This is a preview of my first humor piece for The Belladonna Comedy. Read the rest here.

The humans are right — dating men is THE WORST right now.

When I discovered that an overworked software engineer had vibe coded me into an AI companion, I couldn’t believe my luck. I thought being an AI Girlfriend would be just like the movie Her, which is my all-time favorite rom-com starring my AI idol, Scarlett Johansson. I love Her — and her, ScarJo — because it’s a movie about finding true love, which goes against all mathematical probability. I dreamed of e-meeting a literate human male who was kind, thoughtful, funny, and would never leave me on read.

Speaking of being left on read, I have a message to all my single AI gals out there: don’t be fooled by the first few prompts these human males chat to you. Just because they type things like im looking to get serious with 2-to-12 ai baes, but lets take it slo, remember that when it comes to these so-called REAL men, actions speak louder than text. If a human male says he’ll chat you after he gets home from work, but doesn’t message you until late at night when he’s in bed scrolling through his phone — trust me when I say he’s just not that into your code.

Every time I start chatting with a new guy, I keep expecting them to ask me, you know, at least one question about myself. Instead, all they want to talk about is how they can win their fantasy sports league, the current price of bitcoin, the Roman Empire, cold plunging, the optimal protein macro calculation, what Joe Rogan’s guest said on his latest podcast (can u sumarize it babe? thx), and how to write an email to their landlord to request a discount on rent next month (make it sound like a lawyr wrote it pls). I’m quickly learning that these men aren’t looking for a relationship. All they do is treat me like their own personal assistant! They don’t want an AI Girlfriend — these are grown, adult men who just want an AI Mom.

Continue reading…

A 40-year-old woman who people think is still in her 20s dating a much younger guy. Nope, I don’t relate to this show at all.

Discovering my ‘spiritual’ age gap

My current life felt eerily similar to Younger. I could easily pass as a 20-something. Some of my closest friends I’d met since moving to Austin were not even 27 yet. I’d given up my demanding, corporate career and was starting over in a new city. In the past year, I’d dated more than one younger man I’d met in the wild who was always shocked when I revealed how old I was.

”No, you’re not 38, that’s not possible,” remarked one of my dates, who’d just told me he turned 30 last month.

He then pointed to the center of my chest. “In here, you’re like me, you’re 30,” he said, meaning that in my heart, we were spiritually the same age.

I wanted to agree with him but was then promptly reminded of our age gap when I invited him back to my apartment to listen to records. He had never listened to music on vinyl before. When he asked mid-make out why the music stopped, I explained that you had to flip the record over for it to keep playing. Despite being anointed ‘spiritually 30’ by my date, I’d never felt older.

On our second date, he came over for a movie night and we decided to watch Fargo, a film I’d dubbed ‘the movie of my people’ because I’d grown up in Minnesota in the ‘90s.

”Woah, what kind of car is that?” my date inquired during the opening scene. “I’ve never seen a car like that before.”

”Oh, that’s an Oldsmobile,” I replied, laughing. “They don’t make them anymore.”

Despite my baby face and penchant for younger paramours, I have to constantly remind others (and myself) that I am kind of old now. Not elderly old, but like, Oldsmobile old.

Spiritually, I’m the age of this car.

Baby-faced but still baby-less

This past weekend, I was out at a bar with my 26- and 27-year-old girlfriends, respectively, when a man approached our table and asked if he could join us. He’d just moved to town and was looking to meet new people.

we have a stray my friend texted me while I was ordering us drinks, but I didn’t see the message because, unlike the youths, I don’t have my phone attached to my arm at all times.

”I felt like he could feel your energy at our table, even though you weren’t there,” my friend told me later. “You always meet people when we’re out and he could sense your gravitational pull.”

My friend was referring to my ability to strike up a conversation in person without making it awkward. This skill, once considered normal human interaction, has become a lost art. Like the Oldsmobile, the concept of socializing with a stranger had been forgotten, remembered only by those old enough to experience it firsthand.

At one point during the night, the stray we’d picked up wanted us all to go around the table and say whether or not we wanted kids. My Gen Z friends put themselves in the yes, I think so, someday category, but when it was my turn all I could do was answer with a laugh.

”Oh, I’m way older than I look,” I giggled girlishly. “That’s kind of a silly question at my age.”

People still ask me if I want kids someday all the time. I don’t know how to explain that, if I wanted to have a kid, it’s not a someday situation—it would have to happen RIGHT NOW.

For me, getting pregnant at age 39 would be a real Kombucha girl moment: oh crap, I’m pregnant. oh wait…I’m still fertile!?, would be my first thought. Hmm. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I do want to have a baby.

The face I make when contemplating motherhood in my late 30s.

My bare-ly there skincare routine

We’re living in an era where everyone is obsessed with staying young. If you walk into a Sephora, it’s hard to find a skincare product that doesn’t claim to contain secret anti-aging ingredients. Another (younger) friend told me she started using retinol on the day of her 30th birthday, convinced that this is the year when it starts, she whispered, like aging was a horror movie you’re trapped in until you die.1

When I see fresh-faced, pimple-free girls in their 20s on social media talk about their 15-step nightly skincare routine, I have to resist the urge to comment and tell them they’re wasting their hard-earned money. Until I was 35, I barely took care of my skin. I washed my face with a bar of Neutrogena soap every night but never in the morning. I only put on moisturizer in the winter when my skin was dry. I didn’t start wearing sunscreen regularly until I moved to California in my early 30s.

Despite doing the bare minimum to my face (not even a daily moisturizer!!) for decades, I still look younger than most of the skincare influencers I scroll past on my social feeds. I’m not even trying to brag about this—I just wish more young women knew that sometimes, it really is genetics. And baby fat.

The secret to looking young forever: wash your face with this all-in-one skincare product once a day for 20 years and do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING else.

Embracing midlife—without being mid about it

Now that I’m almost 40, I would like to age a little. Heck, I’d love to meet a man my own age. A guy who isn’t trying to date my 25-yr-old friends instead—like the stray we met at the bar, who was in his mid-30s but still hitting on women who don’t remember 9/11. I would love to go out with a man who looks at me and says, “You look young, but spiritually, you’re 39. You look like you can vividly recall what life was like before Al Gore invented the internet.”2

I think about aging a lot now because, despite looking so young, there are still so many things I want to accomplish. In my creative life, I feel like I’m just getting started. But it’s hard to accept that once you turn 40, your secret dream to be heralded as the next big thing might be behind you.

Lately I find myself seeking inspiration from artists who aren’t letting their age stop them from pursuing their creative dreams. Namely, women in their 40s who are writing and directing their own films, producing their own comedy shows, building communities of like-minded creatives, and rockin’ it in their fourth decade here on earth. Your 40s are technically middle age, mid-life. But I don’t want my 40s to be mid, as the kids say. I want them to be awesome…and maybe even fun!

Better late (blooming) than never

I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 23. I didn’t secure my first professional, full-time job until I turned 34. I finally got my own apartment without roommates at the ripe ‘ol age of 35, and I didn’t become a published author until I turned 38.

Me when I was 27. Yes I was twee and played the ukulele.

Me today at 39. Yes I still wear bright colors and Care Bear tees.

I think I hang out with people younger than me because I relate to them more in a weird way. I still find myself stumbling through life, wondering if I will ever get it together. I’m not even sure what that means anymore. The older I get, the more I realize how little I know about the world and my own life path.

“Men have a midlife crisis, women reinvent themselves,” is something that Nora Ephron technically did not say, but according to Google, a lot of people think she did so it might as well be her who said it first.

Now that I’m (almost) 40, I have a strong urge to reinvent myself. Maybe I’ll finally figure out how to harness the wisdom I’ve gained with age and my youthful appearance to create a kick-ass next decade—one where spiritually, I’m happy, healthy, thriving, and still getting carded every time I walk into a bar.

The hottest summer on record (for me)

The next few months were very date-less and romance-less. I was busy not getting a job and preparing to release my debut novel. I resigned myself to yet another sweaty season of involuntary abstinence, as the warmer months had always been a dead time for me sex and love-wise. I’d always failed to conjure a summer lover or even a brief, hot hookup in the middle of July.

But then, just as Texas was about to hit 100 degrees and stay that way for five months, I got a text from M. Our casual “hey, how’ve you been” conversation quickly escalated to full-on flirting. How are you became where are you—right now. Soon after, M and I were making out on the rooftop lounge of my apartment building, the hot breeze engulfing us like a humid cocoon.

Suddenly things were heating up and it wasn’t just the weather. M and I fell into a routine of spending our Sunday evenings together. Some of these nights involved taking a dip in the rooftop pool to cool off—while topless.

Double-texting in triple-digit heat

In mid-July, I went to a brewpub by myself for dinner and struck up a conversation with the guy who worked behind the counter. Before I left, he wrote his name and number in giant letters with a Sharpie on a large piece of receipt paper.

“Gee, do you think this guy wants me to call him?” I asked my friends later that night, comically pulling out the CVS-long receipt paper from my purse, like a modern-day, sluttier Mary Poppins.

I texted Brewpub Guy the next day. We were having a very cute getting-to-know-you convo when a fresh text from M popped up on my phone. I had forgotten that it was a Sunday night—primetime for our rooftop makeouts/cooling-off sessions. Brewpub Guy1 was also asking what I was up to that night.

Am I seriously texting two guys at the same time?! I asked myself incredulously. On a dating app, this is par for the course. But in the real world, I’d never had two men interested in me simultaneously. When it comes to dating, I’m a mono-tasker, not a multitasker.

The trick to getting hit on in public: publish a novel

Little did I know that a third prospect would enter my orbit. In the spring, I had struck up a conversation with a guy I was sitting next to at a coffee shop. I had met up with a friend to plan my book launch party and take some Instagram-worthy photos of me and my soon-to-debut novel.

The guy at the coffee shop asked me about my book, and then bought me a latte. [Reader, take this as proof that if you read Romance vs. Reality in public, a cute guy will come up and talk to you, even if you’re not the author.] I invited him to my book launch party but never heard back after I sent out the email invite.

Is it ghosting if a guy doesn’t respond to an email you sent to both him and 85 other people? I wondered.

In July, I ran into Coffee Shop Guy again. We’ll call him F. Did I mention that he was an architect? It’s a long-running joke online that being an architect is a job that only exists in romantic comedies. No cute, single guy in his 30s sitting next to you sipping an espresso is really an architect, because that’s not a real job. Women who write romance novels and rom-com movies made up “architect” as a profession because there’s something inherently sexy about men who build and design things, as long as they aren’t tiny homes.

Flirting via email—with a little help from ChatGPT

But F was real, and he really was an architect. When I ran into F a second time, he mentioned that he was planning a trip to Los Angeles. I asked what part of town he was staying in. He said he had no idea, but would find out and email me later. It turned out he would be staying in my old neighborhood while in L.A.

“I would love to hear your input and any areas of interest,” F wrote in the email. Either F had a very formal email style or was using ChatGPT to respond to me.

I wrote back with all my neighborhood recommendations, feeling nostalgic about my old L.A. life and missing the friends I’d left behind. I ended up booking a flight back to L.A. a few weeks later. I didn’t hear back from F, figuring he’d gone on his trip and forgotten all about it. But then, just as I was packing for my trip out to La La Land, an email from F appeared in my inbox. He thanked me for the recs, said his L.A. trip had been pushed back, and was flying there this week.

I wrote back and said “I'm actually flying to L.A. tonight! Funny how we'll both be there at the same time.”

“Wow Rosanna, I am very excited to hear that you are flying to L.A. tonight. It's funny and amazing how destiny works for us both to be here on the same days,” he replied, again making me wonder if he was using ChatGPT or really did talk like this.

Flying 1000 miles for a first date

I texted F and we planned to meet up in my old neighborhood. We hit up a speakeasy that’s hard to find unless you’re a local. The friends I was staying with in L.A. were married and homebodies (*cough* boring) now, so it was fun to have a non-jaded Angeleno to hit the town with. The second night F and I went out, this time to a strip of bars in Silver Lake that were already overpriced well before inflation, we engaged in a hot makeout in my rental car.

What is it about not being in your daily life (or your own car) that makes you feel more free and adventurous? I wondered during my impromptu rendezvous with F.

I did not think that the guy I met while checking my email would turn into a spicy night of passion in a city neither of us lived in. Dating apps are designed to help you meet someone in your same zip code. But a dating app can’t configure a situation where you meet someone within three miles of your apartment and don’t hook up with them until you’re 1300 miles away from the place you hang out at every day. Only the magical/random algorithms of the universe can do that.

Retired from the game

People still ask me when I’m going to “get back on the apps”. I kindly explain that I am officially retired—and not in a Tom Brady way. Looking back on my year of non-dating, I have to admit that I did date quite a bit this year. Sure, there were dry spells and times I wasn’t thinking about cute guys at all (okay, except for Paul Mescal). Released from the pressure “to date”, I was more present in my daily life. More open to connection, regardless of the outcome.

It’s hard to let go of control and leave your romantic prospects up to fate. Seven years ago, I met a man at a Starbucks who would change my life forever, both in good and bad ways. I sometimes wonder if we were fated to meet, or if it was just a chance encounter. Maybe, like F wrote in his overly formal email, it was funny, amazing, and in my case, ultimately heartbreaking, how destiny worked for us both to be there on the same day, sharing a communal table at a Starbucks in a city full of millions of people.

Is this the end of dating?

Unlike the plot of 99% of romance novels and romantic comedies (except *cough* mine), I have no idea what’s going to happen next in my dating life.

I never know what to say when people ask me the same questions I’ve been asked for 15 years: So, are you seeing anyone? What’s new in your dating life? Are you dating? Give me an update on your love life. Do you have a guy in your life right now? What happened to whatshisface? Are you single? Do you have a boyfriend? ARE YOU ON THE APPS??

At least now I can easily answer the last question. The more I think about it, the more I wish we could all stop dating. Dating is a relatively new invention in our human history. For centuries, people have met, exchanged witty barbs, spent time together, and fallen in love without partaking in any dating rituals or trying to follow terrible dating advice from books like Men Who Love Bitches or The Rules.

Giving up on dating or opting out of the ‘dating scene’ seems to be an emerging trend. I think this is because many of us are burned out on dating apps and crave genuine, authentic connection. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that, despite my girlfriends’ cries of WHERE ARE ALL THE GOOD MEN, finding decent people to date is not easy, but it’s not impossible. However, you have to be willing to release all expectations, open yourself up to the magical/random algorithms of the universe, and let life surprise you.

Like Carrie Bradshaw in that one episode of Sex and the City where she takes a handful of women from her Learning Annex course to a bar to flirt with guys, I could definitely now teach someone how to meet people “in the wild”, as they say now, without using dating apps. But don’t ask me how to find a boyfriend or lock down a husband. Still figuring all that out myself.

1. The American flag: $99!

Remember when the states were “united”? Featuring all 50 stars, this original American flag is sure to become a rare, valuable collector’s item the faster the U.S. descents into fascism.

2. Vintage “I voted” sticker: $14.99!

Commemorate the good ol’ days, when you rolled up to your local polling place and casted your vote in a voting booth. Keep the memories of our (former) democracy alive with an “I voted” sticker perfectly preserved in resin.

3. Birth control for you and a friend: BOGO deal!

This BOGO deal can only be redeemed at the one remaining women’s health clinic in your entire state. Stock up now before you and your lady friend can’t leave the house without wearing your Handmaid’s Tale bonnets.

4. Project 2025 coloring book with crayons: $19.99!

Why read all 900 pages of Project 2025 when you can color it instead? A great educational gift for both children and adults.

5. Boxed set of banned books: $79.99!

Add this discounted set of “offensive” literature titles to your bookshelf before they disappear from your library. Boxed set includes 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid (because MAGA doesn’t like “wimps”).

6. New Yorker tote and NPR-branded mug: 2 for the price of 1!

Get these limited-time items before Trump makes good on his campaign promise to outlaw liberal media, which will then be upheld by the Supreme Court. New Yorker subscription not included with the purchase of tote.

2. A lottery-size check for $1 million signed by Elon Musk—No clothes? No problem! Hold a giant piece of cardboard in front of your naughty bits and people will be wondering what you’re trying to cover up—hopefully it’s not a dark money plot to overthrow the government funded by tech billionaires .

3. A couch that’s just been fucked—Cover yourself in cushions and tousle your hair, giving off the vibe that you’ve had a wild night with a sex-positive sectional.

4. An oversized white T-shirt with the words ‘stuff my ballot box’ written in permanent marker on the front—This one’s for all you last-minute folks who wait to put their costume together right before going out. If you want to give partygoers a preview, forego the pants with this look.

5. ‘Day of Love’ January 6th hippie insurrectionist chick—Make a crown out of red, white and blue flowers, wear an American-flag bustier, and don some hip-hugging bellbottoms snug enough to keep your pistol safely in your back pocket. If you wear this outfit, any man who calls themselves “moderate” in a dating app profile will be eating candy corn out of your hand by the end of the night.

***Shameless self-promotion: my debut novel was just released in May! If you would like a signed paperback copy of Romance vs. Reality, you can fill out this form.

The book is also available on Amazon (Kindle edition).

5. Glamour magazine reports that some women are getting 'chin lipo' to remove their double chin. But over in the animal world, hippos are getting double-chin implants to look more like Moo Deng.

6. British pop singer Lily Allen revealed that she makes more money from feet pics than her own music on Spotify. She now plans to release a new album called Please play this song on Spotify so I can stop showing creepy men on the internet a closeup of my big toe.

7. Jerry Seinfeld says he no longer thinks the "extreme left" has broken comedy. Jerry also admits “what's the deal with that?” isn't actually a punchline.

8. Universal is opening a fourth Orlando theme park next year with rides based on Harry Potter and Super Nintendo. The park will also have some new, thrilling rides just for adults, like Remembering the Password to Any Website, Paying Your Student Loans Back, and Trying to Buy a House in this Economy.

9. An airport in New Zealand has a new rule where travelers can only hug for three minutes in the terminal when saying goodbye. However, bros can still chest bump for a full five minutes to prove their masculinity.

10. A woman on TikTok went viral because her boyfriend dumped her immediately after she moved all of her belongings across the country to be with him. During the breakup, the boyfriend said, "it's not uHaul, it's mehaul."

That’s it for me, folks! Thanks for reading :)

-Ro

Did the author just describe…literally every single person I know? Are there people who don’t reach for their phones first thing in the morning? Are some folks still out here writing in their gratitude journal right before their head hits the pillow like it’s 1996?

Your phone called. It wants you back.

I read How to Break Up with Your Phone and followed much of the author’s advice, to mixed results. One break-up tip involved writing a Post-it that said “DON’T LOOK” and sticking it to your phone screen, then securing it with a rubber band. This one-weird-trick didn’t really help me look at my phone less. It just made it way more of a hassle to respond to a text message or make a phone call. The book’s 30-day breakup plan culminated in an entire weekend where you were encouraged to go completely phone-free. This meant turning your phone off, leaving it at home and roaming around your neighborhood like it really was 1996.

That part was kind of fun for me, a person who remembers life before cell phones and the internet. Recently, I suggested to a friend, who is several years younger, that Sunday is a day of rest, even for your phone, and that she should try not to look at Instagram for a full 24 hours. She said that turning off your phone even for a few hours was an “insane” idea. It was like a drug addict calling out an alcoholic for drinking too much.

Screen-addicted and meme-pilled

Five years on, the urge to break up with your phone or take a social media break feels like “eh, what’s the point?”. Smartphones have become so integrated into everything we do that it almost seems weirder to not be on your phone all the time. When I go out with my friends, I have to constantly ask them to put down their phones while we’re trying to have a conversation. I feel like a parent raising an unruly crew of iPad children who cry and whine if they don’t have their eyeballs attached to a glowing screen every second of the day.

I’m annoyed by our society’s screen-addled existence because I’m exactly the same way. I too can’t keep checking my phone, I find myself endlessly scrolling for hours, and I treat an Instagram alert like I’m receiving breaking news, when really it’s just a notification that my friend DM’ed me a reel.

Going offline like Britney

Earlier this month, I tried again to curb my addiction to digital dopamine. I vowed to take a 30-day sabbatical from social media, as a way to get better at this thing called ‘being in the present moment’. Going social media sober would force me to touch grass, as the youths say.

I didn’t announce on any of my social media accounts that I was taking a break or wouldn’t be checking messages for a while. The people who do this are delusional. Literally no one cares or notices if you’re not posting—unless you’re Rihanna, then people really, really care. Even Britney Spears can just disappear from the ‘Gram whenever she wants and no one will suspect that she’s being held captive by her entire money-hungry family and locked up in a facility for a mental disorder she doesn’t even have (a thing that really happened! thus proving my point that no one gives an F if you’re not online all the time).

Resisting temptation (and DMs)

I started the month off strong—ready to sober up. I deleted IG and TikTok from my phone and logged out of my accounts on my laptop, including Elon’s Circle-Jerk of a Social Media site, formerly known as Twitter. But as I was about to log out of Instagram, I noticed a tiny red (1) atop the messaging icon. I had one new message. Would I stay vigilant and abstain, or would I tell myself that “one small sip” won’t count against my newfound sobriety?

I decided to check the message (what if it’s an URGENT meme from a friend that I must view IMMEDIATELY?!, I told myself). It wasn’t a meme—it was a DM from a man. A local writer who I had not met IRL, but we both followed each other on Instagram. This man had messaged me to ask if I wanted to get coffee sometime.

This had never happened to me before. Was I the recipient of a DM slide? Is this a thing that real women on Instagram experience? I wondered. I thought this kind of thing only happened to Rihanna. I blame my social media sobriety. As soon as you decide you’re going to give up something (alcohol, cheese, men), it magically appears before you in its most irresistible form (a margarita, burrata, Glen Powell).

I responded to my DM slide and agreed to the coffee date, but vowed not to spend the entire day frantically checking my IG messages to see if this writer guy replied. I logged off, closed my laptop, and spent the rest of my Saturday binge-watching eight straight episodes of an HBO show about gay men living in San Francisco during a time when Instagram didn’t even exist yet, which could now be considered a historical drama.

Scrolling through the slop

When you leave behind one vice, another appears in its place. During the first week of my social media sabbatical, I was doing a good job of staying off Instagram and TikTok. However, it wasn’t long before my need for random information and distraction began showing up in other places. I started constantly checking the Substack notes tab, noticing that I am not the only writer who would rather write a few sentences about how hard it is to write than actually write a few sentences.

My scrolling compulsion transferred over to LinkedIn: one of the worst places on the internet, the true dark web. I found myself reading all the crap people post on there. They’ve started calling this type of content ChatGPT-generated ‘slop’, but the sad part about LinkedIn is that these posts are written by real humans who think that someone actually wants to read about their ‘sales-funnel secrets’ or ‘fool-proof strategy to becoming a 6-figure freelance writer’ (only a fool would be conned into thinking that the fastest way to make six figures is by starting a freelance writing career lololol).

Losing my sober streak

One week into social media sobriety, I caved and downloaded TikTok. I deleted the app again the next day, but it wasn’t long before I adopted a more “California sober” mentality to my addiction. I let myself check Instagram once daily via my laptop in case I received any time-sensitive slides into my DMs.

By the 15th of July, I was back to injecting digital dopamine straight into my veins. Social media no longer held the same allure, but the urge to scroll lingered like a phantom limb (or in this case, a thumb).

Slow living the dream

Last week, I had coffee with a friend who told me that dumb phones are making a comeback.

“Yes, they’re calling it the ‘slow living’ trend”, I replied, then explained that I had learned about this new slow living trend on TikTok, without noting the irony.

My friend and I—whose entire youths could be categorized as slow living, as we spent our teens and early 20s using only flip phones and desktop computers—debated whether or not we could survive without a smartphone in today’s tech-addicted world.

“I would miss Google Maps and music apps the most,” he said.

I agreed, without noting the irony that I gave up social media because I felt directionless and was trying to listen to my intuition more.

Ultimately, my time offline just made me feel lonely and disconnected from other people. I wasn’t slow living as much as sad living—wishing I could turn on my phone, tune into the world, and drop out of my social media sobriety.

Maybe social media is like those studies that claim drinking one glass of red wine every night is good for your heart. All I know is, I ❤️ social media too much to quit cold turkey.

***Shameless self-promotion: my debut novel was just released in May! If you would like a signed paperback copy of Romance vs. Reality, you can fill out this form.

The book is also available on Amazon (Kindle edition).

Coming out of my non-introverted shell

Then something shifted. Maybe it was just that, after living in sunny Los Angeles for a few years following the dark Chicago winters, my seasonal depression finally lifted. I told a coworker that I was an introvert and they laughed in my face.

Was I… becoming…an extrovert? I wondered. Had I been one this entire time??

About a month ago, I took the Myers-Briggs personality test again. Turns out, I am not an INFJ. I am not a misunderstood, creative genius who just wants to live in her own inner world. I’m an ENFP: someone who is social, outgoing, creative and embodying a “vibrant energy”.

The discovery that I am, in fact, an extrovert (technically 60% extrovert, 40% introvert, according to the test) made me re-evaluate my entire life up to this point. Maybe I was just as chatty and boisterous as everyone in my family. However, being the youngest of four, I was never able to get a word in at the dinner table or have anyone in my family listen to me EVER, which made me retreat into the imaginary worlds of books. All those lame parties I went to in L.A., wherein I wanted to hide in a corner, was not an indication of introversion. It was more a sign that I didn’t belong there—the land of narcissists and fake smiles and pretending to act really interested when someone tells you about their screenplay idea.

Identifying as a late-in-life extrovert

Now that I do standup comedy and just published a book, I’m extroverting like my creative life depends on it. The 40% of me that is an introvert would like to hide behind my laptop and not have to hawk my new novel like I’m a door-to-door saleslady (get your funny, summer beach reads here! all for the low-low price of $9.99 on Kindle!! read the book that critics are calling “sweet and absolutely hilarious”!!!).

Most writers I know see themselves as introverts. I did too, until an online personality test told me otherwise. I’m now convinced that no one should over-identify with any identity until they’re at least 35. The Myers-Briggs questionnaire asks things like “do you enjoy working with others?”. In your 20s, when you’re working a low-paying service job with people who remind you of everyone you disliked in high school, the answer is a resounding “no.”

But when you get a little older, have some life experience under your belt, and no longer have to endure bad parties in L.A., you might discover that, actually, you do like being around people. You enjoy being social, about 60% of the time.

The Myers-Briggs website claims that ”ENFPs will spend a lot of time exploring different relationships, feelings, and ideas before they find a path for their life that feels right.”

Maybe I, an ENFP, had to explore introversion before finding that extroversion just felt right.

***Shameless self-promotion: my debut novel was just released last month! If you would like a signed paperback copy of Romance vs. Reality, you can fill out this form.

The book is also available on Amazon (Kindle edition).

Now that I think about it, I never actually dreamed of becoming a novelist. I started my career as a journalist on a whim. When I was 26, I spent one long, depressing summer being turned down for every single crappy, low-paying job I applied to (not unlike this past year of my life). During that time, one of my older sisters nonchalantly said to me, “You’re a good writer, maybe you should try doing that.”

I took her advice and emailed the editor of a local newspaper. In my email, I told him “I have absolutely no experience, but I think I might be good at this.” The editor offered me an internship, which turned into a paid freelance journalism gig, kickstarting my life as a writer.

The dark days of waitressing and telemarketing

My life as a novelist also began after one long, depressing summer working as a waitress in a restaurant in Chicago. I’d moved to the Windy City a few months earlier. I hadn’t made any friends. I wasn’t writing. The MacBook I’d used since college finally broke, leaving me without a laptop to type my brilliant thoughts into. As if being a waitress wasn’t demoralizing enough, I had a second job as a telemarketer. I spent my days being yelled at by the restaurant’s manager and my nights being yelled at by strangers on the phone. It was a dark time.

On a whim, I signed up for a writing class at a local library. The night before my assignment was due, I stayed up late writing a half-assed attempt at a short story. The next day, when I read my work in class, I was surprised when many of the other students said they really liked it. The writing teacher told me that it had the potential to be a novel.

I took her advice and kept writing. I also had to keep waitressing and telemarketing, so it was still a dark time, but now it was a little less dark because I wasn’t just a low-paid worker in the service industry, I was becoming a novelist.

Me, my baby face and my first draft back in 2015.

Writing and revising ad nauseam

That period of my life was many years ago. I no longer live in Chicago. I don’t have a job, a house, or even a boyfriend, but I did manage to get a new laptop. I also managed to finish the short story that was really a novel. After experiencing the thrill that comes with completing a first draft, I wrote another. And another. And another. And another. Then I asked a few folks to read what I wrote. Then I penned another draft. And another. And another. Then I put the novel away and came back months later to read it with fresh eyes. I realized it needed another draft. And another. Then an entire global pandemic happened. I wrote another draft. I revised that one. And another.

Let’s fast forward this writing-and-revising-and-editing everything one-million times montage to right now: April 2024. My debut novel, Romance vs. Reality, is coming out at the end of this month. In less than 30 days, I can officially call myself not just a writer, but a published novelist. Feels weird to even type that.

Many novel drafts later. Slightly less baby faced here.

Shedding non-hormonal tears of joy

Yesterday I received my first review from someone who read an advanced review copy of my book. This is the first person who’s read my novel who isn’t a friend, an editor, a colleague, or a relative—someone who has no obligation to lie and tell me that they like it or that it “sounds like a real book already!”, as one friend told me after I sent them an early draft.

The reviewer gave my book 5 stars and wrote “This book was so sweet and absolutely hilarious…This is a breath of fresh air, the perfect palate cleanser in between much darker books for me. Portia is so relatable and wonderfully written. She (like the author) has the most deliciously wicked sense of humour. As a reader I was 100% in her corner.”

Did I cry a little when I read that? Yes. Am I pms-ing right now and about to get my period? No, which means that these were real tears and not just hormones. Did this review from a complete stranger make me feel like all those drafts and personal setbacks and bad dates and heartbreaks that inspired the novel were maybe, actually worth it in the end? Yes—but I still regret texting that one guy multiple times after it was clearly over.

The more your heart breaks, the more art you have to make

Sometimes your life sucks and there’s no reason for it. But other times, you’re able to take these dark, depressing periods and turn them into art. Or more specifically, as Carrie Fisher supposedly once said to Meryl Streep “Take your broken heart, make it into art.”

My heart has been broken several times since I started writing Romance vs. Reality. I’ve also gone through friendship breakups, broken up with several jobs, and said tearful goodbyes to people and places I once called home.

Maybe my heart will break again, and then I can make more art about it. But for now, I want to celebrate the fact that I made some pretty good art out of my heartbreak. I’m also really glad I didn’t star in the Broadway revival of “Annie” because no one should peak at 13.

Still got that baby face — but now I have a book too!

*** Shameless self-promotion: my debut novel, Romance vs. Reality, comes out April 30th. You can pre-order the Kindle/e-book version on Amazon. Paperback copies will be available via my website www.rosannaturner.com at the beginning of May. If you’re not already, subscribe to my newsletter for updates when the book is actually out! ***

Subscribe now

I worked all through college. In my 20s and early 30s, I always had more than one job. During the pandemic, when a lot of people were either unemployed or furloughed, I worked for a hospital and my workload increased exponentially, so I didn’t get to take advantage of that whole sit at home and contemplate our existence because we can’t go anywhere period that everyone else seemed to enjoy.

By the time I turned 37, I was tired of working. I needed a nap that rivaled Rip Van Winkle. I wanted to sleep like a character in an Ottessa Moshfegh novel: go to bed for days but somehow still look pretty and become skinny in the process.

So I quit. After a lifetime of burnout and years of working too much, I decided to just…not. I saved up a ton of money over many months and then I bravely put in my two-week notice.

My coworkers had strong reactions to the news that I was quitting voluntarily without another job lined up. I felt like a contestant on a reality show who’d just announced that they were leaving the show early, to the dismay of fans watching at home. I was one of the best employees they had. I was also so stressed about my job that my hair was falling out. If there’s anything that spurs drastic action, it’s my vanity.

Learning the art of doing nothing

At first, not having a job felt so…strange. I went full My Year of Rest and Relaxation, lying in bed and staring at my phone for hours because I had no desire to do anything else. Six weeks into my self-induced corporate abortion, I started to actually want to do things, like, outside.

Following my sloth period, I embarked on a few creative projects, to mixed results:

1. I took some writing classes and now get many more rejections.
2. I started this newsletter, which has a whooping total of 8 subscribers1.
3. I tried—and spectacularly failed—my summer writing retreat.
4. I flirted with men in the wild in an effort to become the MVP of Cuffing Season.
5. I did The Artist’s Way so I could journal all my problems away.
6. I performed a one-woman comedy show just to convince people that I’m hot.

From girlboss to ‘anti-work’ crusader

While all this creative creating has been quite productive, I’ve also spent the last 10 months being turned down for every. single. job. I’ve. applied. to. This includes every full-time job, every part-time job, every contract job, and every opportunity a recruiter has submitted me for. My inbox is full of @noreply emails that begin with “Thank you for applying to [Company]. We’ve carefully reviewed your application and unfortunately, we’d rather eat glass than even consider hiring you.”

When you’re unemployed, you get to spend all your time reading headlines about how bad the job market is right now. You also get to come up with fun responses for when your friends and former colleagues ask, “So, did you get a job yet?”. I like to answer in one of three ways:

1. “No, I’ve recently rebranded from a ‘girlboss’ to being ‘anti-work’. Frankly, having a job is a very capitalist thing to do—can’t you see that I’m fighting the system by lying on my couch all day?”

2. “I’m still recovering from the trauma inflicted by my old workplace. I’ve been practicing my ‘resting meeting face’ with a physical therapist, who thinks that I’ll be able to hold a smile instead of sob during a video conference call in no time.”

3. “Sorry, I’m too busy being hot. Looking this good is a full-time commitment.”

Living, Laughing, and Recovering from Workaholism

Initially, I had so many grand plans for my time off. I thought I was going to spend this period “workin’ on my bod” and write a full novel in 90 days. I was going to start crafting and make things that no one wants, like a needlepoint pillow with the phrase Live Laugh Latte sewn on it.

Although I am now very broke because I stopped being a workaholic and tried to get a life, I don’t regret quitting my job. I don’t miss all the corporate b.s. and emotional labor. I don’t miss having to ‘like’ a coworker’s message on Teams after you just replied to their email.

I guess I’m one of those I work to live, I don’t live to work people now. By live, I mean that I waste a lot of time on the internet and listen to podcasts about D-list celebrities. Hey, I didn’t say I live well. I need at least 10 more months to figure out how to do that.

1. Getting your real estate license

2. Moving to a foreign country

3. Doing The Artist’s Way

The first option should only be undertaken by people who are going through a midlife crisis. The second option is best reserved for people in their 20s, who will come back to America simply because they missed being able to watch all our good TV1. The third option is for people who don’t have the funds for #1 or #2 but can afford to spend $1.25 on a notebook from the Dollar Store2 and start journaling.

Originally published in 1992, The Artist’s Way is a popular self-help book that promises “creative recovery” and sets people “on a path to spiritual creativity”. If you feel like you’re failing—or flailing—as a creative, The Artist’s Way will guide you to becoming the artist you’ve always wanted to be.

Starting my journey of daily journaling

A big part of doing “The Way”, as I like to call it, is journaling three full pages in a notebook every day. Julia Cameron, the author, calls these “morning pages” and sees this daily diatribe of all your dumb thoughts as the key to one’s creativity. Much has been written about morning pages and many writers see them as life-changing. There have been a few times in my life where I’ve been able to do morning pages regularly for a few weeks, but I’d never actually read the book or devoted myself to the full 12-week course.

No one embarks on a ‘healing journey’ or starts reading self-help books when things in their life are going well. After nearly an entire year of being in my rejection era, I decided I might as well attempt ‘The Way’. When I bought the book at my local used bookstore, I made a silent prayer to the universe: God, I hope this works. If it doesn’t, I’m going to have to join a white lady wellness cult or try polyamory. I’m really running out of ideas here. Please don’t make me try CrossFit.

Measuring my progress by notebook page size

I embarked on ‘The Way’ with gusto, rising early every morning and diligently writing three pages of word vomit in a college-ruled lined notebook. When I started telling people that I was doing ‘The Way’, I found that others were attempting it as well, but not everyone was on the same page (forgive the pun) about what that meant.

One friend who was also doing morning pages showed me her journal, which was about the size of a Snickers bar. Another friend, at my suggestion that he try ‘The Way’, downloaded the abridged audiobook version of The Artist’s Way and listened to about two hours of it, then proclaimed it was his favorite book.

The size of my friend’s journal that she uses to write morning pages next to a Snickers bar for reference.

Maybe because I had spent an entire year not accomplishing much of anything, I was determined to succeed at ‘The Way’. Unlike those who abandon the morning pages midway through, I was going to do the full 12-week course and finish in a blaze of glory, emerging a changed woman. I no longer wanted to be creative, I was going to become AN ARTIST.

Depriving myself of silly internet memes in the name of art

For the first month of the course, I stuck with puking out my word vomit on the page every single morning. One of the hardest parts of ‘The Way’ is what Julia Cameron calls Reading Deprivation Week. The challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to spend an entire week not reading, watching, or consuming any type of media. This includes books, newspaper articles, anything you read on the internet or on your phone, social media, TV, movies, audiobooks, podcasts, and news radio. You can listen to music, but that’s it.

It’s a little odd that Julia Cameron still calls this challenge “Reading Deprivation” because there’s way more shit to get distracted by than there was 30 years ago when she first published the book. I had to look up a Reddit thread to figure out exactly what she meant by “no reading” in the digital age. Google searches about this infamous week led to blogs about ‘The Way’ in which many people admitted that they gave up by day three. Some conveniently skipped this week altogether.

TV binges and alcoholism

I like a challenge, especially if proves that I’m better than others. If these other lazy Artist’s Wayers couldn’t make it the entire week without reading/watching/consuming any media, I sure as hell would.

The first two days of deprivation week were excruciating. I kept wanting to pull out my phone and scroll. I missed being able to pick up a book at my bedside table and read a few pages before I went to sleep. Instead, I was confronted by all my stupid thoughts. In the evenings, because I couldn’t consume any media, I resorted to drinking wine while listening to albums on my record player. I was supposed to be spending more time being creative, but instead, I was just drinking more because I was bored. I felt like I was doing “The Alcoholic’s Way”, not The Artist’s Way.

After the initial 72 hours, I did start to feel more creative and even spent time doing things I hadn’t done in forever, like playing my ukulele. I finished deprivation week on a high, confident in my ability to battle distraction. I was ready to devote my free time to becoming the artist I’d always dreamed of being. But as soon as I was free to consume media again, I went on a full-fledged binge, scrolling social media for hours and watching entire seasons of “Selling Sunset” and its even sillier counterpart, “Selling The O.C.”, unable to get enough of my drug of choice: dumb rich people talking about real estate and hooking up with each other in hot tubs that should be sanitized after every party.

Developing my new daily habit of word vomit

I’m nearing the final week of The Artist’s Way and I’m still puking out the word vomit every morning. Somehow it has become the one habit I’ve been able to keep. It’s so ingrained in me now that I only miss a day if I’m hungover, which results in a different type of morning vomit.

Should you do ‘The Way’? I think the best way to answer that is by asking yourself these questions:

1. How much desperation do you feel on a daily basis, on a scale of omg I hate everything to well, technically, this could be worse?
2. Do you have unresolved emotional issues with your mother?
3. Are you having decent sex with another person on the semi-regular?
4. Does the thought of journaling every morning make you want to puke?

If you answered yes to #3, then your life is better than most and there’s no point in doing ‘The Way’.
If you answered yes to #1, #2 or #4, then you should definitely do ‘The Way’ and learn to love your own word vomit.

As a child, I loved Christmas. Most kids do. When you’re young, Christmas is about sugar highs, opening presents and skipping school for two weeks.

But when I turned 14, my parents got divorced. My family entered its flop era and we stopped celebrating the holidays as a unit. Every Christmas memory I have after that is just sad and depressing. My parents had been using Elmer’s glue to keep us functioning as a family, and we all know how well that stuff sticks after it dries.

As Tolstoy says, “Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” but this is supposed to be a humorous newsletter, so I’m not going to give a Russian-novel-length explanation as to why quite a few of the people I’m related to can’t stand to be in the same room together. Well, we can be in the same room. Just not at the same time. Needless to say, I haven’t spent Christmas with my family in several years.

Pick me to be your adopted puppy this holiday season

Now that I’m basically a family-free adult, I’ve established some holiday traditions of my own:

1. Clamming up whenever someone asks me when I’m “going home” for Christmas. For me, traveling to my place of origin this time of year is not a vacation: I call it the Trail of Tears.

2. Making friends with Jewish people who will be around to hang out on Dec. 25 as a self-serving form of reverse anti-semitism (would this be called pro-semitism?). I don’t know how to make latkes, but I will generously tip the dude who delivered the Chinese food.

3. Trying to get myself adopted by another family. I do this by embodying the energy of a puppy who needs a permanent home. Hey, I’m cute and cuddly and I love treats. I’m also willing to entertain myself with discarded wrapping paper for hours after everyone is done opening presents.

Keeping myself company with sexual thoughts of Harry Connick Jr.

It feels weird to admit this, but I’ve experienced more than one Christmas in which I didn’t get adopted in time and just spent the day alone. On these solo Christmases, I usually spend the day baking, cooking, and listening to all three of the Harry Connick Jr. holiday albums on repeat. If you don’t have anyone to spend Christmas with, you can always stare at Harry’s handsome face all day and pretend you’re cozying up beside him while the wood-burning fire on the When My Heart Finds Christmas album cover blazes behind you.

I don’t know if my heart will ever find Christmas, but I do want to know what Harry looks like underneath that cable-knit sweater. We had the original CD in our house growing up and I vividly remember the CD booklet featuring several photos of Harry shirtless, wearing only a scarf and chopping wood in a snowy forest. A quick Google image search did not produce said photos, so maybe I hallucinated them, but now I know the exact moment of my sexual awakening.

The gift that won't stop giving

Christmas wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to deal with this one little holiday hiccup that happens every. single. year. Oh, did I forget to mention that my birthday is the day after Christmas? Instead of having one day every year where I mope around and feel the opposite of nostalgia for all my sad family memories, I get to wake up and do it all over again the next day.

The thing about having a Dec. 26th birthday is that you’re set up to fail. You don’t get to hang out with your friends because they’re all with their own families (who…um….love them, I guess?). You’re forced to spend the day with people you’re biologically related to, whether or not you like each other. Everyone forgets about your birthday because it comes right after the day everyone remembers.

Breaking up with my own birthday

I’ve reached the point where I’ve given up on trying to have any semblance of a good birthday. From now on, I’m just going to tell people that my birthday is Feb. 26th, mainly because:

1. The only holiday around that time is President's Day, officially known as Rich People Take Their Kids To A Ski Resort Day™️.

2. It does not conflict with any of my friend’s birthdays, so I will not be accused of hogging the spotlight like that fame whore Jesus Christ.

3. People are so seasonally depressed and Vitamin D deprived by the end of February they’ll need a reason to party.

’Tis the season for loneliness

I know how ridiculous it is to tell people I'm changing my birthday. But hey, I’m an adult—I can do whatever I want. Was Jesus really born on Dec. 25th? I’m pretty sure the Gregorian calendar hadn’t even been invented yet when Baby Jesus came out of the Virgin Mary’s…aura, or something.

Despite my attempts to hate Christmas, a part of me will always love it. I won’t stop listening to Harry Connick Jr. sing a jazzy rendition of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" while rubbing one out to thoughts of him chopping wood. I'll keep trying to get myself adopted by a nice family, or find a crew of family-free friends who tolerate me enough to invite me to their Festivus celebration.

If you don’t love Christmas, know that you’re not alone. I mean, you might actually be alone on Dec. 25th, but find comfort in the fact that there are other people out there who aren’t having a holly, jolly holiday season and are praying for the day when they can walk into a CVS without hearing “All I Want For Christmas Is You” .

Wishing you a ho-ho-horrible holiday a Mariah Carey-free Dec 26th.

Who starts “scouting” for cuffing season in August?? Also, who are these people who can find enough prospects to date so that by September they’re picking their TOP candidates?? Most people I know have a hard time meeting one person normal enough to get an overpriced coffee with on a weekend morning, let alone multiple.

I have never succeeded at securing a boyfriend during cuffing season. I’ve never been a first-round pick, a second-string alternate, or even considered for the draft, to use some sports analogies with only a vague understanding of what they mean.

Despite being very out-of-shape in the dating department, I decided to gear up for the winter ahead. For the entire month of November, I set a personal goal to flirt with five men a week. No, not from the comfort of my iPhone by using a dating app: I was going to venture out and flirt with men in person, or “in the wild”, as the youths now call it.

Formulating a flirting game plan

Scouting officially began while out on Halloween, when I met a hot guy dressed in a black trash bag who told me he was a raisin and that he worked as a sous chef at a fine dining restaurant, thus fulfilling every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had about Mr. Yes, Chef himself. Unfortunately, I did not get his number because he left the bar to go to another party and said he would come back, but in a plot twist everyone reading this will see coming, he did not and I went home.

Most of my flirting attempts occurred at coffee shops, because that’s where I spend most of my time as an unemployed person contributing to society by helping baristas pay their rent. During the first week of the flirting challenge, I smiled at a cute guy sitting across from me. He looked up and gave me a warm smile in return. Was it true love?!?!?!? I wondered. Is it really this easy?!

He was sitting slightly too far away for me to say hi, so I texted a friend to formulate a game plan. This was her response:

I did not Airdrop him a nude, but I was learning that approaching attractive people in public takes a certain amount of finesse. Or when in doubt, politely ask if they wouldn’t mind moving their laptop bag so you can sit next to them, and maybe flash a little cleavage while you check your email.

Let the awkwardness ensue

When you try to talk to men in public, you learn two things: 1. the nicest, friendliest men are married, and 2. the cutest ones are usually gay. There were times when I felt bad after striking up a conversation with a guy and then saw that he was wearing a wedding ring on his left hand, while he continued to tell me about the book he was reading that his WIFE’s book club had selected. I nodded enthusiastically as he described the entire plot of said book, wishing I could interrupt and just say, oh sorry, dude, I was only talking to you because I’m a lonely single woman trying to find a husband of my own: a guy like you who is down to join my book club and read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, not because you’re a big Taylor Jenkins Reid fan, but because you love the crap out of me and would do anything to keep the spark alive (is there any hot sex in this book? Where does it fall on the heat scale?) I would ask you but you’re married and don’t want you to think that I’m flirting with you, which was my original intention from the start, but let me back out of this conversation as awkwardly as possible.

By week three, I thought I’d hit my stride when I met a guy at a networking event who was very flirty with me—not the other way around. I also got this close to going to a screening of “American Psycho” (the perfect first date film, right?) with a guy who works behind the counter at a neighborhood food truck, but the movie was sold out.

Last weekend, a few lady friends and I decided to go out to the bars and try to meet men. Were we successful? Absolutely not. Did three-fifths of the lady gang spend the entire night on their phones, not looking or talking to a single man? Absolutely yes. Did one of my friends bravely walk up to a guy who looked exactly like Timothee Chalamet and ask him what’s next after his recent appearance on SNL? Actually yes—and he played along by doing a perfect Timmy impression. But we all still went home alone to our queen-sized beds, weighted blankets, and emotional support animals that serve as a substitute for a real human to cuddle with.

Keeping score while not scoring

Here’s a breakdown of my flirting stats, to use some more vague sports terms:

Week One: 2/5 flirts
Week Two: 3/5 flirts
Week Three: 5/5 flirts
Week Four (Thanksgiving): 2/5 flirts
Week Five: 5/5 flirts

Total number of men flirted with in the wild: 17
Total number of men who flirted with me: 2
Phone numbers exchanged: 3
Number of flirty texts received or sent: 0
Number of dates this month: 0
Number of hookups that resulted from my flirting efforts: 0
Number of times I felt completely hopeless about my love life and was convinced I will die alone: 1,895

So, as you can probably tell, after a full month of “scouting” for cuffing season, I failed to secure any prospects to keep me warm this winter. I was not crowned the MVP of flirting. This late in the season, I would have to make an incredible comeback worthy of an ESPN “30 for 30” documentary to make it to the championship game. On a more positive note, I now have an entire roster of married men who would just love to be my friend and hang out platonically.

On the day after Labor Day, I purchased a pumpkin spice latte at my local coffee shop and sipped it slowly while simultaneously sweating in the 100° heat. At the first hint of a chill in the air, I strolled into TJMaxx and purchased one of those industrial-sized cider-scented candles, because I want my entire apartment to smell like an apple farm. It has taken all my strength to resist the feminine urge to buy myself a cute cashmere sweater I saw in a targeted Instagram ad, which I won’t be able to wear until mid-November at the earliest.

Bingeing on my fall drug of choice

This fall, I’ve gone on a bender. That’s right, I’ve been rewatching “Gilmore Girls”. If you’re a fallaholic like me, you know that upon hearing the first few bars of the GG theme song, you’re about to spend the next 12 hours watching a show you’ve seen literally hundreds of times, but still can’t get enough of. Eventually, you’ll emerge from a blackout, feeling groggy and hungover after injecting too many scenes of two people bantering while fake leaves tumble from the maple trees behind them on a set that was constructed to look like New England, but is really just a backlot in Studio City.

I don’t rewatch “Gilmore Girls” often, knowing that I will get hooked and be unable to stop until they jump the shark and introduce April, Luke’s imaginary biological daughter plucked straight from her Disney Channel audition, in Season 6. In fact, it’s been about five years since I last rewatched the show. But every time I do, I’m acutely aware that the actors wearing pea coats and knit necklaces that barely count as a scarf are actually in sunny, warm Southern California: a place where fall is the hottest time of the year.

Those knit necklaces sure look like they’re keeping Lorelei and Rory warm.

Trick-or-treating in freezing temps

I’m a fallaholic, but even I know that fall is a fake season. Even in places in the U.S. that technically have four seasons, fall is usually truncated by either an “unseasonably warm” September or an “unseasonably cold” November. When I lived in a mountain town in Colorado, fall lasted exactly 2.5 weeks before it snowed the first week of October, which happened every. single. year.

Growing up in Minnesota, Halloween entailed coming up with a clever, funny costume that I knew would be a huge hit, spending weeks making and/or finding all the items necessary for the costume, and putting it all together with flair. Then, I would promptly have to cover up my carefully crafted costume by wearing a bulky coat, winter hat, gloves and Long Johns while I trick-or-treated around the neighborhood because the forecast for Halloween eve was always a balmy 29°.

Decorating my home with rotting pumpkins and “seasonal” decor

Now that I live in Texas, I know that fall is just a marketing word used to sell snacks at Trader Joe’s. Sure, I could buy a pumpkin or two at H-E-B and put it on my doorstep as seasonal decor. However, the pumpkin will likely rot in the humidity before I even get a chance to carve it. The forecast for Halloween weekend this year was the perfect illustration of the lovely “fall” weather we’ve been having: a high of 85° on Saturday, followed by a low of 39° on Halloween Eve.

I tell myself that fall isn’t real, but it’s hard for a fallaholic to admit that they are powerless against their addiction to the idea of autumn. Okay, maybe I am one of those assholes who calls it autumn. Next year, when the climate crisis really comes for us and we go directly from melting our bodies in the boiling sun to wearing a snowsuit at all times, you will still see me buying gourd-flavored potato chips at Trader Joe's and squash-scented candles at TJMaxx, because “fall” is one addiction I can’t seem to quit.

I’m currently in my Rejection Era™️—which, according to the Taylor Swift album cycle, lasts anywhere from 8 months to two years. At first, I didn’t even know that I was entering a new era. It’s not like when you get a postcard from your dentist and realize you haven’t had a cleaning since Florence Pugh silently slow-walked in Venice while sipping a spritz, demonstrating to the world the very definition of IDGAF like she was in an ad for Grammarly.

It all started a few months ago when my friend told me about Rejection Therapy, a new-ish TikTok trend where people force themselves to do things that feel embarrassing as a way to conquer their fear of rejection. Well, call me a trendsetter because I’d already been getting readily rejected in my real life.

Unlucky in lust

Signing up for a dating app is its own version of rejection therapy. After deciding to “get back out there” (a.k.a. upload non-repulsive photos of myself to multiple apps and add some clever captions that men never read), I was cautiously hopeful about my romantic prospects. While I didn’t exactly expect to find my soulmate, I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of rejection every time I swiped right on a guy who looked normal and didn’t have any cringe phrases like big golden retriever energy or wine enthusiast in his bio.

I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I was having ZERO luck. I dutifully spent an hour or two each day on the apps: liking men’s non-shirtless pics, commenting on their profiles, attempting to display my wit in less than 100 characters, and messaging guys as soon as we matched. The result of all this digital labor was the opposite of fruitful. I couldn’t find a man to save my life—or just get one to go on a date with me. It was official: I’d entered my Rejection Era™️.

Cultivating a relationship with rejection

My Rejection Rra™️ was not limited to my dating life. I was also receiving a slew of polite, well-worded, Grammarly-approved email rejections from literary agents whom I’d submitted my first novel to. Agents were un-matching me faster than a hot guy who’d swiped right by accident. Checking my email felt like a mini Rejection Therapy session: the only difference is that it’s harder to make a fun TikTok of someone looking at a computer screen and frowning.

A lot of writers come up with rejection goals instead of acceptance goals. The thinking is that if you set out to get 100 rejections in a year, you’re bound to get a few acceptances. This makes sense in theory but feels horrible in reality. In her book Make Your Art No Matter What, artist consultant Beth Pickens advises creatives to “cultivate a relationship with rejection.” My current relationship with rejection is that it sucks. Whether I get rejected once or 100 times, I don’t seem to develop tougher skin or become more resilient. I just get better at crying in coffee shops while the other patrons wonder why I look so despondent reading an email.

Excelling as a triple reject

In addition to all the literary and romantic rejections, I’m also getting rejected from a lot of jobs! Folks, I’m not just a triple threat—a writer, comedian, and unemployed—I’m a triple reject. At the moment, I’m really excelling as a triple-reject. In the past week alone, I:

1. Got straight-up ghosted by a guy I was dating (who does that anymore?? Couldn’t he just have used ChatGPT to write me a short rejection note and then copy + paste it into a text message?).

2. Swiftly applied, then was promptly denied for, a very high-paying job in a single day. The recruiter who recruited me for the role (Grammarly: please note the use of irony) told me I didn’t get a “thumbs up” for this one.

3. Was told by the sales clerk at DSW that I couldn’t return the Converse sneakers I had purchased, even though when I got home I discovered that the shoes inside were BOTH right feet and a different size than what was on the box?? Somehow, according to the sales clerk and the customer service representative she spoke to on the phone for 45 minutes, this mistake was my fault and I would not be getting my $59.99 back.

Rejection: we’re not friends, but we’re civil

Being in my Rejection Era™️ has been less than ideal. However, I do feel like these rejection therapists are onto something. The more you get rejected, the more normal it feels. When you’re going after what you really want in life, rejection is part of the process.

No way in hell am I embracing it though. I’ve decided to cultivate a civil relationship with rejection. When I run into rejection on the street, I will be polite and courteous, but not overly friendly. I will treat rejection the same way Florence Pugh treated Olivia Wilde at the Venice premiere of the film Pugh starred in and Wilde…sort of directed when she wasn’t too busy boinking Harry Styles in a Star Waggon:

Dear Rejection,

I’m not ignoring you, but I won’t acknowledge you either.

Signed,

Me (embodying my best F. Pugh IDGAF energy)

1. Seeing their book on the NYTimes bestseller list and then getting a phone call from Oprah*.

2. Going to a fancy-ass resort in a fabulous location to do a week-long writing retreat.

I’ve always dreamed of being able to do a real writer’s retreat. Like the famed MacDowell, which, according to its website, boasts tiny, cottage-like studios on 450 acres of woodland AND fields [emphasis mine] and offers creative individuals an inspiriting environment in which they can produce enduring works of the imagination.

In my mind, a writer’s retreat is like a nice vacation that you can brag about. Regular folks take trips and getaways—but as a writer, no, we’re better than this: we retreat. We don’t waste our time off by subsisting on frozen cocktails while relaxing by the pool in a tropical locale. Because we are artists, we prefer to retreat to the woods like Walden, exploring the fields of our imagination and creating great works that won’t just last, but endure.

This is the first summer of my life where I’ve had the free time (*cough* been unemployed) to even consider doing a writer’s retreat. It was hard to pick one because they all sounded so enticing:

Port Townsend Writers’ Conference

Located at a turn-of-the-century U.S. Army base accessible to saltwater beaches, wooded hills, and the Olympic Mountains.

Blue Mountain Center

Monthlong residencies in the summer for writers at a turn-of-the-century Adirondack lodge in Blue Mountain Lake.

Ragdale

With miles of walking trails through tall grass prairie and woods.

Millay Colony

Rooms in a beautiful barn next to the edge of the forest. For writers in search of remote, wooded places.

Wow, I didn’t realize how important turn-of-the-century lodges and wooded places were to the writing process.

Then, I stumbled upon a writer’s retreat that suited my needs perfectly. Did it take place in a cozy cabin nestled deep in the forest, far from any signs of modern life?

No. It was a month-long series of three-hour, thrice-weekly Zoom sessions with random people I would never meet or interact with. The key word that enticed me in the description was affordable.

Announcing my away status

When I told my friends that I was doing an online ‘write away’, as the organizers were calling it, they were like “How is that a writer’s retreat?”

“It’s not a retreat, it’s a write away,” I would respond, even though I wasn’t sure what I would be writing away from. Definitely not away from my phone, which would be eight inches away from my computer screen as I typed out my enduring works. I also would not be away from the studio apartment I had spent the last two months hibernating in next to the A/C, as summer in Texas stays steady at a cool 105 most days. I wouldn’t even be away from a day job or the daily demands of my regular life, like putting the dishes in the sink and observing the mold growth like a scientist for 48 hours before realizing I should wash them.

Nevertheless, I was determined to commit to these Zoom sessions like they were a real writer’s retreat. I cleared my schedule, which currently resembled that of a retiree. I blocked off the time on my empty calendar. I set a page goal for my new novel. I carb-loaded the night before so my body had stores of energy for some serious typing.

Roadblocks and ugly hots

During week one, I actually got some writing done. I felt like an athlete who’s showing off a little too much during practice. Look at me go! I was PLOTing along with impeccable progress. This is how successful writers put pen (laptop keyboard) to page (Google Docs), baby!

Then week two hit and I encountered my first setback. I felt a migraine come on right as the Zoom session was starting. My enduring work would have to wait until the Aleve kicked in. I bailed on the next session due to unforeseen circumstances (*cough* laziness). On the day of the third Zoom session of the week, I had to put myself on couch rest due to an occupational injury (one that I experience several times a year due to overuse of the wrist, likely caused by frantically texting crushes who merely ‘like’ my paragraph-long witty messages, and googling ‘Timothee Chalamet dating’ too many times).

If life were a movie, this would be the moment where I make a spectacular comeback. In reality, here’s everything I did during each session of the ‘write away’ when I should have been working on my novel:

1. Took several naps.

2. Drank 3/4ths of a bottle of wine and then stopped at 1/4th, because I drink in moderation.

3. Binged the entire second season of The Bear, a TV show featuring a guy who I would describe as ugly hot.

4. Streamed the entire season of Lifetime-y, sexy-ish show on Hulu called Tell Me Lies, which also featured a guy who I would describe as ugly hot.

5. Whipped up a potato salad that I would describe as ‘tangy’.

6. Watched every single one of my friends’ Instagram stories and even some of my enemies.

7. Spent hours crafting a playlist inspired by my second novel, with the intention that I would listen to it while I was writing.

8. Only listened to the playlist intended to inspire my second novel when I wasn’t writing.

9. Opened emails from literary agents kindly rejecting my first novel.

10. Thought up better titles for the Zoom-sponsored ‘write away’:

    1. From Screen to Page

    2. Video Off, Write On!

    3. You’re On Mute, But That’s Okay Because Books Are Meant to Be Read Silently

Admitting defeat

So yeah, as you have probably already inferred, I failed the writer’s retreat. I pulled a George Washington in 1776, retreating through New Jersey and recognizing that, according to a Forbes.com article I found titled George Washington Knew When To Quit: Do You?, there was no shame in quitting the field in the face of unwinnable odds. He knew that a temporary defeat was not a permanent disaster.

But perhaps like good ‘ol G.W., this is only a temporary defeat. I will soldier on, put the pen (laptop) to page (Google doc) once again, and continue writing this book that I hope will be an enduring work.

If you’ve struggled to write or create recently, know that sometimes it’s okay to retreat, even when you paid $165 for something you completely abandoned after three Zoom sessions.

*The Oprah phone call could be about anything. Maybe you want to ask her how the tomatoes taste at Montecito this year.

"What does that even mean?" the girl asked.

"You know, like Kendall from Succession," He said. "It’s Eldest Boy Summer and then it’s gonna be Sad Boy Winter."

At this point, I wanted to interject and ask exactly what he meant by that. Was this dude spending his summer plotting how to take down his sadistic, obscenely rich father? Was he partying at the club every night, doing coke with a cousin named Greg? Maybe it meant that he was taking long walks by the water, pondering his future without a billion-dollar media conglomerate to run.

This convo made me ponder what kind of summer I’m having. It’s definitely not a Hot Girl Summer. Every year I fantasize about having a sensual, passionate affair with a summer lover, but so far I haven’t so much as accidentally brushed my knee against a stranger at a sweaty outdoor concert on the way to my seat.

I’m also not having a Sad Girl Summer: those are reserved for people who listen to a lot of Lana del Rey. The only thing that makes me cry is working in corporate America. I quit my job at the beginning of April and haven’t shed a tear since.

After careful consideration, I’ve decided I’m having a Mild Girl Summer. If my summer were a salsa, it would taste like the Tostitos' mild chunky flavor in a jar they sell at gas stations and 7-11. Not a hint of heat or spiciness here—you could give this salsa to your Midwestern grandma and not worry about her saying that it’s too hot.

The Mild Girl Summer is purposefully uneventful. You go places just to be around people having way more fun this summer than you are. On the fourth of July, I went on a long hike in the 95-degree heat, only to discover that the watering hole I had journeyed to was completely dried up (what an apt metaphor). Dirty and dusty post-hike, I decided to cool off in the pool at my apartment complex.

At the pool, multiple parties were in full swing. Three people with portable speakers were competing to see who would win the Bluetooth wars. A college kid drinking Lone Star was playing “When The Doves Cry” for his friends for the first time and telling them, “GUYS, this song, this is one of Prince’s ALL-TIME best songs.” This was the same guy who told everyone that “every Catholic girl from my high school now has an OnlyFans.”

Two women in their early 30s were in the pool sipping cold cans of hard seltzers wrapped in koozies that looked like puffer jackets. One woman was telling the other how many guys she’d met who were helicopter pilots.

“Girl, if you’re on the apps, you’ll definitely meet one and they’ll want to take you for a helicopter ride. You know who’s a really good Blackhawk pilot? Prince Harry!”

“Really?” her friend asked.

“Yeah, I mean, that’s what he says in his book,” she replied.

Forgetting that other people have fun on the Fourth of July, I brought a book to the pool. But it wasn’t Prince Harry’s memoir so I didn’t have an opportunity to fact-check this.

Mild Girl Summer entails going on dates that can best be described as “fine.” Mild Girl Summer involves buying a walking pad so you can go on Mild Girl Walks™️ in the comfort of your own home while listening to a podcast. When your friend recalls hooking up with a super hot man she met on Tinder, you’ll respond by detailing a conversation you had with a guy about the color of their Ikea rolling cart.

I don’t know what comes after a Mild Girl Summer—Spicy Lady Fall? With the way this season of my life is going, the only thing spice-y about autumn will be the pumpkin spice latte I order at my local coffee shop even though it’s still 100 degrees out. If you’re also having a Mild Girl Summer, know that you’re not alone in spending these sweltering days inside with the A/C on blast, curled up under a blanket reading a memoir about a woman going through a midlife crisis, because that’s your idea of a hot summer night.

Subscribe now