“Can You Take Off Your Headphones?”: A Guide To Completely Ignoring Social Cues

According to a recently published article by The Modern Man dot com, the right time for a man to strike up a conversation in public with a woman he doesn’t know, but would like to perform sex on, is always. She’s weeping quietly into a tissue? Only you, random dude in the subway, have the power to cheer her up! She’s choking on a piece of her trail mix? SPEAK UP, LADY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER ALL THAT GURGLING!  She’s holding hands with her husband? Punch that beta male in the face and move in.

like me

The article zeroes in on one such situation: a woman you’d like to invite for a ride on The Bone Train has ventured outside her home wearing headphones, instead of a sign that says “Yes, Brad, I’d Love To Do Anal In Your Bed That Has A Duvet Cover But No Sheets!”

I know- super inconvenient, and a total rookie mistake on her part. Luckily, the author has a foolproof plan to help you navigate right around this totally-unintentional barrier that women are definitely not putting up on purpose! Let’s take a look.

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Anatomy of a Facebook Hiatus

Y’all, the upcoming election is really fucking up my life. Everyone is angry about something, most of us are scared about lots more things, and there is currently a 42% chance that America’s next president will be the reanimated corpse of a white supremacist’s jack-o-lantern. For the past few months, I’ve felt helpless, overwhelmed, and close to a rage-coma every time I log onto Facebook. So last week, I temporarily deactivated my account.

I know. I am so #brave.


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“Plus-Sized Girls Are Eager To Please”: Dismantling A Steaming Turd

Earlier this week, my friend Adam Avitable hateshared an article on Facebook called “15 Thoughts Every Guy Has When Dating A Bigger Woman”, published on a platform called TheRichest (really? no y’all not.)

As you can imagine, people of all genders and sizes saw the title, clicked the bait, and got heated (myself included.) If I make it to 100 years old, the secret to longevity that I’ll share with the world in my Times article will surely be, “I made it a point to get mad about something on the internet every single day.”

In the midst of my #FeministRage, I knew this toilet-clogging wordlog needed to be expertly torn apart, and who better to do it than I, a not-size-0 person who has been striving toward unattainable weight loss goals for almost 10 years? #TheHeroGothamNeeds

The piece is now mysteriously gone from TheRichest’s absolutely-not-rich-at-all website, presumably because the lone female employee got a look at it, murdered the author (a man named Jim Hogue, with whom no one should ever engage in sexual intercourse), and threatened a sexual harassment lawsuit if it wasn’t immediately scrubbed from existence. But thanks to the magic of Google Cache, I can still drown in a maelstrom of hate over something that technically no longer exists. Thanks, The Internet!

Without further ado, here are some screencaps from The Worst Thing I’ve Seen This Month, Which Is Saying Something Considering The Month Ends Tomorrow: “15 Thoughts Every Guy Has When Dating A Bigger Woman” by Jim Hogue, who apparently cannot count higher than the number 15 (probably because that is his secret age)(and with whom no one should ever engage in sexual intercourse)(especially if he is, as I suspect, a minor).
Let me begin by saying: Jim, are you sure we can’t convince you to write poetry?

Picture it scribbled on a napkin in your freshman dining hall and left on a table for two:

Lots of times you see a guy/
he could be normal sized or he/
could be overweight himself

*sheds single tear*

Anyway, let’s get to the underlying issue, which is this: when Jim sees a man walking happily with a woman whose thighs have a greater circumference than his dick, he feels sorry for the dude. Is it really because fatties are gross, or because of the crushing loneliness in which his shitass worldview has prompted him to exist? WHY WILL NO ONE HOLD JIM’S HAND?


Ashley Graham, JESUS, could you PLEASE stop blowing up Jim Hogue’s phone. How many times does he have to tell you? Unlike these other desperate CHUBBY CHASERS, Jim is just not willing to prioritize “happiness over appearance”, and he will not take your call even when he is done sending pleading, comma-less emails to Kate Moss. #ThirstyForJim


“14. My Girl Can Cook”maybe

This article is 2,502 words long. It could have been… *counts words in above sentence*… 17.

“12. It Is Good For His Confidence”


Some guys. HAHA, NOT ME THO! Definitely not me! I get so much… *discreetly looks at word written on palm* …vageema! HA! Bitches, amirite????? *chokes back sob*”


“10. They Are Easy To Talk To”


Last month, I was roadtripping home from a wedding and stopped in a mid-Florida McDonald’s for some hangover nuggets. While I was waiting for my order, an older gentleman sat down at my booth with me, complimented my hair/nail polish/toenail polish, and launched into a 5-minute story about his recent career change/health problems/grandchild (whom he loves very much). IT’S BECAUSE I SKIPPED THE GYM LAST WEEK, ISN’T IT?

no no no.gif

“8. The Cuddling Is The Best”


a) Fact:”Overweight women should hire themselves out as professional cuddlers” is the sentence most likely to be found in the secret diary of a serial killer!
b) It’s likely that Jim Hogue tries to sit next to bigger women on the subway so he can take a gentle nap on their breasts. They “are always willing!” The police report and brief probationary period were just one big misunderstanding!
c) …is your brother ok 😦 why so much snuggling 😦 can somebody check on him 😦


It’s not til 11 long-winded, brutally oblivious entries later that we get a look at what the fuck is actually Jim’s problem.

“6. There Is Less Pressure On How You Look”


Jim-ese to Basic English translation: “Bro, you remember when I was dating that bitch Jessica who always complained about the dumbest shit? Like, ‘Take a shower, Jim, it’s been 3 weeks’ and ‘You’ve been wearing those sweatpants since Christmas morning and they’re falling apart’ and ‘Maybe we could have dinner together sometime this month instead of you going to Burger King and eating by yourself at 10pm?’? Man, I don’t know what her problem was. Must’ve been that she was a size 2. Never stick your dick in crazy, amirite???”

Basic English to Intuitive English Translation: “I am so alone. Do you wanna snuggle, man? My 12-year-old brother is at school.”


Jim, if I’m reading you correctly, several women of varying sizes have probably told you to fuck right off in your lifetime, and while you probably deserved it, I’m sorry if it made you sad. Regardless, there’s no need take your hurt feefees and turn them into a 15-item thinkpiece, generalizing one of your shittiest opinions to every living, bepenised human being.

I realize this is hypocritical coming from a person who just wrote an angry 1,000 word response to a shitty 2,500 word thinkpiece, when instead, this post could have consisted of a single screencap:


Am I a size 6? No.

Would I lie and say I’ve never eaten an entire pizza by myself? Nah.

Do I, or any other women, care what the fuck Jim Hogue thinks?


bitch bye.gif

Cutouts: Our Nation In Peril

Last week I turned 26, which means that within 14 days, every person who I have ever met will be married except for me. This is fine! I love weddings, because I love love, my friends, and when other people pay for me to drink champagne until I cry.

Lately, I’ve been using Rent The Runway for my formal dress needs. It’s an incredible service; I’ve paid a fraction of the retail price to wear gorgeous designer dresses for the weekend. But, in typical Carly fashion, I’m starting to Catholic-guilt myself out of paying $40-ish rental fees for a dress that I’ll never get to wear again.

I’ll be attending a beach wedding in 3 weeks, so I’ve been on the hunt for something short, fun, and that makes me look like I’ve been on the GOOP diet since I was 2 years old. With these criteria in mind, I made my way to several non-RTR dress purveyors.

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Angry Face: A Petty User’s Guide to Facebook Reactions

Ever since the introduction of Facebook’s Like button, users have whined about the lack of a Dislike button. It’s a fair point, and one that’s often clarified in the comment section: “I don’t ‘like’ that someone sideswiped your car while it was parked in the garage and didn’t leave a note! I’m just showing my support!!!”

After something like 8 years, Facebook finally decided it was tired of watching your Great Aunt Martha try to explain why her clicking the Like button does not mean that she likes it when bad things happen to you.


But rather than just adding the oft-requested Dislike button to the mix, they added a whole host of new “Reactions”. Now, when someone posts a picture of their brunch with the caption “#sundayfunday #mimosas #yaassskween #blessed <3“, we have the following choices:all rx

I felt weird about these new additions at first. It makes me nervous when the number of Likes on my posts is smaller than normal because everyone is clicking Love or Haha instead (I am universally adored). But then I realized that most of us are missing out on the best possible uses of these new emojis: pettiness, childish behavior, and general headfuckery.

If you are “nice” or “mature” or “an adult”, this strategy may not be for you. For the rest of us, I’ve compiled a helpful guide to using the new Reactions in a petty-as-fuck manner, guaranteed to warm your cold heart with the anger and bewilderment of the innocent. Read More

Trump Translations

Buzzfeed posted an article yesterday called Here’s What Trump Supporters Believe Will Happen If He Doesn’t Win. Within, Trump voters proudly posed with their predictions for the U.S. in the event that it does not elect a cantaloupe that’s been sitting in a closed Igloo cooler since July 2007, somehow becoming both sentient and horrifyingly racist, as its next president. As you’ll see, they tried, but most of them are way off the mark.starrLet’s take a look at where they went wrong. All photos of people (besides Trogdor the Burninator) are credited to the above-referenced Buzzfeed post. Read More

On Procrastination

When I started grad school last fall, I was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little shit. “I’m an adult now. I’m going to kill this. I will be organized and do my homework and PUSH THROUGH and have a Masters degree and make so much money that I just build a house out of money and eat money for breakfast and set money on fire in the fireplace which is also made out of money”, I thought, in that annoying high-pitched voice that women use when they’re making fun of something another woman said.

“This time is different,” I smirked, head held high as I walked out of an 8-hour workday and into my first night class in my classiest biz-caj outfit. There was NO WAY I’d fall back into the same patterns that plagued me during my undergraduate, high school, middle school, elementary, pre-k/daycare, and in-utero educational careers.

hair toss

Bless my little heart. Even now, 2 semesters later, I truly remember believing these things about myself. Denial is a powerful drug. For a fleeting second, I could almost understand how my ex still thinks he’s “a good person” and “handsome”.

Friends, I’m talking about procrastination. According to a study that I just made up, procrastination is the 2nd biggest problem facing people in my generation (right after that new strain of medication-resistant gonorrhea). Procrastination is a nasty habit to break, and that’s coming from someone who’s successfully quit smoking more than 50 times!

I’m not here to tell you how to quit procrastinating- if I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing a fucking blog post about it instead of reading about transactional cost theory. I’m here to propose that, like many other bad habits, procrastination sneaks up on us using the same distinct pattern every time, and EVERY TIME, we fall for it.



Uuuuuuuggggghhhhhh. A 5-page paper, due in 2 weeks?? But… why? Why, at an institution with a solid academic program for the field in which I’ve chosen to pursue permanent employment, would I have to write… a PAPER???



Okay. 2 weeks is 14 days. Here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to read the 8 suggested articles this week. That’s 2 per day. Then next week, I will write 1 page per day. BOOM. 5 pages. Piece of fucking cake. I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.

piece of cake


*settles down on couch with glasses, articles, highlighter, mug of tea, trophy for being the smuggest little douchebag*
“Here we go! 2 articles tonight, no excuses.”
*reads 1 page*
*rewards self with 5-minute Twitter break*


*sprints out door*

Repeat for 10 days.


HAHAHAHA! EVERYTHING IS FIIIIINE! First plan was stupid anyway. YOLO; jagerbombs; sleep til noon. You still have 3 days which is basically 3 years. For 5 pages?! Please. You’re Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds, remember?


Dear Lord Baby Jesus, lying there in your…your little ghost manger, lookin’ at your Baby Einstein developmental…videos, learnin’ ’bout shapes and colors…

Forgive me, for I have sinned. I have besmirched the name of academia, and all that it stands for. For my transgressions, I could not be sorrier.

But maybe if you could just drop a small meteor near campus over the weekend while it’s empty and no one is there and I would have JUST ONE MORE WEEK TO


2am, the night before the deadline. Palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy.


After staring at my tiny laptop for 6+ hours, my tiny, ineffectual words begin to blur on the screen.

Why do I continue to inflict upon myself this constant cycle of psychological torture? Life could be so easy. And yet here I sit. Toiling. Miserable. A rubber band stretched just shy of snapping.


“Hey, this is pretty fucking good!…

(clicks submit button)


…and behold. I did it all… in only 2 days.”



car explosion


Because life is too short to spend in a textbook (or a mental state that doesn’t involve near-constant tension headaches)!

i regret nothing

My Fitness Frenemy

There comes a time in every person’s life when he or she looks in the mirror and sees this:


Wait… Really? Not everyone??? Alright, fine. But know that if you’ve never sobbed in traffic while texting your significant other that you wish you weren’t “built like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s inbred cousin” (actual words- I checked), this post may not be for you.

For as long as I can remember, my relationship with food has been plagued by more drama, bathroom-sobbing, and overall emotional breakdowns than all 20 seasons of The Bachelor combined. Name any diet plan you can think of- South Beach, Atkins, Weight Watchers, low carb, no carb, Cabbage Soup, Master Cleanse (aka the Lemonade with Cayenne Pepper Diet), Major Depressive Episode, Weekly Chipotle Colon Cleanse, Poking At Your Stomach To See If It Goes Away, Just Cigarettes, Crying A Lot, Hungarian Tapeworm Implantation- and I’ve tried it, sometimes with disastrous results.

**Carly’s Into That Official Disclaimer: Do not, under any circumstances, participate in the Master Cleanse. You will cry; you will shit your brains out; you will cry WHILE shitting your brains out; you will experience visual hallucinations; you may or may not fantasize about eating non-food objects like your desk chair. I definitely didn’t! Not at all! Haha!**

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A Better Driver’s Ed

It was the summer after I’d turned 16 and I still didn’t have my driver’s license. This was mainly due to the fact that my parents are the only two people who have ever read the Florida “Jesus Christ, Your Kid Is About To Start Driving” Manual, which recommends that each teen complete 50 hours of supervised driving before becoming licensed.

i totally paused

RECOMMENDS. The manual actually uses the word “recommends”, as in, “our chef recommends the 2007 New Zealand Pinot Gris as a pairing for the salmon” or “ma’am, we recommend that you put your pants back on or you’ll need to come down to the station”. In no place does it say that a parent will need to provide a signature or even a verbal statement that they’ve followed the recommendation- “I solemnly swear on my life that I have allowed Asjhlaiie to chauffeur me around in my Chevy Malibu for 50 hours”- but all of my well-planned arguments about recommendations versus requirements fell on deaf ears.

That’s how I ended up in a week-long Driver’s Ed course at my high school, taught by the girls’ basketball coach, who went by Coach (of course). We spent our days driving Coach in lazy circles around the parking lot; driving Coach and 3 of our peers in lazy circles around the slower parts of town; and, when it was too hot (in Florida, this is every day except select occurrences of January 11th), watching Coach’s bootlegged version of “Anaconda: Hunt For The Blood Orchid” in a musty portable classroom.

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Millenial Christmas Carols

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, y’all!

If you work in an office, you’ve probably had the pleasure of listening to eight different Christmas Pandora stations blaring in the cube farm for almost three weeks now. Maybe my left eye will stop twitching sometime soon, but for now, I’ve had plenty of time to ponder Christmas song lyrics. For example:


What in the everloving fuck is a hop-along boot? Why are we giving guns to the children? (HA! Just kidding- this is America!) Janice and Jen, listen gurls, that doll sounds creepy as fuck. You will wake up with that doll standing over you being all, “blooooooood”.

The world needs Christmas songs that its younger generations can identify with. Songs for coming home for Christmas break and knowing that some weird guy from middle school is going to try to buy you a jagerbomb at that bar you went to every night in college with your fake ID. Thus, I bring you: Millenial Christmas Carols.

Siiiilent night / hooooly shit / everyone I graduated highschool with / is in this goddamn bar right now

You better watch out / you better not cry / someone at Christmas dinner who you love and may have previously respected is voting for Trump


Last Christmas, I gave you my heart / and the very next day / I was all, Jesus Christ, I’m never drinking champagne again / Sarah, who the fuck was that guy I cried at?? My head hurts

Your drunk uncle is dreaming of a White Christmas / just like the ones we used to have before the goddamn Muslims invaded America and The Jews started stealin’ all our goddamn money and don’t even get me started about Black-on-Black crime!


Have a holly jolly Christmas! / it’s the best time of the year / I don’t know if there’ll be snow / but looking at the projected global climate, snow may be a thing of the past. I mean, fuck, it’s 86 degrees outside…


Hark, hear the bells / Sweet silver bells / All seem to say / “Put the fucking phone down, you drunk mess, he does NOT deserve to hear from you on Christmas Eve.”


Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing… a ring / I don’t mean on the phone / For God’s sake, Matthew, we’ve been dating for 5 fucking years, IT’S TIME TO SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT!!!

Frosty the snowman / was a jolly happy soul / free from the soul-crushing guilt about what happened at the office Christmas party after 14 solo cups of “Jingle Juice”


I don’t want a lot for Christmas / there is just one thing I need / I don’t care about the presents / underneath the Christmas tree / so like, a Target giftcard would be fine. Really, Aunt Beth. Promise.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas / Let your heart be light / And for God’s sake, Jessica, do something about that hair. No wonder Matthew hasn’t proposed yet!


Do you hear what I hear? (Do you hear what I hear?)/
It’s Sallie Mae, calling for the 47th time this week. Merry Christmas. Pay your fucking student loans.