Stephanie Georgopulos

The crowd picks up on the whisper and the chant quickly gains traction. “Fight. Fight. Fight! Fight! FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!!!!! FUCKING FIGHT JGVDJNBJLRNBOB!”

“Hey. You awake? I’m on the way home. UGHH. No, it was okay. I couldn’t find my headband, so that blows. Made it out of there with my favorite bra and a broken dry spell so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. What time does McNeely’s open? Think I left my scruples in the washroom.”

Living with a girl does not mean the laundry gets washed and folded with precision. Hey babes, some of us are women of the world – we’re too busy hustling to clean up every five minutes.

I wonder how much of the health-related information I’ve acquired over the years is completely made up. Eating an arsenal of snack foods past Midnight makes you fat. Drink eight glasses of water a day at minimum or you’re doomed. Fight against every human instinct you have, and you’ll be healthy. It’s all such bullshit. I think this ‘not wearing underwear’ thing has some legs though. I recall the phrase, “Let your vagina breathe.”

During the three years that I worked a ‘9-to-5’ (though, in reality, it was more of a ’10-to-whenever-the-fuck-I-say, you-need-this-money- so-I’m-going-to-take-advantage-of-you, need-you-to-come-in-Saturdays-too, sorry-sucker’), I dated a freelancer. A few of them, actually.

While TGIF’s theme was designed to appeal to a broad demographic, SNICK’s pandered to kids. It was aspirational, and it made me have wet dreams about owning cable television and orange couches.

Apple Obsessive Disorder is characterized by the overwhelming, uncontrollable affinity one develops for the Apple brand. It usually begins with an individual’s first iPod purchase and swells with the release of every new generation of Apple products.

It’s A-OK to make out with your ex-stepbrother at weddings, play footsies with him under the dining room table, and correct his age-appropriate date when she misquotes Hamlet. Seriously. Your dad won’t even mind.

It’s 9:05 AM and you’ve already devoured your Chinese food leftovers from the night before, drank two tall glasses of water and a Diet Coke, swallowed a double dose of multivitamins, and smoked four cigarettes – but to no avail. At this point, you must concede: it’s officially Bring Your Hangover to Work Day. Again.

I know I had some bouts with untreated depression and I was addicted to boys like someone had liquefied them and shot them into my veins, but over time, my childhood has become like a film I know well but haven’t watched in years. Well, I dusted off that VHS tape. I hit rewind. I pressed play. AND IT WAS LIKE WATCHING THE RING.

I did some light research to paint what I believe to be as accurate a picture as we’re going to get regarding Carrie’s unkempt, irresponsible financial situation. For accuracy’s sake, this article refers specifically to Season 1 of the show, which took place in 1998.

Parents who’ve perfected the art of packing a lunch deserve a medal and a show on the Food Network. I don’t have kids (or a boyfriend, or health insurance, or a driver’s license, the list goes on), but I now have perspective on every elementary school lunch I’ve ever endured or encountered.

Or maybe it’s more of a bump than a lump; it could even be a hive, several of them, really. It could be a discoloration or an infected something or a personality disorder that had gone unnoticed until now. “Do I suddenly seem more anxious/ unable to pay attention/ depressed?” you wonder aloud.

My dad has tried his hand at many occupations – a florist, a SQL programmer, a cab driver – but much like being a father; “musician” is a role he couldn’t shed if he tried. For Father’s Day, I “interviewed” him. I wanted to show him that his passion for music is as worthy of celebration as his passion for our family.

Go to work, open your iTunes, and play this song continuously at the lowest volume possible. It’s been a few months, and you don’t feel any more fulfilled. In fact, your condition is worsening. You wake up every morning with a dull ache in your heart, the one you feel when you know something is over.

When taking a cab. Beyond trusting that your cab driver knows where he’s going and isn’t ripping you off, you have to actually trust that this person is indeed, a cab driver. I sound like a Paranoid Polly, but my mom was actually kidnapped by a fake cab driver when she was my age. All you need is a Crown Victoria and a smile – boom. Cab driver.

This isn’t some Zack Morris “time out” moment where you need to continuously break the fourth wall and bring us up to speed, ala “TIME OUT! Can you guys believe that someone like MOI is here, on a dating website? I mean, the internet! It’s CaAaRrRaAaZzZyY!” No. It’s not crazy. It’s 2011.

New York is like a fucking college campus, down to catching your friend on her bi-weekly walk of shame while you’re on your way to work. You can hit it off with someone who seemed like they moved to New York specifically for you; just to be charming and interesting with a side of mind-blowing sex, but when you finally look them up on Facebook the reality is much bleaker than that.