Back From the Dead

It's been a while.

I would love to regale you with tales of new sexual exploits, fortunes won and triumphs achieved ... but the real reason I haven't posted in more than seven months is one long, boring, mundane, never-ending

MID-LIFE CRISIS.

I started out 2011 unemployed, and that was both a blessing and a curse.


But it was nothing compared to rejoining the workforce.

I got a job. A job that I didn't want but took anyway because it was the only bus in sight to hop on. Riding a rickety bus filled with bad smells and vagabonds seemed smarter than joining meaner, smellier vagabonds in a homeless encampment under the 10 freeway.

So I sucked it up and trudged into a dirty, claustrophobic office that reminded me of my dad's hoarder house. To distract myself from the monotony, I started blogging again ...

... and then it hit me. If I scratched out the name of the company I worked for at age 24 and substituted the name of the new company, every career lament I'd written 15 years ago still rang true. As did the constant theme of loneliness and disappointment.

Life at the new job was bad.

Turning 40 was worse.


Forty forced me to face what I didn't want to face:

• Still single. 
• Never married. 
• Never pregnant. 
• Nearly 12 years past my last serious relationship.
• Five-and-a-half years past my last roll in the hay.
• And in a job that seemed precisely as awful as my first real job out of college.

So I did what I always do when life seems hopeless ... munch on Snickers and Cheez-Its.

And look for a new job, since I now change jobs almost as often as I used to change men.

Flash forward another few months.

Lucky break! Another new job.

I built the new New Job up to be the Second Coming of Jesus, like I used to do with every new New Boyfriend.

I used it as an occasion to end life as I knew it. I left my apartment of seven years, said goodbye to 15 years of trendy West L.A. foolishness and moved to staid, laid-back La Canada Flintridge, where people talk about their kids and football instead of their auditions and plastic surgery.

I hoped I'd meet a NASA/Cal-Tech nerd, fall madly in love and live happily ever after.

So far, I haven't.

I've just worked a crazy amount of hours, availed myself too freely of the free M&Ms in the office kitchen and gone through my annual deep, dark, holiday depression.

So I'm back in familiar territory. Working too many hours. Trying not to be a bitch, but not quite succeeding. Popping thigh seams in my yoga pants as the pounds pack back on. And wondering if I'm really going to grow up to be the little old lady (or big, fat, diabetic old lady) who dies alone surrounded by cats.

Fortunately, the other side of this familiar terrain is being good at eventually climbing off the pity pot and putting myself back together:

• Antidepressants. Makes me queasy and flatulent, but better than the alternative.
• Yoga. Hard to do downdog when you're 50 pounds overweight and farting, but I'm showing up anyway (whether the person on the mat next to me likes it or not).
  
• Meditation. Forcing myself to count 20 breaths and think at least one happy thought that doesn't involve premature death.
• Weight Watchers. Eating three times my daily Points allowance, but at least I'm keeping track.
• Creative expression. I've decided it's time to stop moping and write.

I'm resurrecting myself, and that means resurrecting my blog.

Next installment in the High-Score Diaries coming soon...

How I Spent My Full-Year Vacation

For one year and 11 days, I have been a statistic. A statistic called out of work, unemployed, mad-as-hell-and-forced-to-take-it-evermore. And truthfully, it's been one of the best years of my life.

What have I done in my year off? I've rediscovered the real me: the me that's not bitchy and stressed out to the point of breaking.

I made Weight Watchers a top priority and lost about 60 pounds.


I joined a running/walking club and trained for my first marathon. I finished it, in a torrential downpour, in 7 hours, 15 minutes and 41 seconds.


I spent time in prayer, meditation, yoga and contemplation, thinking about who I am, who I want to be, what I want to embrace and how I want to change.

I took this blog off life support and started writing regularly again.

I joined an online dating site and began the arduous, humbling process of putting myself back out there.

I kept myself afloat financially and managed to pay all my bills on time.

So why am I telling you all this?

Because today, I am expecting a job offer. The CEO has already signified I'm his top choice, my references have been checked, the recruiter has already presented my salary demands. Today, I am having a second interview with the VP of Sales, and unless I cuss her out or sprout horns, I'm almost assured an offer letter.

And, unfortunately, rather than feeling elated, I'm feeling kinda sad.

It's not that I don't want to work. I do. (Something about watching Maury Povich say, "Terrell, in the matter of four-month-old Laqueesha, you ARE the father!" makes me want to go flip a burger, scrub a toilet, dig a ditch, write a white paper, anything to be employed again.)

So yes, I do want to go back to work. But I don't want to go back to the unhappy, out-of-hope, fat bitch I became over the course of my last few jobs.

I've made myself a promise.

I won't.

Even though my year-long vacation is (presumably) over, somehow I've got to hold fast to the real me and bring her back into the workplace without letting the workplace demolish the fragile, new, healthy life I've created.

I can't lie. I'm scared.

(I'll post in the comments when I find out for sure whether or not I've got the job. And then I'll start my next chapter, which I've tentatively entitled Slutapalooza.)

---

Please "Like" Don't Be a Slut on Facebook or follow on Twitter.

Long absence explained

It feels like a billion years since I've blogged. My personal life has been in a tailspin. Or, to be more accurate, my professional life has been in a tailspin. And since I don't have much of a personal life, when my professional life is on tilt, I am on tilt.

And honey, I have been on a full-blown, woozy, dizzy, shouldn't-have-eaten-that-damn-cotton-candy-before-I-jumped-on-this-stupid-ride Tilt-a-Whirl.

I won't bore you with the gory details, except to say, remember my rosy, hope-filled post of three months back about my glorious new job?

Not.

Not even.

Hell no.

Wrong turn.

Oh sh#t.

And a thousand other cuss words come to mind.

I've been working an absolutely insane amount of hours, 10-15 a day. I took 2 days off the entire month of January. As in one Saturday and one Sunday, what most people call a weekend.

But that's not the worst part.

I work for an asshole. The biggest horse's ass I have ever had the displeasure of working for in my life. Someone so cartoonishly asinine, I will one day shamelessly lampoon him in the most ridiculous situation a writer can ever conjure up for a hated buffoon. One day, I will roast and skewer this dude so badly in a piece of fiction I will laugh myself hoarse and pee my own pants while I type. And I'll include just enough real-life characteristics that he'll know it's about him. And I'll send it to him, along with an autographed picture of my middle finger.

Or maybe I'll just send him a sincere thank-you note, because I had an ephiphany.

As someone who has had a lifelong history of verbal abuse and of surrounding myself with abusive boyfriends (until I just gave up, got fat and stopped dating), I developed a pattern. A pattern of believing all the bad things people said about me. A pattern of believing that when other people dissed me, it was somehow all my fault.

And for a split second, two days to be exact, I started believing Asinine. I started believing maybe I wasn't good at my job. Maybe I didn't have what it takes. Maybe I could have or should have done something better to win Asinine's respect.

And then, in the midst of a fitful sleep, which has been an all-too-common occurrence as of late, it hit me.

None of what Asinine was saying was true.

Very little of what was going on is "my fault."

I'm not to blame because some dumb asshole treats me badly.

I deserve better.

Funny how the life lessons repeat in every area of your life until you "get it."

Before I get back to the past, a life update

I'm sensitive to the fact that this blog is called "Don't Be a Slut," and that the implied promise is that I will talk about love, sex, heartbreak and relationships. But before I can get back to writing about Number Two, I have to write a little bit about today.

The last 90 days have been a roller-coaster ride of emotions:

• I started a new job at the end of July, full of hope, full of promise. I hoped it would get me out of the house, out of sweatpants, out of the refrigerator. But most of all, I hoped this would be my dream job.
  
  It did get me out of the house and out of sweatpants, but go figure, they had a fully stocked kitchen filled with free food. And while it wasn't a horrible job, it just felt drab and claustrophobic, disappointing and depressing. Not my dream.
  
  
• I broke up with a girlfriend who I deeply, dearly love. Or she broke up with me. Or we mutually broke up with each other. That happened in August, and it's 1,000 times worse than breaking up with a boyfriend. It's as inconceivable as cutting ties with your own sister.
  
  The jury's still out on whether we'll be able to patch things up and be friends again, but it's been ROUGH. I think about her every day, especially on the weekends.
  
  
• I quit my new job. In the midst of despairing over my career and mourning my damaged friendship, I got an email. A friend and former freelance client wanted to get me into the environmental startup he now works for. A couple weeks and one lunch later, I got the job.
  
  So yesterday was my last day at the new/old job and Monday, a new adventure begins. I'll be the only marketing person in a sea of environmental experts, and it's going to be a challenge! A lot of responsibility, a lot of work, a lot to learn and a lot of hope. I really believe this is the start of my new life.

So that's where I am, and that's why it's been so hard for me to put butt in seat long enough to blog. I'll get back to Number Two soon!

Detour to the Present

I finally, finally, finally ... after two years of fruitless job searching ... have a new job. And this new job represents a new chapter in my life. It closes the books on what has been a difficult, dull five-year stretch that felt like it would stretch on into infinity.

It started in 2004 when I left my first real job as a marketing writer. I worked with a great group of people who are still my friends to this day ... but five years ago, all I wanted was out. I was tired of writing about software; tired of writing lame executive memos about why the last round of layoffs was good for business; and most importantly, just plain tired from working all day, then doing acting classes and rehearsals until late in the night.

I thought that when I got my much-kicked-for-and-screamed-for severance check, I'd finally be free to become the great actress I'd always dreamed of being.

I spent three years chasing down every silly, insulting black character girl role in Hollywood, no matter how small, no matter how no-paying, no matter how unfulfilling.

As the time and the money ran out, I started freelance-writing from home. I got paid once a month ... whenever the guy's wife felt like cutting checks ... and they were constantly trying to nickel and dime me and squeeze me to write for free. I was making less than I made 10 years ago, back when I was a secretary.

It was time to do the unthinkable, go back to work. Put acting aside for a paycheck. Again.

So I took the first job smoking, working full-time from home for one of my former freelance clients.

The last two years can be summed up as ... writing boring copy ... watching Oprah ... procrastinating writing boring copy ... eating chocolate ... lamenting the fact that I was stuck writing boring copy ... more chocolate ... going to church and praying for an end to writing boring copy ... more chocolate ... no jobs to apply to ... reality TV ... big, hiccupy crying jags ... more chocolate ...

It was a life lived alone in sweat pants with holes in the thigh seams. I almost died of boredom and bitterness, not to mention the shame of gaining back the 90 pounds I worked so hard to lose in my early thirties.

And then, finally, on my birthday, a ray of hope. In the form of a Monster ad that sounded like it was written expressly for me. I dashed off a cover note and a resume and hoped for the best. Two weeks later, I donned pantyhose for the first of three rounds of interviews. Two weeks after that, a job offer. And finally, next week, I begin my new life.

Back in an office. In real clothes with buttons and zippers. Around people. Engaged in challenging tasks.

It's the end of Five Years of Sloth, and I couldn't be more excited about the possibilities.

Michael Jackson's Final Gift to Me

I've spent the last few days living on YouTube, watching Michael Jackson videos and Michael Jackson live performances. Reading and re-reading the Los Angeles Times. Glued to CNN. And to my surprise, grieving.

I was a casual fan, at best.

I didn't know Michael Jackson. I never saw him in concert. I only own one Michael Jackson album. (Dangerous, not Thriller.)

But I always liked him, from the time I pointed to the Jackson 5's Greatest Hits album cover, and announced to my mother that when I grew up, I was going to marry Michael Jackson.

Thriller hit when I was in middle school. Michael was everywhere, and like the rest of the world, I was hooked.

Over the years, I read a few different biographies and caught wind of all the unfavorable tabloid fodder. I faithfully tuned in to the Oprah interview, his 1993 "I am not a criminal" avowal of innocence and the dastardly 2003 Martin Bashir interview that ultimately spelled the end of Michael's brilliant career.

I mostly avoided his child-molestation trial, finding the whole thing distasteful and incredibly sad. I couldn't quite bring myself to believe the charges, and true or false, it was a lose-lose situation. If the charges were true, it meant Michael had abused the world's trust and done irreparable harm to his youngest fans. And if the charges weren't true, it meant the world was truly an evil place, where greedy, rapacious vampires could tear a vulnerable and beloved figure to shreds and get away with it.

As I dove head-first into the barrage of coverage over the last few days, I was struck by one thing: that as brilliant as Michael was in so many areas and in so many ways, he lacked true self-awareness.

In his teens and twenties, he wasn't able to look in the mirror and see the good-looking young black man that everyone else saw, and we all know how that lack of awareness turned out.

More telling, he seemed unable to put his childhood in the past where it belonged, centering most of his adult life on reclaiming, reliving and ultimately being consumed by his "lost" childhood.

I guess Michael's final gift to me isn't his music or his otherworldly dance moves or even all the memories of my life that are tied to my memories of him.

It's the realization that self-awareness is a gift that no amount of money can buy. That there's something inherently marvelous in being able to face your demons, push past your past, get over what your parents did or didn't do, and ultimately live a life that includes joy and peace.

I'll never moonwalk or sell 750 million albums, but I can walk in self-awareness.

I wish Michael had been able to do the same.

Putting Off the Next Chapter

I'm still in love with my ex.

That's how I think of him. As my ex.

We were never married. We never lived together.

And our relationship only lasted 18 months.

But in a sea of meaningless, dysfunctional, short-term, botched romances, he stood out from the pack.

Because he was the first person I ever really truly loved. And losing him was devastating, even though I broke up with him, and I was the one who walked away.

I've been putting off this chapter for weeks.

He's the one I just don't want to write about.

Because he's the one I've never been able to replace.

And now, nearly 10 years after we went kaput, it's time for me to move on.

Completely.

Emotionally, spiritually, mentally, romantically.

Maybe just getting it all on paper and putting it out there will help me finally move on.

The Legend of Olaf Olaffson

I have an imaginary husband. His name is Olaf Olaffson.

Now, before I tell you all about him, please just keep one thing in mind. He was conceived in a tent. In the wee hours of the morning. After many a tequila shot.

He is what happens when two imaginative women put their collective (and tipsy) heads together to create the perfect man.

My friend Chief had taken me camping. Chief used to be my boss, and thank God, she adopted me. She is part dear friend, part big sister, part mentor, part mom, part partner in crime.

So Chief and I were in a tent, after liberally taste-testing three or four different kinds of really expensive tequila, when the subject turned to what kind of man would be right for me.

I was in bitter black woman mode, so I decided he definitely wasn't a brother. And if I was going to go white, why not go European?

I speak a spattering of Italian, so Italy might have been a good choice. However, having been burned by a two-timing Italian, I ruled out the entire country.

I also crossed England and France off the list. My limited interaction with co-workers from Southern Europe had left the impression that they were lazy, rude and always on holiday.

Germans were known for their strong work ethic, but they were also known for World War II.

Hmmm.

I'd had great experience with co-workers from Northern Europe. They seemed really smart, and they spoke impeccable English.

Ok.

My perfect man would be from Norway.

His name? Olaf.

Here's his complete dossier:

• Name: Olaf Olaffson.
  
  
• Occupation: Norwegian Billionaire. He rescues me from a life of working for the man, because he is the man.
  
  
• How I Know He Loves Me: He built me a beautiful heated tunnel made of ice and crystals that takes me straight from his castle to his private jet, so on those rare occasions when we visit Norway, I never have to feel the cold or step in snow.
  
  
• Favorite Hobbies: Catering to my every whim and playing with Baby Ollie, our perfect progeny
  
  
• Best Quality: Outrageous sense of humor
  
  
• Best Movie Star Lookalike: Clive Owen
  
  

So I'm saying all that to say, if you know any gorgeous, sexy, funny Norwegian billionaires who are into pleasingly plump, pushing-40 black chicks, tell Olaf I'm waiting.

In the meantime, Mr. Mirage hasn't called.

Anatomy of a 10-Year Drought

Am amazing thing happened to me today. A good-looking guy asked me for my phone number. And I actually gave it to him.

This is a minor miracle. You see:

• Once you get past a size 14-16, most guys (even black guys) stop asking for your number.
  
  
• Most of the guys who still think I'm cute fall into the greasy fried chicken category. Some combination of country, over the age of 50, loud and/or wearing loud clothes.
  
  
• It's hard for guys to approach me. Even under the best of circumstances, I'm pretty oblivious. Other people have to point out when a guy is checking me out. I just don't see it.
  
  
• Even when asked, I almost never give out my number. I usually flat out refuse, or if I'm trying to be polite, I pretend I'm married.

It's been 10 years since my last relationship. Ten long, friggin' years.

The first two were spent grieving. You see, once upon a time, I fell madly, deeply, completely in love. I thought it would last forever. It didn't.

I spent the next two years in Weight Watchers trying to undo the byproduct of grief – chocolate!

Newly skinny again, I had my first slipup. After four years of miserable celibacy, I fell briefly into the arms of a two-timing Italian. After a few months, I kicked him to the curb.

Three years of celibacy and slavish devotion to Weight Watchers followed. I got laid off from my job, wrote a play, invested in headshots and tried once again to become a successful Hollywood actress.

Then I had a brief dalliance with a friend. I broke up with him a month after I broke up with Weight Watchers. And I broke up with acting a few months after that.

That was three years ago.

I went back to my first love – chocolate! I also went back to work – a joyless, brain-sucking day job. I gained back the 85 pounds that I lost in years 2-4. And my personal favorite, I became a church lady.

So yes, it's a minor miracle that a drop-dead gorgeous guy asked me for my number today.

Maybe it's the beginning of the end of my 10-year drought, or maybe it's just another mirage in the never-ending desert of Spinsterland. But whatever it is, it's a welcome diversion.

My Take on the Recession

Check out my guest post on one of my favorite blogs, Saroj on the Issues. Saroj asked a variety of folks from all walks of life to talk about how the recession has impacted them personally. Here's what I wrote:

The other day, while watching the evening news (something I try to avoid these days), I saw a sobering statistic – that unemployment in California is now in double digits. I instantly burst into tears.

Why?

I have a job I hate. And thanks to the sucky economy, I can’t quit.

Read the full post here: The Recession: Anita

My Great Aunt's Memorial Service

Those of you who have been following my Semi-Homeless Diaries are familiar with the trials and travails I went through with my 88-year-old Great Aunt. But if you assumed she was a sad old lady who wasn't long for this world, ha! My aunt lived to be 100 years old. She passed away Feb. 3, 2009, and yesterday, I attended her memorial service.

I wish I could say that her twilight years were happy and fruitful and filled with love, but honestly, I believe her last years were mostly a bewildering blur of loneliness. By the time I moved in with her, most of her loved ones were long gone. She had lived with her parents most of her adult life, even after she married. Her parents? Gone. Her siblings? Gone. Two husbands? Gone. Even Mr. Sweet Talker and Neighborhood Watch. Gone.

Most of the people at the memorial service were senior citizens, but their primary memories were of how kind Great Aunt was when they were kids. When you reach 100, real peers are hard to come by.

At one point in the service, the minister said, "If Great Aunt were here, she would say..." and then he inserted a Bible verse. I wanted to laugh out loud. Granted, my aunt was a Christian woman who regularly attended church, but I never heard her utter a Bible verse of any kind.

She didn't talk about the Bible. She talked about puppies. Her parents. Traveling. How her younger brother (my grandfather) used to call her a "green-eyed monster." How Century Boulevard, a busy Los Angeles thoroughfare, was still orange groves when she arrived in the 1940's. How when she moved to her South Los Angeles neighborhood in the 1970's "there were hardly any blacks."

The last time I sat and talked to her was at her 100th birthday party. She was wearing a silly birthday tiara and some comfy clothes that she wouldn't have been caught dead in 12 years earlier. If she could have really seen herself, she would have given a self-deprecating laugh and exclaimed, "Oh, gee! I look a mess!"

She didn't really know who she was. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know who all the people in the house were. She didn't know what all the fuss was about. I was able to hold her hand and sit with her and let go of some of the bitterness, resentment and guilt that I felt when I lived with her.

I wish that the 25-year-old me had been able to be more patient with her, more kind to her, more able to give her the love and nurturing and attention that she needed at the time. But I couldn't. At the time, she got on my nerves. And to be fair, I got on hers, too.

Does my blog scare you?

I've had some interesting conversations lately with people who know me and read my blog. My sister confessed that my blog is grossing her out. She asked – with a trace of hope in her voice – if I was embellishing any of the details for dramatic effect.

A friend and former co-worker told me that she couldn't make it all the way through some of my posts, and that knowing the person I am now, she couldn't believe some of the harsh stuff from my past.

Another friend asked me how in the world I got through this dark time in my life.

The answer I gave this last friend was true, but not complete. I said that things were bad for another 8-10 months, but then I started rebuilding my life, and I slowly began to heal.

What I couldn't quite put into words is that I believe that God carried me through, even at the height of my own self-destruction.

At some very deep level, I've always believed that somehow, someway I would be ok ... that I was ordained to do great things ... that somewhere out there in the magical future, all of my dreams would one day come true. And that future fantasy was enough to sustain me, even when my life was at its bleakest.

But future fantasies are no longer enough.

Over the last year or so, I've started to develop a more mature relationship with God, one that doesn't hang false hope on a someday that's better than my today.

For example, I no longer believe that if I say 10 zillion affirmations and surround myself with rosy visualizations, I'll find myself on a movie set or walking down the aisle in white. Law of Attraction be damned, I just don't believe in The Secret anymore.

Because that magical-thinking mindset is part of what made me so ripe for the pimping 12 years ago. I desperately needed some big event out there to validate me, and I thought that the only way to bring about that big event was to curry favor with an all-powerful man or on-high deity.

Today, I'm in the process of learning that who I am is enough. That God doesn't love me any more or any less when I'm happy vs. depressed, skinny vs. fat, succeeding vs. failing, celibate vs. promiscuous.

Because inside, I'm always the same person.

New Year's Reflections on the New Me

I did not feel like celebrating the arrival of 2009.

2008 was the year of ultimate boredom. It was the year where I put one foot in front of the other and trudged an endless path of monotonous sameness: work, overeating, TV, church, work, overeating, TV, church, work, overeating, TV, church. The same sameness over and over, with a few special events to break up the monotony: my brother's ghetto (un)fabulous wedding; a trip with my church choir to sing at the Democratic National Convention; a few Oscar-worthy dramatic outbursts at my job. Then back to work, overeating, TV, church.

I didn't engage in any of my usual rituals on this New Year's Day:

• I didn't weigh myself and vow that I would reach and maintain my ideal weight once and for all.
• I didn't look at my balance statement and pledge that this is the year I will get rich quick, get a job I hate less or at least carve a big chink in my mountain of debt.
• I didn't say a billion affirmations that I am now a talented and acclaimed actor.
• I didn't pray to conquer mood swings, depression and so-called negative feelings once and for all, or fall on my knees and vow that this is the year I'd get closer to God.
• And last but certainly not least, I did not claim that this is the year I'd finally find The One, get married and produce 1-3 adorable children (before my ovaries proclaim that it's too late).

2009 is the year where I Finally Don't Care.

Not in a defeatist, giving-up-on-life kind of way.

But in a way that says, I don't have everything I want, and I'm not going to kick myself anymore.

In a way that says, nobody can love me if I don't love me.

In a way that says, I choose to be happy, even if my life circumstances don't seem to merit it.

In a way that says, I honor me even if nobody else does.

In a way that says, I don't need an acting gig, a six-figure income, a wedding ring or a baby to prove to myself or to anyone else that I deserve to take up space on the planet.

That's the new unglamorous me, and that's what I'm celebrating in 2009.

Don't Be a Slut This Xmas

May you not get entangled in mistletoe, be made foolish by liquor or find yourself unceremoniously unwrapped.

Sex should feel good: emotionally, spiritually, psychologically and physically.

If it doesn't, don't be a slut.

Me in 1999 (at the beginning of my Reformed Slut stage)

For Glorified Sluts, Reformed Sluts, Would-Be Sluts & Future Sluts

I used to be a prudish Catholic girl, raised by a promiscuous single father, who had an unhealthy penchant for bringing real, live, true-blue, off-the-street sluts to our home for cheap, quick, dirty sexual escapades. The women were usually high or drunk, but I didn't figure out they were actual streetwalkers until I was 18 or 19, when my foster mom broke it all down for me.

But the point is, despite my very real belief that eternal damnation lay in wait for me if I dared open my legs before marriage, I became a slut. I felt like a slut immediately – but confirmation that I really was a slut came years later, when I read mainstream press that claims the "average" woman has four sexual partners in her lifetime, and the "average" man has seven.

Oops, my bad. I beat the men by a wide margin.

In fact, I'm part of the 9 percent of women (and 13% of black women) who admit to sleeping with more than 15 men.

I admit this now, safely ensconsed behind the anonymity of a screen name, as a "reformed slut" who, in fact, has reached the ripe, old-maid age of 37 with no marriages, no pregnancies – and no sex of any kind for two-and-a-half years. (Now the only thing I copiously make love to is chocolate, and I have the stretch marks to prove it.)

So, why write a blog about being a slut? Or more specifically, not being one?

Because being a slut is glamorized in pop culture. Because being a slut did me no worldly good. Because I'm bitter about it. And because no one ever talks about the mental and emotional fallout that happens when good girls go slutty.

So this is a blog for:

• Glorified sluts (women who look and dress like sluts in the public eye but are often quite close-legged in private)
• Active sluts (women who are giving it up a little too easily to all the wrong men)
• Reformed sluts (women like me who used to be sluts, but they've tried real hard to clean up their acts)
• Would-be sluts (the true good girls who secretly wish they'd been more like me)
• And most importantly, the future sluts (the next generation of teenage girls and young women who don't know how painful and un-fun being a slut can be).