached back and fumbled along the wall for the light switch. Because nothing bad happens in the light. All the bad things stay in the dark, right?

I turned on the light.

Kiki stopped rocking. She stopped muttering. Her eyes shot open and she raised her head to look at me in absolute shock. In betrayal. There was something in her eyes that I didn't recognize, something that scared me.

But not as much as the thing under the bed.

The long quilt draped over the bedframe fluttered a little as something reached out from under the bed. It was pale and stretched out, flexible and malleable, almost like a tentacle. Except tentacles don't have little mouths at the end, with sharp shards of teeth. The strange tentacle-like thing bypassed my daughter entirely – thank God. It made its way towards me – oh God.

As it left its home under the bed, a body followed in its wake. First came the head, a bulbous protrusion with folds of loose skin. The thing had small pinpricks for eyes, almost as though someone had taken a drill press to its head. The pinpricks were surrounded by black, the skin looking like it had been badly bruised. Inside the pinpricks was pure white – no pupils, no coloration. Just solid, frigid white. The tentacle protruded from where I assume the thing's mouth should have been.

Meaty arms with stumps instead of hands pulled the rest of the body out. It was fat, smothered in folds of skin as though it had once been even more immense and dropped so much weight that the skin had lost its elasticity. Its pale body wobbled and jiggled, the skin full of dirt and must from its nest under the bed.

Its hind legs were thick and strong, made for pursuit, if it could get its body up off the floor. It had wide feet and I imagined, for a moment, the feet planting themselves on the floor as it lunged at me, quick as a snake, to crush me under its weight.

I screamed.

I screamed and I screamed and I screamed and then everything happened very quickly.

"You fucking bitch!" She screamed, and the thing took that as its cue to lunge at me.

Its body lurched forward, aided by its strong appendages, enough to hit my legs and send me sprawling to the floor. I hit my head against the wall hard enough for my vision to go dark. The room was bright now, but in the light it seemed even smaller than it had before. Now I knew it was, indeed, a trap. A place that I was meant to feel safe, that I should have associated with my daughter. The last place I would have expected to be accosted.

When my vision cleared, I realized the thing was on top of me, its moist, sweaty skin suffocating me. Its eyes peered into mine as its tentacle-like mouth licked and stroked along my cheek…

And then slipped in-between my teeth.

On instinct, I snapped my jaws together, trying to sever the tentacle, but it was impossible. Although it had looked soft and malleable, the thing was diamond hard. It shoved is way down my throat, past my gag reflex, deep into my body.

I screamed again.

I could feel the sharp sting of its teeth digging into my flesh, sucking out my blood and…

And something else.

Next to us, my daughter kept chanting expletives."You fucking mother-bitch, son of Satan whore, fuck you, dirty cock cunt bitch fuck…"

The thing dug around inside my body, its eyes never leaving mine, searching for something…

That's all I remember before the pain overcame my senses and I passed out.


I came to in the hospital, surrounded by my loving husband and daughter, waiting anxiously for me to awake.

I was told a great many things as soon as I woke up, everyone trying to cram some piece of information into me as quickly as possible. They told me that I'd had a seizure, the first and only one I'd ever experienced. They said I'd hit my head and been rushed to the hospital. They said I'd probably be fine, but they wanted to run some tests to make sure.

I opened my mouth to tell them about the thing that attacked me… but nothing came out.

It took a while of disbelief and prompting before the doctors ascertained that, somehow in the course of my seizure, I'd lost my voice.

I tried writing out my account, to tell the doctors and my husband that there is something in our house, but they didn't believe me. A hallucination, they said. I saw them exchanging worried glances as I gestured vehemently that I wasn't crazy.

Things became stressful at home after that.

The doctors said my voice would probably come back – surely I wouldn't be mute forever – but it didn't. In the meantime, I began to search the house frantically, focusing special attention on the space under Kiki's bed.

There was nothing there.

I noticed, too, that Kiki was… different. Oh, it was just a little different, to be sure. But it was there. For the most part, she was the sweet, loving, kind little girl that I'd born and raised. But sometimes, a peak of something malicious would show through, something hateful and angry that was as foreign to Kiki as Greek. My Kiki had never been like that…

But she was now. At least sometimes.

As for me, I'm different, too. And not just because I'm mute. See, it feels like there's… pieces of me missing. Like parts of my mind and my personality have just vanished. I can't pinpoint what exactly is different, I just know it is.

I don't feel like myself anymore.

I've stopped trying to convince my husband of what happened. He made me see a therapist for a while, claiming that I needed to get help. I pretended that I got better, that I knew it was all a delusion.
He'll never believe me, no matter what I say.

That's why I'm writing this here, for all of you to read. Without my voice, this is the only way to tell my story, the only way to get people to listen to me. So, please, don't forget what I'm about to tell you.

The Wordeater is real. It steals your words. It steals your voice. But it steals something else, too… and sometimes, it chooses someone, maybe an innocent little child like Kiki, and it gives it to them. Like sticking shards of glass into their souls, little pricks of hatred and cruelty that can't be pulled out no matter how hard you try.

And it's still out there, searching for a place to stay, for someone else to consume.

Oh God, save us all from the Wordeater… TC mark

To The Girl Who Now Has The Man I Love

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 02:00 PM PDT


Dear Girlfriend,

Do not resent me. I am not writing this from a place of hate but rather, one of cathartic introspection. We may not know each other, but we’re connected by whom our hearts chose to love. The guy we both fell for. The nice guy you can take home. The kind of guy fairytales are made of.

The only catch being, he was mine and I screwed us up.

Forgive me for loathing you at first. I am, after all, only human. I was still hopelessly in love with him, and dealing with the guilt and regret of losing my first love. Seeing him move on and finding love again, while I was still nursing a broken heart was excruciating to say the least. However, I will not indulge you with painful details of my breakup. Instead, I want to remind you how lucky you are, because I don’t want you to commit the same mistakes I did.

Love him right because he’s a keeper. Do not question his feelings for you, ever. He would not be with you if he didn’t want to. Love his family and he would bring the world down to your feet. Shower him with affection when he is down and low. There will be cold, difficult days. Love is, after all, an arduous battle. When things get rough, please don’t give up on him like I did.

I have constantly juggled between “I hope she is an awful person and they don’t last” to “I hope she is wonderful and makes him happy.” I apologize for using every birthday candle, stray eyelash and shooting star to wish that he comes backs to me. Forgive me for wishing you heart break. I was only trying to salvage mine.

As more time has passed and nights have withered away, I have learned not to resent you. It was me who decided to let him go, and it is not your fault that he fell for you. It takes a lot of effort to say this, but I’m sure you must be a beautiful and special person if he chose you.

I hope you’ve never looked at me with insecurity or jealousy, because its unfortunately unnecessary. You never need to worry about him coming back to me. He will never dwell on his past. Rekindling died embers is not his thing.

It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally found some happiness. I have realised that just because he loves you now, doesn’t mean he didn’t love me then. I hope you can say the same. That his ‘once upon a time’ feelings for me don’t make his feelings for you any less real.

He was my once in a life time kind of guy. He forever will be.

I fervently hope you get to keep him.

The Girl Who Let Him Get Away TC mark

If My Tattoos Could Talk, They’d Bleed A Novel So Heartbreaking

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 01:00 PM PDT

Tim Gouw
Tim Gouw

I'm not one to openly share my feelings with anyone
but if the stories behind my tattoos
could come alive at first glance
they would bleed out a novel so heartbreaking.

There are many moments in life
in which I've wanted to capture
the essence of every single emotion
that flooded into my brain and overtook my mind
and they were moments so low
that I said to myself,
do not forget how much effort it took
to let this moment pass

There were moments in life
that deep in my soul,
I knew something was going to radically change
the path I was bound to take
and I wanted those moments etched into my skin.
I wanted them to live their own stories
painted in other languages
so they could tell the story
a different way each time someone asked.

And when I knew that
whatever was happening to me in that very moment
was significant enough to scratch onto my skin,
life seemed to change its course.

So when someone asks,
what does your tattoo say?
what do your tattoos mean?

It's more complicated that a one-sentence answer
or a simple explanation of a symbol.

They mean
in that very second in time
the moment ink sunk into the skin
and forever found its place on my body,
I was becoming a new person
and overcoming a dark time
in which I only wanted myself
to fully remember
so I wouldn't enter a time so painful

Anyone who can read
what these tattoos say
can be fully assured that
they know the darkest parts
of my heart.
But that is a place the world
has yet to venture. TC mark

The First Time I Saw You, I Knew

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 12:00 PM PDT

Yuri Arcurs
Yuri Arcurs

It was a muggy, stormy summer's night the first time I saw you.

Fresh out of high school, skin tan, a short, cloth colored summer's dress on, the first time I saw you.

I was wide eyed, young, innocent, interning at the local newspaper.

I had no idea what the real world was like, but I was going forward anyway, the first time I saw you.

In a room filled with jiving music – feet moving, trumpets singing, banjos strumming.

I stood in the corner with my camera, the first time I saw you.

You came up to me, with a charming, curly, flowing head of hair – you later described it to me as a mop.

Wearing a trucker's style BLM hat, you introduced yourself.

Talking loudly over the music, we instantly bonded over our inevitable connection.

There was something there, something that clicked – you knew it, I knew it.

You thought I was older, I wasn't about to tell.

I knew you were older, but it only drew me closer.

But then you left – you said you'd be back – you'd find me.

I stayed for a while – taking pictures, dancing to the music.

Always keeping an eye on the door – hoping you'd come back – hoping you'd find me.

I knew better, I knew it was silly – I left for college in several weeks, I was only 18.

But for whatever reason, I anxiously waited for you to return.

You never did, or I never saw you, but I thought surely I'll never forget the first time I saw you.

I thought about you for three weeks, you later told me you did as well.

Just when you became a figment of the past, I saw you.

I was on my horse – JP – you came to me and we talked.

I couldn't believe it was you in the hot summer sun.

That was the second time I saw you.

Several days passed, and I saw you again.

This time with liquor on our breath you kissed me.

We stayed up for the entire night in a friend's hot tub.

We talked about literature, politics, humanity, the environment and our hopes and dreams.

You were the man of my dreams.

Your kiss was like none other – hot, passionate, tender – the perfect fit to mine.

For the next three weeks we spent every possible moment together.

We went boating, water skiing, hiking, walking, star gazing, dancing, eating, drinking – you name it, we did it.

I was in love. I never told you, but I was.

I truly thought I could die happy.

I remember sitting with you at Sacred Rim.

It was just you and I – no one else – no reality.

The Wind River's stretched across from us, and there we sat, on a rock hanging over what felt like the edge of the world.

You kissed me, and I knew I'd never forget.

Everything I was at that moment in time I projected onto you.

My innocent, unknowing heart loved you – vulnerably and foolishly.

My last night in town you kissed me and told me you'd never forget, that you had grown from my existence – I tried to capture
that moment in my mind for eternity.

There were several reunions in the fall – I'd come home from college, you came to me – but it was never the same.

I loved you, but I had to let you go for both of our well-being.

You decided to work for the winter at a ski resort in Idaho.

You asked me if you had stayed in Wyoming, would it have changed? Would we have made it work?

Probably not, my dear. I wanted you, but possibly more than you wanted me. I had to let you go.

For months I cried – I'd never experienced heart break like this before.

But like anything else, I healed with time.

It was a year later from the first time I saw you and there you were – at the very same location as the first time.

We talked, but I couldn't open up – not again.

I'd gone through too much pain to expose myself to the beauty of you again.

How much I desired too – I wanted to kiss you with the months of my stored up passion – I wanted to make love with you.

I wanted to tell you my hopes and dreams and to hear yours too.

But instead, I left.

And that was the last time I saw you. TC mark

If Only I’d Known That It Would Be Our Last Valentine’s Day

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 11:00 AM PDT / CoffeeAndMilk / CoffeeAndMilk

Had I known this was going to be our last Valentine's Day, I would have stayed in that restaurant with you. Long after the check was paid. Long after the patrons, the waiters and the chefs had cleared out. I would have taken you to the dance floor and swayed to the sound of your voice, the dim lights glowing above like stars in the night sky. The band played, the waitress kept the drinks coming, and our hands held amidst a table full of food that we barely touched. Holding onto you, I felt so at peace. I stared into your eyes, smiling, murmuring how odd the night began, and how perfectly it ended.

Had I known this was going to be our last Valentine's Day, I would've stopped that fight we had on the way to the restaurant. What were we fighting about? I don't know. It seems so trivial now, so laughably insignificant in the scheme of things. To know that our fight, like the rest that would soon follow, would eventually end. I would have pulled the car over and gently pressed my face closer to yours and kissed you while the world passed us by. I should have known then that everything was hopelessly and tragically bound to come and go.

Had I known this was going to be our last Valentine's Day, I would have tried to top the year before. Our first Valentine's Day. I showered your bed with Hershey's kisses and left a cheap heart-shaped necklace on your desk, along with instructions to call me. My phone lit up and I dashed from my apartment over to yours. I knocked. You answered, the necklace adorned across your chest. You were about to tell me how much you loved it when you paused upon seeing the roses in my hands. Heart pounding, I looked into your eyes and recited the poem I had spent the week prior writing and memorizing. I began, stuttering, trembling in front of you like I was in some school talent show. I wanted it to be perfect. As I fumbled my way through the first rhyme, you brought your hands up to your face and whisked away the tears. It was so unbearably cute. I couldn't help it. I laughed. You did too. We both stood there laughing and crying. Two people so idiotically in love. You apologized. I said there was no need. The jitters were gone, and the poem became clear in my head. I cleared my throat. And I began once more.

I don't know why I didn't bother to do something else the following year, the year of our last Valentine's Day. All I had was a bag full of kisses and a copy of Begin Again. I knew how much you wanted to see it in theaters, how pissed you were when you found out it wasn't getting a wide release. So when I saw it at Target the week before, it felt like the stars had aligned. I shouldn't have stopped there. But I did. I didn't buy roses. I didn't even bother to write a haiku. It's true that we were in college and barely scraping by, but I was in even worse shape financially the year before, yet I couldn't shell out for this one. I don't know why I didn't try. Perhaps that was why it was our last Valentine's Day.

After we broke up, I remember wishing none of it had happened. Us. Our friendship. Having met in the first place. Now, another Valentine's Day approaches. I should be bitter, but I'm not. You were my best friend and you knew how much I hated Valentine's Day. I was still nursing the wounds of a breakup prior to meeting you. It left me hollow, and I balked at the smell of chocolates and roses. With you, I grew to love it again, heart-shaped necklaces and all. With us said and done, I'm in another position to hate Valentine's Day. Strangely enough, I don't.

I got to spend a Valentine's Day with you. Two of them, in fact. No matter how chaotic our last Valentine's Day started, how increasingly chaotic our relationship became, I still feel so lucky that I got to be with you, even luckier having loved you. We met in a world full of billions of people. We became friends amidst a sea of profile pictures on Facebook. Our lives collided out of the thousands of students at one little university. We held onto each other for a brief moment in time. And what a beautiful dance it was.

I wouldn't have changed the fact that it was our last Valentine's Day. Because nothing is ever meant to last. We were supposed to meet. We were supposed to end. It took me a while, but I see how romantic that is. How a grand and intimate chapter in my life began and ended with you. TC mark

Read This If You’re Also F*cking Tired of Facebook’s Timehop Flashbacks Of Misery

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 10:30 AM PDT

William Iven
William Iven

I love reminiscing about past experiences. I've been known to lock myself in my room and just look through pictures for hours, blocking away the present moment and just engaging fully with my past. Sometimes my reminiscing can be in regards to a vacation or just an event that left a mark on me. For the most part, I'm able to snap back into reality after a quick pity session.

Not so much anymore.

Not too long ago, Facebook introduced its response to the popular app, Timehop, known as "On This Day." Like Timehop, this feature informs you on your Facebook activity on said day. Of course this depends on how old or new your account is. If you're like me and got on the Facebook train early on, then it can go back eight years.

Sometimes an embarrassing conversation between you and your friends will show up. You know, back when people would religiously comment on your wall. Other times it will show you who you became friends with on said day. Most of the time, it's quite innocent. You take the past reminders with a grain of a salt. It's harmless fun and self-deprecating at times.


2015 as a whole was the best year of my life. I graduated college, traveled, and finally found friends who encourage and challenge me. This time last year found me studying abroad. This week last year, specifically, found me on spring break in Santorini, Paris, Rome and Naples. What more could a twenty year old want? I felt like I had it all and each day I reminded myself of how lucky I was. Back home, friends were studying for exams and working doubles. Meanwhile, I gallivanted around Europe with no worries except for where I was going to eat.


Then came 2016 and that "life high" came crashing down in full force. It's not that this year has been relatively bad, but it's not a Grecian vacation or an entire six months in England.

The anniversary of me leaving for England was a personal challenge. I woke up that morning and Facebook reminded me that "on this day" I left Florida for bigger and much better things. This was in January. April has since shown its skin and my habit of looking at my past has gotten a tad out of hand.

I'll send my friend reminders of what we did this time last year and we both allow ourselves to be engulfed with pity. It's a crash and burn, but most importantly, it takes way from the present.

I'm not condoning this behavior and I don't think it's relatively healthy by any means. Is it cathartic? Sure. But, like anything in life, it can be too much.

This is the first step of my recovery. My New Year's resolution was to be more in tuned with the present and so far, I'm doing a very bad job. It's going to change though and I truly think that I'll be able to find a happy medium. One that can allow me to reminisce, but still be fully aware of what's happening right in front of me. TC mark

17 People Reveal The Surprising Reasons Being Single Doesn’t Have To Suck

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 10:00 AM PDT

Mike Monaghan
Mike Monaghan

1. "The best part of being single is my independence. I don't think I could live without it. It honestly makes me happy how I can make myself the happiest I've ever been." – Maria, 25


2. "Not feeling guilty thinking of another girl while beating off." – Joe, 26


3. "Being able to devote time to myself. I've been on dates here and there, but none of them grew into something more and that's okay. When the opportunity presents itself for a relationship I will be ready, but for now I'm happy with where I'm at." – Amanda, 20


4. "Best part of being single is being able to do your own thing without having someone bitch at you about it." – Jason, 24


5. "You don't have to shave that often or share your food." – Melissa, 23


6. "You can be free from having to explain what you are doing every minute of the day. You can be flirty with other people and not have to feel guilty about it. You can just find yourself without having anyone influence you because there's no stress about another person and their life." – Kayla, 21


7. "You have the freedom to go anywhere in the world and do anything you want without the worry of someone else's plan." – Cam, 26


8. "Having more money from not buying someone else dinner, movies or gifts during the holidays." – Dave, 22


9. "The best part would be listening to my friends in relationships complain about their relationships. I never have to answer to a boyfriend or worry about their approval. I have nothing holding me down. I can do whatever I want and be as independent as I want." – Dana, 23


10. "Probably hearing all my friends say how they think people are so hot but they can't go for them because they are in a relationship. I have all the time in the world and can be with whoever I want to be with and just have fun." – Brooke, 21


11. "I never have to worry about entertaining anyone. I can always focus on myself and be happy. I just want to live life right now without any regrets." – Emily, 23


12. "Not having to worry about someone else. I can focus on myself more, on my personal goals and dreams." – Hunter, 25


13. "You don't have to pretend to like his shitty friends and laugh at their jokes that are the furthest thing from funny." – Brittany, 23


14. "I don't feel like I'm stuck or settling, which is honestly the best part. I hear some of my friends talk about how they don't know if they'd ever want to marry their boyfriends, even after being with them for so long. I don't get why their still dating, I'm just glad I can be happy on my own." – Kylie, 24


15. "Being able to do whatever YOU want. Not having to maybe do something you're not crazy about to make your significant other happy." – John, 26


16. "Not having to do a significant others laundry or clean up after them when they make a mess. I don't get why it's so hard for some guy to clean up after themselves." – Martha, 22


17. "When you're in a relationship you want to naturally fit with your partner and aren't always exactly being yourself whether you realize it or not. But when you're single you just are who you are, you aren't subconsciously thinking or trying to be someone you're not." – Zac, 22 TC mark

This Is What Sexual Harassment Does To You. And It’s Never A Joke.

Posted: 23 Apr 2016 09:00 AM PDT

Sergey Zolkin
Sergey Zolkin

When I was in high school my teacher redefined the terms “rape” and “sexual assault” to mean “a forced invasion of someone’s personal space” and everyone laughed. Of course we laughed, we weren't even 18, still living in loving, sheltered households and it was funny to walk too close to your friend and make a rape joke. What comedians, we didn’t know about the impact of our own naivety.

I went on to university, still not fully understanding the concept that lesson had placed before us, yet knowing that I needed to be wary that nothing of that definition ever happened to me. Since moving away from home, I’ve had to endure varying degrees of personal space invasion; men grabbing me in nightclubs, trying to steal kisses without even caring about my name, men standing too close to me at ATMs so I’ve had to yell at them to back off, one of my own contemporaries, drunk and needy – stroking the back of my neck and holding my waist, despite my protests that I didn’t want to be touched.

Society has taught me that as a single woman walking by myself to class that I need to carry pepper spray in my hand. It’s taught me to shrink away from groups of rowdy men in supermarket aisles or on the street. Watch your drink girl, don’t walk home at night, use your house keys as a weapon, be aware of your own weak, victimised and objectified body and what it does to sick men’s brains-because the way I dress is apparently now an invitation for someone to attack me.

And then it happened. In the broader sense of the definition of sexual assault, it happened — multiple times, yet I only recognised it for what it was at the last minute.

I went out with this person for drinks last week, simply because he’d been hounding me for months, having difficulty taking “no” for an answer and because I was mad at someone who deserved it a little bit. We went out and he bought me drinks and I got drunk, then he tried to kiss me. I pushed him away the first time, he played it off like a joke and I went along with it. The second time I succumbed and then told him it was never going to happen again. I didn’t want it to happen again. I didn’t like it.

He assured me that it was a once-off thing, he wasn’t going to try and kiss me again, he wanted us to stay friends. I went home early and didn’t tell my mother because I was scared of the look she’d give me.

“How could you be so stupid Harriet, going out for drinks with men you barely know and letting them kiss you when you weren’t so sure you wanted it? You idiot.”

I kept it a secret, put it in my pocket and went back to university.

Then he showed up, wanted to take me out lunch. I said okay because despite the slip up I liked his company, I had nothing else to do and I knew he’d hound me for months if I didn’t.

At lunch he made jokes about how attractive I am, how he only has 20 more days to “get with me” because when I turn 21 I won’t be the youngest he’s ever had, then he leant in to kiss my cheek.

I pushed him off, he said it was a joke, I wanted to go home, so he took me there.

This is when it gets scary, this is the part I keep reliving — bile rising in my throat every time I think about it. When I said goodbye to him he said he wanted a kiss for good luck. I refused, told him I didn’t want to, but he held my face and did it anyway. I told him that that was harassment, told him it was too far before he grabbed me from behind and pressed himself against me.

I’ve never pushed someone away so hard, walked so quickly through my gate and into safety, felt so confused — standing in my bedroom, trying to make my brain work.

What joke? It wasn’t a joke. Trusting this man with my company, having him abuse it, ignoring my no’s, invading my personal space to the point where I felt physically sick and uncomfortable. Where is the joke here?
I sat on my bed, texting various friends to make sure I wasn’t overreacting, that this wasn’t normal. And then I cried. For 2 hours I lay down and sobbed, feeling dirty and used. My best friend phoned me from miles away, she knows how I feel, she understands how tainted a touch can become and how quickly intentions can turn sour. She let me cry into the phone, told me I was probably always going to carry a part of the incident with me — like a devil on my back.

I haven’t told my mom yet. I don’t know how to. She’ll read this post and phone me and I’ll probably cry all over again.

Everything has changed. I’ve started calculating people’s intentions, watching my back constantly, and if I go out at night I know I’ll see the shadow of him in every corner, behind every villainous smile and feel sick.

Assault is a spectrum, like most things in life. There’s no black and white — there’s a very real grey area that some people think is okay to cross into. In the broader scheme of things he didn’t touch me inappropriately, he didn’t place his hands anywhere deemed “private”. Yet I still feel dirty, waves of nausea come over me every time I picture this man’s face. I’ve received so many hugs and messages from the people who care, and they aren’t okay with what happened.

There’s something about this grey area that’s stripped me of my fearlessness. The girl who sees good intentions in everybody, who trusts so willingly, played with matches and got burned.

This person has been blocked, from everything, from my life. If I ever see him again I will yell until the sky falls down. I will beat my fists and scream “no” until he and the rest of the world realises that abusing someone’s personal space like that is never okay, that sexual harassment is not a “joke”, no means no and I’m not playing around when it comes to my own safety.

I’m not laughing. TC mark