Seriously, Serial.

I am completely in love with the podcast Serial. Partly, because I like things that everyone else likes, and also because I really, really love cereal. #fruitypebbles

I think it's safe to assume this how our grandparents felt about Matlock? Because every Thursday I need my fix of that sweet-talkin' inmate, who may or may not have killed his ex-girlfriend in a parking lot.

For those of you that have no idea what I'm talking about, Serial is a podcast from the creators of This American Life. It is essentially the story of Adnan Syed and his ex-girlfriend Hae Min Lee, both high school seniors. Hae disappeared on January 13, 1999 and one month later was found dead. Adnan was arrested and has served 15 years of a life sentence for a crime that he insists he did not commit. Each episode of the podcast follows journalist Sarah Koenig, as she tries to get the real story. Read a better and more in-depth description here.

Now of course I like this show. I am a liberal with Weezer glasses who loves farmer's markets. I am NPR's core demographic. But just to clarify, my husband, who would rather chew off his arm than listen to 15 seconds of All Things Considered, loves this shit.

It's like Law and Order but instead of Ice T screaming at me with his crimped ponytail, Sarah Koenig is lulling me into a calm daze while detailing the tragic, life-altering events of a group of popular high schoolers.

I was lame as fuck in high school, so this nonsense would have never happened to me. You can't really get arrested for a crime while you spend all day alternating between masturbating to Dawson's Creek and changing your AOL away message. wHy U gOt 2 go ~N~ mAkE tHingZ sooo comPLicaTeD?

In fact, all I wanted in high school was for some beautiful, exotic boy to love me so much he might try to kill me in a Best Buy parking lot. I mean, fucking swoonville, amirite?

So here I am every Thursday listening to Serial, pants off, eating Lucky Charms, and asking Matt how bad he wants to bang Adnan. The answer is always: super bad and please don't blog about this. whoops.

But here's the problem: this coming Thursday is the last episode of the season--which means the last episode featuring the Adnan/Hae case. And unless the episode begins with, "He's innocent and we're driving him back to his family right now." Or "He's guilty, we found a picture of him wearing his "I Did It" t-shirt." I'm going to lose my whole fucking mind.

I have become too emotionally invested in this. I spend at least 30 minutes after every episode turning into Nancy Drew and googling random legal information, wondering if I could crack this case open my damn self. You mean they never read him his Miranda Rights? Case Closed. Ice T let this man go free.

But seriously, what am I going to do? I'm worried that soon, the smart, funny Sarah Koenig, whose voice is a lovely mix of honey and cigarette smoke, is going to shoot to #2 of my Enemy List (right after that one customer who said I reminded him of Sarah Palin). I'm just going to be on every one of her social media accounts like, "why did you let me love you if you knew it wasn't going to be forever?"

Basically the only thing that will console me if I don't get the answers I need, is NPR literally sending me hundreds of boxes of real cereal.

Then your girl will be like "Adnan, who?" yumyumyumyumyum

Anyone else completely obsessed with this podcast? What will you do Thursday?

It's Like Rain on Your Wedding Day.

This is the post I've been meaning to write, but absolutely, positively do not want to write. I'd rather do anything else than begin the emotional train wreck that will become this blog post.

Now, I know what at least a couple of people are thinking.

OHHH, THAT BITCH GOT LEFT AT THE ALTAR.

No! That is not what happened. Fuck you, guys. He went through with marrying me. sucker. 

It was beautiful. Small and intimate. My brother married us and we were able to completely surprise his grandparents with our nuptials. We laughed and cried and then laughed at our crying. We were the couple on top of the cake. We were giddy. However shortly after the ceremony, our beloved English Bulldog, Zeus, passed away. It was completely unexpected. The emergency vet told Matt it seemed like Zeus had some sort of underlying respiratory condition that went unnoticed, and the mix warmth and excitement, labored his breathing. It stopped his heart. She assured us it could have happened at any time.

We were devastated. Zeus had been our homie for over five years and we were ridiculously obsessed with him. He was our partner-in-crime and, as silly as it may sound, our furry little kid. 

Despite the horrible circumstances, our friends and family helped us make the best of the remainder of the day--well, them and a little panacea known as alcohol. But as soon as everyone went home, Matt and I were left with the task of dealing with an empty apartment. 

The next couple weeks were taxing, we tried to come to terms with this loss, and the fact that it happened on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of our relationship. Eleven years we waited to get married, and within 20 minutes of saying "I do", our squishy dog-child was gone. That fucked with me pretty bad, I'm not going to lie.

I wish I could have come back after being away for such a long time and say that everything was perfect, but that just ain't life, baby. As I get older, I'm learning that life will fuck with you sometimes. It will tear you apart, just to prove you're capable of putting yourself back together. And even though I miss Zeus every single day, I can't help but feel lucky that I didn't lose any family. Or friends. Or my husband.

Recently, I saw a picture of someone I know on Facebook. She was sitting on her fiance's grave in her wedding dress. Someone always has it worse.

It's been almost two months since our wedding and Zeusie's passing. Sometimes I'll come home and still expect him to greet me at the door, before being reminded of his absence by the silence in my house. But then again, sometimes I still forget that I'm someone's wife now.

I guess these things just take time.

Updates and Lifemates.

Yo! It has been forever since I've posted anything and while I wish I had a good excuse (superhero duties?) I've mainly just been busy with life away from the internet. But because I didn't want you guys to think that I jumped off a roof after serving one too many frappuccinos, I thought I'd give you all some updates/excuses as to why I've been MIA.

Without further ado ...

1.) I moved. There is a certain kind of hell that can only be experienced by putting all of your shit in boxes, moving those boxes one city block away, and then unpacking those boxes. It makes you reevaluate all of your choices as a consumer. Why do I have this many scarves when I live in Florida? Why do I own 3 crockpots? I could have sent several children to college with the amount of shit I've purchased at Sephora! And if you're anything like me, it makes you realize that no one told you that you need to dust more than once every 5 years. My bare apartment looked like the Wild West with dog-hair tumbleweeds rolling all about. I'm disgusting.

However, the new apartment looks great, and I'm currently best friends with my duster--which should last about another week or so.

2.) I'm getting married. I've spouted ever so eloquently on this very blog that I would rather share a needle with Kesha than tie myself to someone for eternity. I'm currently holding the record for longest engagement ever (9 years. Suck it, Brangelina.) But the dude I share a bathroom with (aka my fiancé, Matt) finally wore me down and we set a date. October 18, 2014. Which is soon as fuck, so I've been busy pissing off family members (we're having the smallest wedding ever) and stress eating Little Debbies like it's my job.

And finally.

3.) New Blog. I'm planning on completely rebranding I'm Not Really a Barista very soon (once I figure out how the internet works). I've mentioned before that I've felt myself growing beyond this little barista niche I've carved for myself, and I feel like it's finally time to create a new space that can grow with me as a writer and an asshole. My time as an actual barista is coming to an end sooner than later, and I'm starting to feel a little too old to bitch about lattes and talk about dicks on the internet. I'm ready to solely talk about dicks with no mention of lattes. But seriously, this blog has been my home for so long, but I think it's time for a revamp. As soon as I have more information, I promise to update all of you via this blog and every social media outlet I have. I know the 3 people who read this regularly are waiting with breath that is bated.

So that's it. I moved. I'm getting hitched. And going to quit bitching about being a barista.

Shit's about to get real, y'all!

Happy Father's Day. Please Don't Shoot Me.

I live in FL and my AC went out 2 days ago, and I now know what true suffering is. So because it's Father's Day and I can't bring my laptop into the bathtub full of ice I'll be laying in for the rest of the night, here's an old post about my dear old Dad.

***

My dad is an interesting man.

Not interesting like he runs marathons and speaks Latin.

Interesting like he goes in and out of a Cajun accent without ever having spent any real time in Louisiana. He is obsessed with Nazi history, much to the dismay of my half-Jewish mother. He refers to himself solely as Padre de Gato and almost shot me in the face when I was a kid.

Yeah, you read that right.

I was six years old, and my dad almost offed me.

He was teaching my brother and I about gun safety. Being a southern-raised good ol' boy, my dad having an arsenal of weapons was as common as other dads having golf clubs.

"Never touch my guns," he said. "Now this one isn't loaded, but..."

Pop!

A single bullet whizzed by my head and shattered the dining room window.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My mom drew up divorce papers.

It was a pretty traumatic day.

Surprisingly enough, my dad was not kicked out of the house after his safety lesson gone awry, but he did spend the rest of the afternoon boarding up the window and trying to figure out how to spin this story to DCFS.

To this day he swears the my first near-death experience was an intentional lesson in disguise.

"I taught you an important lesson--accidents happen," he'd preach, "You now know to be afraid of guns... And besides if I wanted to shoot you, Allison, you'd be dead."

Good to know, Pops.

However, his "lesson" didn't really teach me to be afraid of guns, but it did make me very suspicious of him.

So Dad, just know, I'm still watching you, you son-of-a-bitch.

 But happy Father's Day, nonetheless.

Sunday Wrap Up: Sh*t That Doesn't Matter Edition

What a crazy week, y'all! I almost set my blog on fire after having to pretend to know how computers work, The Biebs has obviously been watching a shit-ton of Fox News, and there's a show about sexy, extra small ladies on Lifetime.

Let's go over this garbage, mmkay?!

Little Women: LA

Lifetime, the network that brought you every movie about Tori Spelling getting beat up by some guy she met online, has done it again! What you ask? Well, I'm not really sure, but they found some hot little tickets that need pedal extenders and decided to make a whole show about it.

The following clip involves a hot tub soup of these little ladies in little bikinis, talking about whether it's acceptable or not to let people exploit their stature. Someone known as "Midget Lady Gaga" explains that as long as she's getting paid, she doesn't care what she has to do.

Sounds like she needs to change her name to "Midget Kim Kardashian".

Justin Bieber is Pretty Racist

Surprise! Justin Bieber is a total dick. For anyone who hasn't seen the now infamous video where J-Biebs repeatedly uses the N-word and talks about joining the KKK, you can see it here.

Now, I know some people--mainly 13-year-old girls--are saying that he was young and should be cut some slack, but I'm going to pass on that one. Doesn't this little asshole remember that he was discovered by Usher, and that Usher is in fact a black man. I think it's time for ol' Daddy Usher to take him out back and beat him with a bag of soap.

Of course, Justin says he is so sorry and has spent the last week in church asking the Lord to use his Lord magic to destroy any evidence of him being a racist prick. 

Oh, and he was also baptized in a bathtub--which no one explained to him is actually just a bath.

The Fault in YA

The Fault in Our Stars premiered this weekend and I can still hear people weeping hysterically. (I haven't seen it yet, but plan on ugly crying for at least a week afterwards.) 

The Young Adult book has been praised by teens and adults alike, but a recent Slate article by Ruth Graham, suggested that adults who enjoy YA should be ashamed, because these books are ultimately written for children. 

Um, you can take all the seats, Ruth.

Can we all remember that 50 Shades of Grey was written for adults, not to mention a myriad of other lit that is not worth the paper it's printed on. So if I want to sob hysterically about teenagers with cancer who fall in love, I will do so with absolutely no shame. 

Stop book-shamin' me, Ruth.

***

Alright, that's all I've got this week, guys. Anything worthwhile I missed? If so, leave it in the comments! 

Why I'll be Blogging on Myspace from Now on.

Nothing quite makes me want to burn down the internet like trying to be tech savvy. 

I know I should be better at this, being a dot.com kid and all, but if it doesn't involve updating my Myspace with a super sparkly graphic, I don't want to know nothing about it, ya dig?

This all started when I wanted to give my ol' blog a little sprucing, well apparently the upgraded comment system that I added to my blog (while tryin' to be fancy), blocked my ability to customize it without changing the template manually. And since I just learned that you can, in fact, turn off an iPhone, that shit wasn't going to be happening. So I uninstalled the comment system and ALL of my comments disappeared--including the default blogger ones. That's when I started crying.

I don't want to have to figure this out.

I know this might get my super-cool millennial card revoked, but I have no idea how a computer works. I also have no desire to learn. I like to imagine that two teeny, tiny hamsters live in my laptop and are running on a wheel or flying a kite with a key attached to the end.

Or maybe Ashton Kutcher dressed up as Steve Jobs lives inside my iPad and allows me to play Angry Birds, who knows? Some people, I'm sure. But they probably don't make coffee for a living.

My dad is always talking to me about cookies and ram, and how I should have taken some classes in college on how to do something besides Facebook stalk exes and google naked celebrities, but I didn't. However, I can literally find you 789 pictures of Rihanna's tits at any given time. And in my opinion, that's a resume-worthy skill. 

But apparently when your blog decides to lose it's damn mind, it doesn't do you a whole lotta good.

Fuck, I still have an AOL email address. 

No one told me that being a blogger would involve so much computer stuff, I thought it was 60 percent being snarky and 40 percent becoming Twitter famous. But now I'm attached to the stupid blog, and let's be honest it's the only hope I have for not being a barista anymore, so what do I do?

Just to lay all my cards out on the table, here are some things I can/can't do on the internet.

So any of y'all have a three-year-old savant that can design my website, and I can pay her in apple juice and hugs? Or someone can offer me free web design out of their van.

But until then, I'll just continue manically writing the Disqus technical support people until they get so sick of me they just do it themselves.

Oh, and updating my Myspace page, of course!

Sunday Wrap Up: I've Been Banging the Same Guy for 11 Years.

I've had quite the eventful week, which included a man ordering the dumbest drink imaginable and me trying to sell my diploma on Craigslist.

 Let's go over some of the highlights, shall we?

I Bought a Mattress

I did one of the most adult things a person can possibly do this week--aside from expertly plucking out gray hairs and wearing control top pantyhose with running shoes, of course.

I bought a mattress.

And not just some semen-stained knock-off from Bobo's Mattresses and Stuff. I bought a piece of heaven-sent, memory-foamed goodness that I will have to turn tricks on to pay off. 

But it's worth it. This mattress supports me in a way no real-life person ever has. I'm like, "Hey Sealy, my back is kinda hurting from slinging lattes for 10 hours." And Sealy is all, "Come lay down, little momma. I'm about to contour to your body and alleviate all your aches in pains. And don't worry about it being hot as dick outside, I've got cooling gel inside of me to keep you comfortable."

It's easily the best relationship, I've ever been in. Speaking of relationships...

It's My 11 Year Anniversary

Friday marked the 11th year of my random penis funeral. Yep, 11 years since I tricked some unsuspecting dude into loving me. 

I know some people are thinking, "Wow, 11 years, how romantic", but I'm here to tell you that being with someone over a decade is exactly the opposite of romance. Matt rolled over the morning of our anniversary and gave me a high-five for sticking it out. He then went to work, and I spent the entire day debating if I should shave my legs. Spoiler alert: I did not.

Later that night, I made him homemade chicken marsala, we split a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and talked about how awesome our new mattress is.

True love forever.

Most Ridiculous Starbucks Drink Ever

I'm not saying I work for Starbucks, but if I did, I would be super annoyed by the drink that made the news this week. 

A Texas man ordered "The Most Expensive Drink at Starbucks", which was a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino with a ton of modifiers, including 60 shots of espresso. The man would have paid $54.75 had it not been for his Gold Card reward, which made this monstrosity free of charge.

The man said the 60-shot concoction was delicious, which makes me think he has completely burned off all of taste buds smoking meth. And with approximately 4,500mg in the frappuccino, a penchant for meth would be the only way to explain why this dude's heart didn't stop beating upon completion. 

As a barista, I'm not salty that this guy decided to drink the blended equivalent of Draino, but I am salty because now everyone and their freaking mom are going to want to emulate this moron, in hopes to make it on the local news. 

Thanks a lot, dick.

So that was my week in a nutshell, guys. Got anything that can top my sexual, new mattress, 11 years of bliss someone tolerating me, or a blended heartattack? Leave it in the comments! 

I Had to go get some Scratch-Offs, but I'm Back Now.

My babies, my babies, my internet babies!

I have been gone for so long. Sooooo long. I can only imagine how you guys have felt. Like I abandoned you, like mommy said she was going to the store to buy some smokes and some scratch-offs and never came back. From the bottom my heart, I am so sorry to have put you through...

Ohh, you didn't notice I was gone.

Hmm, this is awkward.

Oh well, what can you do. I missed you all bunches but felt the need to take a little hiatus. I was even thinking about shutting down "I'm Not Really a Barista", but the thought of letting my barista blog atrophy didn't feel right. This was the first time I've ever shared my weird, inappropriate musings with more than just my inner circle of friends, and I loved it. It gave me the opportunity to [internet] meet so many funny, talented people. It inspired me to keep writing. So even though, I'm a different person than the one that started this blog four years ago, it's still a part of me.

I know I can't be the only blogger who has felt this kind of uncertainty. Has anyone ever thought about leaving their blog or starting a new blog? I've always been a little concerned on what I should do when I'm REALLY not a barista anymore, which, let's be real, may never happen. Latte-Maker fo' Lyfe. Do you think that a blog is something that can grow with you as a person and a writer? Do you guys have plans for the future of your sites? I'm interested in hearing other bloggers' thoughts on this.

But for now, and probably much longer, I'm here. Still not really a barista, and I couldn't be happier about it.

Now mommy has to go buy some more scratchers, you kids don't get into my wine coolers.

Frozen is Indoctrinating Kids in the Most Adorable Way Possible.

Have you seen the movie Frozen yet? If so, there's a good chance you're now gay. Congratulations!

I know you're probably thinking, that's not how human sexuality works--but it is. At least that's what Kevin Swanson, the batshit insane host of the talk show Religious Right, suggested Wednesday.

Let's go over some of his talking points, shall we.

• I think this cute little movie [Frozen] is going to indoctrinate my 5-year-old to be a lesbian or treat homosexuality or bestiality in a light sort of way. Why do these assholes always put homosexuality and bestiality together?
• I would buy Disney. If I was the Devil, I would buy Disney in 1984, that’s what I would have done. Who spends a large portion of their time thinking about what they would do if they were the Devil in the '80s.
• I’m guessing the majority of American parents don’t want their little boys turning into sodomites, at this point. My guess is that 60 to 70 percent of them would say, 'That would be my worst nightmare. Uh Oh, he's breaking out made up statistics. Watch out!

You can listen to the entire conversation here if you have a strong stomach.

I can't say for sure that Frozen isn't indoctrinating children with some type of anti-right gay agenda. I haven't seen it yet, so the jury's still out. However, I did just watch Blue is the Warmest Color, and I was super indoctrinated, if you know what I mean. Ladies, hit me up.

But I can say, that Disney has pulled this shit before.

Who didn't watch The Little Mermaid and immediately want to have sex with a fish? King Triton. Oh my God, I don't know how it would work out anatomically, but I want to be on him.

Aladdin. It totally explains my soft spot for men that lie. And steal.

Pocahontas. Let's just say that I've been banned from going anywhere near several reservations after trying to make a John Smith-Allie-Kocoum fantasy happen.

Cinderella. How many foot fetishists did that movie create? 

The Beast. Let's not even go there.

So obviously the Devil is at work acting as the entire Disney corporation, but now we're on to him.

You hear me, Devil Disney! Stop indoctrinating our young with your sexually-charged, animated movies. They're too adorable and tantalizing.

But seriously, who thinks this Kevin Swanson dude shouldn't ever be allowed in a children's movie again if he's seeing this much sexual metaphor in Frozen? He probably shouldn't be near playgrounds either. 

But who knows, that might just be my indoctrination speaking. 

My Proposal to a Polygamist.

Anyone who has read this blog for any period time knows that I love the channel TLC. Mainly because I love learning. And polygamy. It's my favorite combo.

Anyway, it should be of no surprise that TLC is premiering a new show called My Five Wives. The network originally aired a special by the same name in September, which is when I used my voodoo magic to predict that it would become the network's next original series--but I was hoping it would be titled 'Gangbangin' for Jesus'. You can read that previous post here.

Obviously, this is not the first time I've written about televised polygamy, but I think I've been too hard on the husbands in the past, going as far as to suggest that the only way these dudes landed wives is because of chloroform and Stockholm's syndrome.

But I'm starting to have a change of heart.

Maybe these ladies are on to something. And I'm not just saying this because barista-ing isn't panning out and my reality show pitch about me sitting on my couch, watching Netflix, and eating mac and cheese out of a coffee cup got rejected. (Eat a dick, AMC.)

In fact, I think I would be an excellent addition to this show. So, Brady Williams I'm proposing marriage. Here's why I would make an excellent sixth wife:

1. I'm a freakin' hoot. I have at least seven people who read this blog and probably three or four of those people can vouch that I have a terrific sense of humor. I could really add some color to the show. 

And by color, I mean profanity. Boom, ratings! 

2. I'm kind of a sex expert--sexpert if you will. Now that doesn't mean I'm actually any good at sex. I'm mediocre at best and there's usually a lot of crying, but I will talk those other broads into doing all kinds of weird shit. Seriously, it's a gift. I have this unbelievably trustworthy face. I'll be all like, "hey sisterwives, I read in Mormon Cosmo that it's totally normal for your husband to want to put it in your armpit." They will eat that ish up. 

Sidenote: I will never be intimate with you. I mean, if you've just got to have some Allie action, I'll offer one no eye-contact handjob on a birthday of your choosing. That's non-negotiable. 

3. I'm smart. I graduated college and have read books that don't have any pictures in them. I could probably do your taxes and help your 30 kids with their homework. I just saved you $100,000 in tutoring fees. You're welcome. 

4. Speaking of kids, I'm great with them! I myself am like an 8-year-old girl with boobs. I love to color. I dig on naps and cookies. I love swings and don't know how to sit properly in a dress. They're going to love me.  

Also, I can take care of all those uncomfortable sex talks. See: number 2. 

5. I'm from Florida. We've got people doing bizarre stuff on lock. Me joining your little clan will not even be a blip on the radar. 

Now that we discussed all my pros, I do need to fill you in on a few minor cons. 

1. I will never have your children, because I'm slightly repulsed by the idea of our genes mixing.  

2. Also I'm not one for rules, so that husband is in charge stuff won't fly. Me and Kelly Clarkson, Miss Independent, ya know. 

3. Once again, no sex. Ever. I would rather Sylvia Plath myself.  

4. Speaking of sex, I'm going to need access to other dudes. Also, I might turn out one of your wives. We'll just see what happens on that front. 

But other than that, I'm totally game. Balls in your court, Brady.

My Five Wives premieres on TLC Sunday at some time during the day, you could probably Google it. I'm too busy waiting on that dreamboat to call!

HELP! It's Valentines Day and I've Got Problems.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked people to send me their questions regarding love/sex/relationships and anything else that you felt comfortable asking someone who is in no way qualified to give advice.

And then some weird stuff happened, which I'm totally into. So in honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I would get your hearts-a-beatin' with some questions about turtle fucking. You read that right.

Take the day off, Cupid, I've got this love shit covered.


What would be the most reasonable, yet bat-shit crazy thing I can introduce into lovemaking with my wife?

Midgets. Wait, I don't think that is politically correct. A little person. I would introduce a little person into lovemaking with your wife. Now, I know what you're thinking, "Allie, I thought I said reasonable." And you did, but I'm not exactly sure what the dictionary definition of that word is, so I'm going with midget-fucking. Listen, your wife is gonna love it, because it's not quite a threeway, it's more like a two-and-a-half-way and that's called taking it slow.

So go now, scour Craiglist, but remember a lot of these super-sexy little people are basically walking tripods, so bring your A-game. If not, that little rascal might be making some height adjustments to your house in the near future, understand?

Scientifically speaking, what are my chances of hooking up with Rihanna?

Here's  a checklist. Have you ever been arrested? Have you ever been arrested for assaulting a woman? Have you ever thrown a chair out of the Today show dressing room window? Do you like throat tattoos? Were you ever on the Canadian soap, Degrassi? Has anyone ever looked at your naked body and compared you to a horse?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, you have a 97.6 percent chance of being able to hook up with Rihanna. If not, there's always the video where her and Shakira pretend to have lesbian sex.

My wife wants to introduce a turtle into bedroom affairs. What do I say? Why do people want to bang animals anyways?

I've never thought of a turtle as a super sexual animal, maybe a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, but that's mainly because they have masks and I've had a fetish for bank robbers ever since I saw Point Break when I was a kid. (Oh Keanu, you're so dumb and dreamy). Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, fucking turtles. Don't do it. She'll never respect you.

And why do people want to bang animals? Um, I blame that hot werewolf from Twilight.


My wife just stumbled upon my huge selection of '70s pornography. My huge selection (it filled up the trunk of my Honda Civic at one time). She wants to divorce. I want her to grow an amazing bush. What do I do?

I do admire your dedication to '70s pornography, kind sir, but I think you need to let your wife know that you're not some kind of sexual deviant obsessed with powermuffs. Maybe lay off the porn for awhile, donate your collection to the Pornography Historical Society and let her know that you love her for who she is, not her bush.

Then hide all of her razors.


I'm afraid that my boyfriend might be cheating on me. He's always texting but never tells me who it is, keeps his FB annoyingly private, and hasn't had a lot of time for me lately? What should I do?

I don't think you should be so quick to judge, maybe your boyfriend is a spy. Have you ever thought about that? He's out making sure the world is a safer place for the both of us and you're too busy worrying about the privacy settings on his Facebook. Just kidding, he sounds horrible. Unfortunately, there's no way to find out for sure if the scumbag is cheating. I'd say trust your gut in this scenario, because if something doesn't feel right it usually isn't. 

Now for what to do, I've got one question ... how's your pubic hair, because I think I might have the perfect rebound guy for you.


I've always dreamed about experiencing erotica in a public establishment, preferably an airplane, train, or some other mode of public transportation. Maybe even a tricycle. How and where do I go to find someone who would be interested?

I don't know, maybe the Internet.

***

And that's it, ladies and gents! I hope each and every one of you have a special Valentine's Day or at least a special day after Valentine's Day once candy is 75% off. 

I love you all and would totally put a hand-written valentine in each one of your lockers if this was 7th grade, but it's not, so you wanna take whatever Miley Cyrus is on and watch that Shakira video on repeat?

No? Okay, worth a shot.

P.S. If after reading this you think, I'd like to get some horrible advice from the girl who makes my coffee, then write to me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com. And as always, you will remain anonymous.

Top 12 Ways for the Internet to STFU.

I'm a failure at life.

I feel like we all know this by now and just to set the record straight, I'm in no way looking for encouragement or someone to negate the aforementioned statement. I'm cool with it. I have plenty of time to stop being a failure, and if not there's always cake, so either way I'll be good.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way and you know that you can take this post with a grain of salt, let me begin my rant.

If I see one more article titled "100 Ways to Live Your Best Life Before 100," I'm going to burn some shit down.

At first, it wasn't such a big deal, it was kinda endearing. I'd open the link thinking, "I'd like to know the 25 things you wish you knew before 25," maybe it will help me figure out what I should do with my life, aside from making latte art.

But then the article was just filled with haughty bullshit. "Go on adventures.""Travel the World." "Take a salsa class." "Buy a vibrator." Really? That's the life lessons you felt you had to offer the younger generation? Take that shit elsewhere.

And despite the fact that this fluffy garbage isn't really helpful, it is everywhere. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just saw a New York Times headline read, "How to out-Beyonce Beyonce before 35 in 5 easy steps."

Is this the kind of content they think millenials are craving? How stupid do they think we are?

"Top 17 Things to do B4 You're 29."

"8 Ways to Not Suck at Life."

"30 Lessons You Must Learn by 30."

"65 Thing You Have to do or You Should Put a Gun in Your Mouth."

I have a problem with these types of articles for a few reasons. Firstly, it's not a real piece of writing--it's a list. I make one of those when I go grocery shopping. Furthermore, it's fucking bullshit.

Bullshit in my opinion, at least.

I don't dig blanket statements. I don't like to ever assume that because something was right for me, it is right for everyone. We all come from different places, different backgrounds. My story may not resonate with someone and vice versa. And that is okay, that doesn't make my truth any less valuable.

And while yes, I do believe somethings are universally true--people are equal, don't be an asshole for no reason--the faux wisdom of these "articles" make me insane. Mainly, because I don't think any of us really know anything for sure. Aren't most of the ideas about life fluid and easily altered? And isn't life about experience and making mistakes and learning our own lessons, instead of living by numbers based on someone else's advice.

I mean, sure some things are a give-in. Don't date Chris Brown. Don't give yourself at-home highlights. Don't do meth. But I think everything else is pretty fair game.

But then again, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe these lists contain advice that some people are desperate to hear. I've been there, reaching out, hoping for some type of clarity in this crazy fucking world--but I can say that my longing was never satiated by some thoughtful piece written by a performance artist/mime on HuffPo.

However, if I was going to give advice for people before whatever age is the new freak out age, it would be this. Be kind to yourself and to other people. Don't be afraid of failure or uncertainty, because we can pretty much survive anything. Learn empathy. And listen to your gut, because I honestly believe that everything you need to know is already inside of you.

But what do I know, I'm just a barista.

P.S. I want to end this post giving a big Thank You to all of the people who reached out to me when I mentioned I was having a bit of writer's block lately, i.e. being super lazy and binge-watching Netflix. It really means a lot to have people take time out of their day to encourage some girl who makes coffee and writes about dicks on the internet.

And I want to give a special thanks to Greg writing over at 28 Days at the Bar. Greg was one of my recent cheerleaders, who wrote me a short novel giving me all the encouragement my parents never did. So thanks, Greg, we're now in love, just so you know. But seriously, go check out his sports and entertainment blog or follow him on Twitter! Who knows, some newfound sports knowledge might get your laid. You're welcome.

I'm Like Dear Abby with More Swearing.

Remember that fun thing I used to do when I answered readers' love/sex/relationship/etc. questions here? Wasn't that fun?

We laughed. We cried. We were thankful for our long term relationships.

Well, I want to do that again! And not just because I can't think of anything to write about. Okay, mostly because I can't think of anything to write about, but also because I feel I've been given a special gift, to answer super weird questions about your or your partners genitals.

And it's not fair to not share my God-given gift with the world.

So, please, write to me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com. Or have your "friend" write to me. Or your cousin. Or your dad. I mean, really I don't care if you make something up, I'm just having mad writer's block and desperately need everyone's help to make sure my blog doesn't die and go to the Land of Misfit blogs!

Ohh, and you will remain anonymous.

Here's some previous posts in case you need to verify my totally bullshit credentials.


Help! My Hymen is Growing Back.

Help! My F#ck Buddy is Turning into a Cuddle Buddy.

Help! My Boyfriend Doesn't Want to Eat at My Lady Buffet.

Help! I'm DTF a D-Bag.

How Can I Get My Boyfriend to Punch me in the Face.


Convinced, yet?

No? Too bad! Email me, anyway. You can also message me on Twitter or Facebook.

American Apparel is Bringing Back the Power Muff and I'm Super Psyched.

Fuck shaving forever.

Yep, you heard me. I'm done. American Apparel is trying to bring back '80s porn bush, and who am I to argue?

I know I'm not alone when I say that shaving my lady junk is easily my least favorite thing of life, mainly because I don't like doing advanced yoga in a shower while welding a razor blade. It's dangerous. I've nearly given myself a clitoridectomy more times than I care to count.

You may be curious what I'm rambling about, which is a typical response when I start screaming about my distaste for pubic grooming, so let me clear things up. An NYC American Apparel attracted a lot of attention Thursday when a window display featured lingerie-clad mannequins rocking full-fledged vagina sweaters.

Now I know what you're thinking, "Wow, those mannequins must be part werewolf, because that is an impressive cooch carpet." And you're right, that bitch looks like a Kardashian between waxes.

And then, "I bet people freaked the EFF out." Also correct.

Everyone with a Twitter account lost their mind because American Apparel--the company that previously sold a shirt featuring a bleeding vagina--did something provocative.

Shock! Gasp! Awe!

I DIDN'T KNOW WOMEN EVEN GREW PUBIC HAIR ANYMORE! DIDN'T IT GO EXTINCT IN THE LATE '90S? I FEEL SO LIED TO, PORN!

But for every newscaster made horribly uncomfortable for even having to talk about a mannequin's bush, there was someone on Tumblr rallying behind the brand for advocating pubic hair acceptance--which is an actual thing, just so you know. In fact, Cameron Diaz and Gwyneth Paltrow have both went on record endorsing a more natural look for their nether hair.

Well shit, if it's good enough for Gwyneth, it's good enough for Allie. I'm 'bout to throw out all my razors, and let that junk get long and luxurious. I'm gonna deep condition it with organic coconut oil and brush it 100 times a day. It's going to be beautiful like Rapunzel's, except when I let down my hair for a handsome prince, I'll get arrested. Because apparently, only mannequins can show their power muffs in public.

Wanna do something about that bullshit, American Apparel?

I Might Get Married. I Might Buy a Cow.

I might get married this year.

But don’t go planning the Twitter bachelorette party just yet, it’s still a pretty big might. I’ve been engaged for nearly nine years, but for the first time in that span, me and the Dude I Share A Bathroom With are actually talking about making it official.

When people find out that me and DISABW have been doing the marriage tango for as long as we have, they usually jump to the conclusion that something is wrong with our relationship, that we are commitment-phobes waiting to throw in the towel at the first sign of trouble. Those people are usually on their third marriage. They’re also assholes.

Let me clear some things up, I’m not against the institution of marriage. It seems cool enough—tax breaks, monogram towels, the chicken dance. I’m not mad at it. In fact, I’m extremely vocal about my support of marriage equality. I think everyone is entitled to legally bind themselves to someone forever (except for that creepy guy with like seven wives, he should be uninvited to the marriage party), but there’s always been a part of me that’s a little uneasy with the whole “until death do us part” thing.

Death? Fuck, that’s pretty permanent. What if he starts doing meth, can I leave then? Or worse, starts voting Republican, can I throw up the deuces without giving him half of my shit? 

I think the main problem is that I’ve always assumed people are untrustworthy, probably because my parents used to do a ton of smack when I was a kid—but I’m working on that with a trained therapist and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But that fear of permanence is still there, and it’s just something I have to get over in my own time. 

But besides the fact that marriage is super weird and scary, can we can talk about the real problem? White washes me out, y’all. I tend to look more radiant in a jewel tone. And I don't think people who talk about dicks on the internet can even legally buy a white wedding dress. It's one of those old laws like not being able to own more than six dildos in Texas.

Plus weddings are stupid expensive. I don’t want to feed my second cousin steak because I tied myself to one penis until the end of time. How is that fair? Shouldn’t we at least go dutch for my random sex funeral, BYOB, something?! Also, I don’t like wedding food. I like burritos. I will only get married if we can all eat cheap, questionable Mexican food afterwards, deal? 

More issues: I like my last name—Allison Wilson is not happening. I don’t want people to immediately start asking when I’m getting knocked up. I’m not even sure I like kids. I want to still be able to dance to the song Single Ladies. I have no need for two waffle makers, can’t I just register for a new ukulele? Most of my family are raging alcoholics and getting them together with an open bar is going to end with me crying on COPS. 

But with this ever-growing list of marriage drawbacks freaking me out on the regular, I can’t stop myself from watching shows like Say Yes to the Dress, mainly because I enjoy saying things like “that seems reasonable” to a $10,000 dress, while my boyfriend silently has an anxiety attack next to me, but also because all the cons don’t quite measure up to the one big pro. 

I kinda want to marry him. 

LAME, I know. But even so, I can’t help but think it would be nice to make the big commitment with this man who has put up with me for the last decade. So maybe this will be the year after all, and I'll become an honest woman and we can buy a cow or some milk or something. 

Cows are pretty cute. I wonder if I can register for one of them? A cow, a ukulele, six dildos, and zero waffle makers.

God, I'm going to be a great wife. 

My Failed New Year's Resolutions

Happy New Year! Umm, like, a week ago. 

Whoops.

I meant to write, guys! I really did, but it was my birthday, and I was doing a spot-on 2008 Lindsay Lohan impression, which takes up a lot more time than you'd think. I'm basically just regaining my basic motor skills.

But there is something about being a week late to this whole New Year's post thing--we don't have to pretend that we've stuck to our resolutions.

New Year, new me? Nope! New year, same me--now with this one fucking line on my forehead that's going to force me to buy a botox Groupon.

However, I'm sure some of y'all are overachievers and have yet to give up on your promises to become a better version of yourself in 2014. Well, good for you! Also, you're probably in the wrong place. I hear there's some interesting, socially-conscious shit happening over at Upworthy.

Now that those assholes are gone, let's get back to business. Don't feel bad if you've decided to go back to drinking and watching reality TV by January 3rd, you're in good company. Over half the people who make resolutions break them in less than six months. That's science. I think.

So in the spirit of personal failure I thought I'd disclose the resolutions I've already given up on.

1. Quit Starbucks Unnamed Coffee Shop. I came home from work smelling like mocha and broken dreams today. I was also hit on by an older gentleman without teeth. Basically it was a good day.

2. Get Healthy. Work Out. Etc. I had a chocolate muffin that was filled with melted caramel for breakfast. It was delicious. It tasted like feelings.

3. Be Nicer. Not happening. See: This blog.

4. Use Time More Wisely. I spent over an hour pouring through the hashtag #nomnomnom on Instagram today. See: Number 2 

5. Write More. Blog More. Publish Something. Hahahahaha. I write about dicks on the Internet. I'm gonna be a barista FOREVER.

However, I am blogging right now so maybe there's still hope. But probably not.

Oh well, at least I still have some leftover birthday cake.