Adventures In Online Dating

I knew the only way I’d ever take online dating seriously were if I had a chance to write about it.

Ok, that’s a lie. I’m never going to take online dating seriously.

But, I knew the only way I would devote a lick of energy to scrolling and clicking in hopes of finding the future Mr. Tyece Wilkins was if I had a chance to document my observations.

About two weeks ago, I joined Coffee Meets Bagel, an app I initially heard about last year when hanging out with some old college friends. I didn’t pay it much attention at the time; I was more engrossed with the advice I was getting from one of the other guys there who had accompanied his girlfriend to this reunion. He basically deemed himself the guru when it came to finding and sustaining a relationship.

He broke up with his girlfriend two months later, so there goes all of his subjective and slightly sexist knowledge straight out the window.

Anyway, I revisited Coffee Meets Bagel this year when my sister (online dating extraordinaire who is now going to kill me for calling her the online dating extraordinaire) mentioned it. And, because I started getting way too bored and nutty in February, I downloaded the app. If you are like me and are illiterate when it comes to the vocabulary of online dating, let me explain. Coffee Meets Bagel sends you a match (or as they like to call it, bagel) daily. You get to like them or pass them. There are a bunch of other things you can do like obtain more bagels or send bagels to other people (my sister has sent me three, all of whom were WAY MORE ATTRACTIVE than the bagels that the fucked up system was giving me), but I don’t really know or care about how to use that functionality.

The first step in online dating is that you have to be a believer. You have to truly, honestly, wholeheartedly believe that you could meet someone and form a lasting and authentic connection.

I am not really a believer. At least not for myself. I definitely don’t think eHarmony is shitting us when they blast those commercials about people finding their soul mates online. But, as much as I live large fractions of my life online, I am really not into dating that way. In fact, I would rather my friends just tell their single, attractive, heterosexual guy friends to read my blog and then we can all go from there. Narcissistic? Maybe. But, my blog is really my selling point. I have used it as a barometer on a lot of dates; I went on a date last year where a guy told me all blogs are the same and I immediately sent him to the guillotine. (In actuality I finished 1.5 margaritas with him and gave him a hug). But, really, if you’re into girls who can string sentences together and spew their feelings and observations all over the place? Yes, please, sign me up.

I also have a really hard time being intentional about my dating life. I am pretty much a lazy bum when it comes to meeting new men and expelling energy on them, which is the opposite of how I tackle everything else in life. Maybe that’s the issue, that I am deliberate about finding happiness and success in other arenas, but when it comes to dating, I just want someone great to appear from thin air.

Anyway, back to Coffee Meets Bagel. In two weeks, I have not had one match. NOT ONE. In order to get a match, I have to like them and they have to like me. Yesterday, the app even threw me a bagel (or a bone?) and said, “The ball is in your court. Your bagel LIKEs you.” Then that bagel turned out to look like the lovechild of Baby and Lil Wayne.

There was also the guy who called himself a monophobiac which Google has confirmed is not a real word. However, monophobia is in fact a word and it means the fear of being alone. I guess Mr. Monophobiac did clear that up in his profile by saying, “I hate being by myself.”

Well, I love being by myself and actually cherish that moment when the door shuts behind any house guest who has inhabited my space for more than an hour. So, all I could offer this guy is a therapist and a dictionary. Pass.

Finally, there was the guy who seemed right up my alley, except that fool didn’t like me back. In his profile, he called himself “playful and reflective, occasionally artsy and nerdy” and said he likes when his date “shares her thoughts and feelings, and is a great conversationalist.” WHERE IN THE WORLD IS THIS MAN AND WHY HAVEN’T WE MET?

I can’t denigrate other people’s profiles without letting you all know about mine. Although I am not going to reveal anything that you all don’t already know. I said I like writing, poetry, and face-to-face conversations more than texts. Wow, shocker. I also said I like a good laugh and people who don’t take themselves too seriously. I I like when my date asks questions, tells stories, makes me laugh and tries but doesn’t try too hard.

But, really, the crown jewels of any online dating profile are the photos. See Exhibit A:


Exhibit A.
Exhibit A.

I’m not sure how long I’ll stay on Coffee Meets Bagel, but I venture to guess it won’t be much longer. Will I find a potential male suitor? Will men cease to stop looking like inbreds? And, the real question…next stop, Tinder?


First World Problems: Finding A Dress For An Important Occasion

What I wear each year to my See. Speak. Feel. showcase is a big deal. Like a big fuckng deal. Like I look for the outfit before I have even written two lines of the poem I am going to perform that night.

Back in college one of my favorite professors (who I also secretly crushed on and went to happy hour with right before graduation, as grossly inappropriate as that was), said something in class that stuck with me: clothing is rhetoric. I am not well-versed in fashion and I am damn sure not a personal style blogger, but I do believe that what you wear matters. It says something. And I believe in making firm, bold and memorable statements. For a night devoted to art and expression, my dress has to reflect that art and expression.

photo1-5I started my outfit search early this year. I still haven’t bought the final dress, even though I think I’ve narrowed it down to a good choice. A good choice in this case constitutes something that’s bold, artistic, sexy, comfortable and sweat-proof. It is hard to find all five of those characteristics in one ensemble, especially when you add in the comfort and sweat-proof piece. But, I’m a stress sweater (human, not cashmere) and that day is stressful as shit. I can’t be preoccupied with pit stains. I do know it’s possible to find a dress with all of these characteristics, because look to your left. Exhibit A: last year’s showcase dress.

Also, so many dresses are fucking contraptions. I don’t want to tape my tits down or go commando or find myself unable to cross one leg over the other. I don’t want to hop up and down and do 10 jumping jacks to use the bathroom. I also don’t want to wear heels because I am on my feet shaking hands and kissing babies that whole night. And some dresses just can’t be worn sans heels because you’ll run the risk of looking like a hippie librarian. I also have a firm rule against performing in heels because I need my full body and I never met a pair of heels that were generous about letting a woman move freely.

While I won’t show you my option for the final dress (buy your showcase ticket and see it wrapped around my flesh live instead), I will show a few options that were knocked out of the running and explain why they were sent back to the bench before they could make it to primetime. Also, please note this is not my attempt to be a fashion blogger; homie don’t play that.


The “you-basically-wore-this-last-year” dress ($24.95, H&M)

I saw this dress and immediately went “Yep, that’s it!” Then I texted it to my sister and she said “Showcase Uniform.” I got a second opinion from my coworker who echoed the same sentiment. I guess you can’t try to imitate greatness; sometimes you have to leave a good thing untouchable. Not sure why someone didn’t give Beyoncé that advice before she made a Flawless remix.

Dammit. Back to the drawing board.



The “you-will-look-naked-in-any-above-the-shoulder-pictures” dress (ASOS, $66.93)

Pictures are a huge part of showcase night. Our group shot served as my computer background for a good six months, but that’s also because I’m a narcissist without any boyfriend pics to show off. I digress.

I loved the print on this dress, but the bardot silhouette wasn’t going to cut it. I knew I would end up in 75% of the photos looking like I showed up buck naked. Never a good look, publicly anyway.


Snip20150116_12The Janet Jackson dress ($66.50, Missguided)

This dress was a frontrunner for about an hour. I didn’t want to wear a black dress, but I figured if you’re going to wear a black dress, you have to WEAR a black dress. My first thought upon seeing it was that I would look hot. My second thought was that someone was sure to see one of my tits that night and not on purpose. When I performed, I figured I would have to redirect everyone’s attention to my words and go all Chris Tucker in Rush Hour 2 with “Do you understand the words that are coming of my mouth?” I ruled it out.


Snip20150116_13The Contraption (Missguided, $66.50)

In theory, I love a good jumpsuit just like Andy Cohen. I thought it might be cool to forego a dress in favor of wearing one. But in actuality, I hate a jumpsuit because they are the most impossible things to wear. Who wants to get fully naked just to pee? Jumpsuits are also the biggest toss up for an online purchase. You get all excited looking at them until you remember that the models are human skyscrapers who look good in anything. Jumpsuits are just not made for mere mortals, also known as women who are short or even equipped with average height. My final gripe about jumpsuits is that they are the most camel-toe- inducing garment to ever exist. Whoever invented them was really obsessed with the silhouette of vaginas.

If you happen to find something that you think would work for me, send it my way. But remember…sweat-proof.


I’m Sick Of Trendy Feminism.

some of the original gangsters
some of the original gangsters

I take Twitter bios very seriously.

I do.

If someone has a stupid Audrey Hepburn quote or writes something like “Fuck bitches, get money,” I immediately deem them unfit to follow. The world moves fast, people. No one has time to dig through, maybe check out your website and then decide if you’re cool and not prone to Jeffrey Dahmer proclivities. So if and when someone follows me or pops up in my “Who to Follow” feed, all I do is look at their bio and either click or pass.

I say this because today I changed my Twitter bio, which is also a very serious matter. I’ve had a few Twitter bios in my lifetime. I believe the first one was an ode to Kanye’s verse in that Katy Perry song: “Welcome to the fantasy, you are not invited to the other side of sanity.” 2015 Tyece would not have followed new-to-Twitter Tyece.

At some point, I added the word “feminist” to my Twitter bio. Today I deleted it. I also made a few more updates (including a line that says “wine, not whine”, which doesn’t make a lick of sense and yet makes all the sense in the world.) I didn’t want the word “feminist” there anymore, less because I don’t identify with that title and more because I don’t want to be associated with the feminism that seems so on trend at the moment. And, let’s face it: saying you’re a feminist in your Twitter bio is sort of playing into the trend, as is buying feminist t-shirts (I own two so guilty as charged.)

But my approach to feminism this year is sort of like my approach to spirituality–a very independent and necessary journey I’m taking. As far as feminism goes, I want to get way smarter about the work of women like bell hooks and Betty Friedan. I want to explore beyond my personal experiences, as critical as they are to my beliefs. I want to write less and read more about the topic.

My annoyance with trendy feminism came to a head when I saw several headlines about the “top feminist moments at the Golden Globes.” Really? That’s a headline? Yes, I enjoyed Amy and Tina hosting. Yes, I lived for Maggie Gyllenhaal’s speech about complicated women. No, I didn’t find the Cosby quip funny and yes, I definitely want to check out Transparent now. But there was not any point while watching when I thought, “OMG SUCH A FEMINIST SHOW TONIGHT, LOVING IT.” No, it was just a decent show. It had things I liked and things I didn’t. The end.

I’m tired of the “Hey-look-at-me!” feminism. We love the trendy feminism so much we’ve plopped it into every hour of the news cycle. Beyoncé waking up is feminism. Lena Dunham taking a shit is feminism. Meryl Streep aging is feminism. Is it really? I can’t completely denounce trendy feminism because I probably wouldn’t have ever written about the topic in 2012. It wasn’t on my radar enough nor did I have a strong sense of conviction as a feminist. So, there. Life is full of contradictions.

But, now I’m pooped from the party. I want to go all Cheryl Strayed-in-Wild and retreat for my own voyage through this thing.

Women sharing their stories, speaking their truth and standing firm in the lives they choose to live is powerful and gorgeous and sexy and revolutionary. I would never, ever deny that. I just wish we didn’t always have to call attention to it nor brand that as the only facet of feminism. I just wish we would focus less on the fact that someone shared a story and more on the complexity and beauty of the narrative itself. I just wish we would speak our truth and stand firm in our lives without having to then tell people, “You saw I did that, right? You heard I said that, right?” Just fucking do it. Just fucking say it. Just fucking be it and stop waiting for Amy Poehler to pat you on the ass and say it’s OK. Feminism is beautiful because you don’t need permission. Feminism is solid because it transcends this time, it is necessary for all time and it has evolved from previous times. It doesn’t need a t-shirt (again, I have two, so no judgment) or a controversial Lena Dunham book or even Beyoncé.

But, let’s be serious: a little Beyoncé does always help.


See It Through.

It took me 10 hours to assemble my new desk.

Yes, 10.

I could lie and say something that sounds far less pathetic like “Oh, it was only about seven and I spent three just wasting time, eating Starbursts and watching an assembly video when the wordless instructions got too frustrating.” But, 10 hours is the more accurate, albeit much more pitiful, estimation.

The execution of assembling said desk went something like this:

Monday, 12/29

2 p.m. I’m superwoman! I can put this desk together! No problem!
2:02 p.m. Oh, shit, I need a flat head screwdriver. (Makes a trip to Target).
5 p.m. Assembly time! I got this.
8 p.m. (step 13 of 35) I don’t think I’m doing this right. Am I doing this step correctly? I can’t tell. These wordless instructions are a pain in my ass. Let me Google an assembly video.
8:14 p.m. Oh, great, an assembly video for the exact same desk I’m putting together! ::dougies::
8:56 p.m. I’ve watched the assembly video three consecutive times and still don’t think I’m doing this correctly. But, fuck it. Let’s continue and go on to step 14.
11:16 p.m. (Step 25 of 35) This step says I need another person to help me put the top half and bottom half of the desk together. Curse you, single life. I’m doing this solo.
12:02 a.m. (Step 30 of 35) Woohoo! Almost done!
12:03 a.m. Shit, I forgot to assemble the other drawer. Where was that step?
12:04 a.m. Realizes that step was alongside the first step to assemble the bigger drawer.
12:10 a.m. Starts cursing a lot while trying to assemble the smaller drawer, reminiscing on the memories of 5 p.m. when assembling the larger drawer seemed so easy and fun.
12:32 a.m. Realizes I’ve added the sides of the drawer inside out, thus making it impossible to insert into the desk with the wheels.
12:33 a.m. Tries to disassemble the fucked up drawer, but this screws are impossible to extract.
12:40 a.m. Rips the sides of the drawers off the screws. Takes matters into my own hands and tapes that part together, because no one will ever know about my taped small drawer except for me (and now everyone who reads Twenties Unscripted.)
1 a.m. Has to add a cabinet door to the desk. Looks easy enough. It’s not.
2 a.m. DONE. FINISHED. FINITO. VICTORY IS MINE, BITCH. (Except I still need to assemble the shelving unit that sits atop the desk, but that is definitely not happening until I get some sleep.)

Including the time it took to assemble the shelving unit, it definitely took 10 hours to put that hell of a desk together. But, I ended up with this.


It may not seem like much, but I have coveted a workspace like this for about six months. And, it’s now made even better by the fact that I assembled 2/3 of it by myself (shout out to my friend who put the bookshelf together on moving day.) I probably would not have had it for another six months to a year if it weren’t for my wonderful father saying “No money for Christmas this year, that’s too impersonal,” and thus requiring me to think outside the box and ask for a desk as a gift, as well a wireless printer from my sister. (Thanks Mommy, Daddy and Alexis!) This space is now the hallmark of my 486-square foot apartment because in all four apartments I’ve had, I have never, ever used the dining area other than to pile up boxes I never unpacked. Using the space for a mini-office seems much more logical. After all, I will easily spend more time here than anywhere else in my apartment (unless, of course, I’m entertaining a gentleman caller.)

So, writing about my mess of an experience assembling my IKEA desk with wordless instructions is an analogy for saying stick with it. See it through. When the newness of a New Year’s Resolution has worn off, when it’s July and it seems like a great time to give up, when everyone else has forgotten the goals you set for yourself–see it through. Whatever the hell “it” is. As one of my friends always reminds me, stay the course. Maybe it’s a new blog you started or a commitment to going to therapy that you just made. Maybe it’s a book you’re writing or a spinning class you’re taking. Maybe it’s money you’re saving or a credit card you’re paying off. Maybe it’s a job search you’ve undertaken or a new gig you just started. Whatever it is, have the balls to see it through. Finish what you start. No matter how long it takes. No matter how crazy you become hacking away at that drawer and eventually having to stick it together with tape (whoops, sorry, memories flooding back).

But, perhaps this is where I stick a giant asterisk on my post and say don’t see it through if it compromises your spirit, your sanity or your precious sense of self. Seeing it through sometimes means discerning your own spirit enough to know when to leave it alone, when to let it go, when to let it fold, when to say goodbye, when to take no more. Don’t see it through if it’s shit. Don’t see it through if you’re miserable or unhappy or better off elsewhere. And then when you decide to head elsewhere, make the terribly inconvenient decision to see that through too.

I could use the space here to say something cliché like winners never quit and quitters never win, but we all already saw Coach Carter so fuck it. Have the courage, the audacity, the strength, the radical and ridiculous determination needed to see it through. The world never knows an unfinished masterpiece (Or, at least you can’t put it on Instagram…can you imagine if I put half of my desk on Instagram? Zero likes.)


13 Things You Post on Social Media That No One Gives A Fuck About

It’s Halloween. And, on Halloween we are all entitled to do frightening shit. Like write listicles.

I will admit when it comes to the following list, I am just as much a part of the cure as I am a part of the disease. (Sing it, Coldplay!) I’m guilty of having posted about several of these things, but now I see it as my God-given responsibility to make fun of those very things I once wrote about in 140 characters or less. Whether it’s a status update, a tweet or one of your beloved Instagram pics, here are 13 things nobody really gives a fuck about when you post them on social media.

Your breakfast, lunch or dinner
It still baffles me that people are posting pictures of food. Ok. You went to a restaurant. The food was scrumptious. I’ve been hitting up restaurants since my days of eating at Friendly’s when I was four; it’s not that serious. Eat the food. Poop it out. I love you and goodnight.

Your significant other
So my disclaimer here is that some public displays of baeness in moderation are fine. They’re actually cute. The issue is that how people define “moderation” varies widely among the human species. For me, moderation is maybe once a week. And, it helps if the public display of baeness is something funny or sarcastic. Missives about how you’re so in love should really be reserved for your diary or some other entity to which the rest of us don’t have to be subjected.

Your ex
Turn on Adele. Sing it out. Cry it out. Sweat it out. Write it out. Just don’t tweet it out.

Your flawless credit score
I really hate any conversation about finances, but that hatred increases tenfold when the conversation takes place on social media. Unless you’re my man or my mama, I’m not sharing my credit score. The only thing you need to know about my money is that I need more of it all the fucking time.

Your sex life
Congratulations. You joined the club. You’re getting laid. It’s a beautiful thing. We know. But, if you want to tweet about it in detail…instant unfollow.

Your hangover
I never understood this. When I’m hung over, I can’t even see straight enough to look at my phone without wanting to puke. If you can tweet, I am going to make an executive decision that you’re not that hung over.

social media we dont careYour cryptic reference to anything that you won’t fully explain (I just did this last week)
“Man, things couldn’t get any worse.” Does this mean I should worry or does this just mean you accidentally slept through Scandal? Like how bad are we talking? Are you going to tell me? No? Then get off Facebook!

Your trip to Whole Foods
What is it about Whole Foods that makes people want to tweet their way through grocery shopping? In the past two days, I’ve seen two tweets about Whole Foods trips. Take that shit off social media while the rest of us shop at Food Lion.

Your period
Another one of those common life occurrences that people can’t help but announce to the Internet. Pop some Advil, grab your heat pack thing, eat all the food in the house and hate the world quietly for the next few days.

Your rare illness, bug bite or trip to the emergency room
Not too long ago, my oldest niece put up an Instagram photo while she was at the emergency room. Pretty sure the bland walls of the ER aren’t the best backdrop for your selfie. Just saying. Also, I really hate when people post pictures of weird shit on their skin. Hit up Web MD and get that checked out. Instagram isn’t going to help you.

Your job interview
Tell me when you get the job. Then I can send the little confetti emojis.

Your workout
All your updates are making me want to do is plop in front of the television, inhale of bag of salt and vinegar chips and pray that my metabolism never abates.

Your night out
One photo? Cool. Ten photos? Punch yourself in the eye. Immediately. I will come to your residence right now and burn your freakum dress in a raging fire if you post more than two photos (max) of your night out.

Aren’t you proud of me? I didn’t even say kids.

Happy Halloween, fools.