Posts Tagged ‘thought catalogue’

via Thought Catalog

In order to bag a Princess/live happily ever after/be a hero, princes have to be: ripped, two weeks away from coming into their inheritance, live in a castle, and have a face like looking directly at an orgasm.
God, I love Disney so much. In my spare time, I have been known to create entire dances to various Disney songs, and have not yet met princess fan art I won’t stare at for a decent 15 minutes while thinking, “Damn, I wish I could draw.” But it hasn’t all been smooth sailing; I’ve had to put up with a fair amount of deception — we all have. And here, the most significant lies told to me by my childhood guiding light:

1. If You’re Pretty Enough, You Can Communicate With Animals

From Pocahontas to Snow White to Giselle, pretty much any girl with a button nose and a decent wardrobe can just pick squirrels off a tree and get it to help her run her errands. I remember, at one point, going out into the woods behind my house when I was about 8 or so and trying to get the birds to come to me by sing-whistling at them. For a while, I was convinced that it didn’t work because I wasn’t a molten-hot princess in a super pretty dress. We were taught to believe that there was a certain class of women whose appeal and charm extended past princes to actually bring all manner of fauna to their side at their will. It was something of a disappointment when you started watching The Discovery Channel and realized that the people who actually spend their time figuring out the communication techniques of deep-sea squid were named Kevin and had more hair on their back than their head, and the squid didn’t dance around the research boat helping them clean the crew cabin.

2. Incredibly Rich, Hot, Popular Guys Are Husband Material

As much as Disney Princesses give girls a pretty tough standard to live up to in terms of beauty, wardrobe, and general behavior — the guys have it pretty bad, too. In order to bag a Princess/live happily ever after/be a hero, they have to be: ripped, two weeks away from coming into their inheritance, live in a castle, and have a face like looking directly at an orgasm. They have to be pretty perfect. And the thing is, guys that are beautiful, come from rich families, athletic, and charming do exist — look at Armie Hammer. The thing is, though, they are almost universally assholes. Remind me of that guy from high school who lived in that Victorian manor on the good side of town, and was captain of the lacrosse team, and had eyes like pools of sapphires, and a chest like Rambo — and he was super sweet and awesome and sacrificed everything to be with you? Oh, right, no. That guy’s diet was probably 40 percent jungle juice, and he only liked talking about the BMW that his dad leased for him. Not husband material, by any stretch of the imagination.

5. Disobeying Your Parents Can Only Yield Fabulous Results

I remember when Ariel was like, “Betcha on land, they understand, that they don’t reprimand their daughters,” and six-year-old me was like “Hoo child, if only. If only,” and then we smoked a cigarette together and commiserated about getting grounded. But in all seriousness, Disney films have been chock full of zesty young women breaking free from their overbearing parents and running off into the sunset to…get married several weeks later. And though my goal wasn’t necessarily to walk down the street past my bedtime and go get engaged to the neighbor boy, it certainly planted this idea in my head that if Belle can ditch her father and get a castle library out of it, I could at least probably stretch my TV-watching privileges past 7:30. Little did we know, though, that running away dramatically from your parents and doing the exact opposite of what they have decreed for you usually ends in crucial childhood privileges being taken away, including the right to watch the very movies we were getting our bad habits from. We should have left the rebellion to the Princesses, who had all those talking animals to help them in their exploits.


via Thought Catalog

You don’t ask many questions. You don’t question what animal bologna comes from. You don’t question if American cheese is as much cheese as Swiss or cheddar. You make no distinction between mayo or Miracle Whip. You like what you like.

You with your Lunchables

You are the product of amazing marketing and/or busy parents without the time to make something in the morning. You have taken the legacy of New York City pizza and made a mockery of it, spreading pizza sauce over a pathetic cracker with a plastic stick that ought be used for spreading artificial cheese. You are the remnant of the American Dream: speed over quality, color over content, calories over all.

You with your Dunkaroos

You don’t need to share your pencil in class. You don’t worry about being picked for kickball. You have everyone’s attention and affection. Everyone squeals around you, pleading for a skateboarding kangaroo cookie, or, if lucky, the final swoop of the index finger into the pool of frosting. You relish in this power, gleefully rejecting each advance. But in your generosity, you offer the remains on your plastic wrapper. You’re evil.

You with your carrot sticks

You have nothing to share, nothing to trade, nothing to offer the intense negotiations around you at the cafeteria. You munch in silence, reading the nutritional facts on a friend’s pouch of fruit snacks, preparing your oral arguments to convince your parents to buy you some, noting that they contain real fruit juice and Vitamin C. You are smart enough to know it won’t work. But you have very pretty eyes and perfect vision.

You with your chocolate milk

You understand the essence of childhood. It is about adults compromising with their children, giving them the things that they need by mixing in something else they like. Like mathematical video games.

You with last night’s leftovers

Did you bring garlic bread to go with your chicken parm? A side salad? A corkscrew? How old are you?

You with the bologna sandwich

You don’t ask many questions. You don’t question what animal bologna comes from. You don’t question if American cheese is as much cheese as Swiss or cheddar. You make no distinction between mayo or Miracle Whip. You like what you like. You like that white bread can stick to the roof of your mouth. No judging. I do too.

You with affectionate notes from your parents in your lunchbox

You have asked again and again for this to stop, knowing that insecure goons like myself will wave the Winnie the Pooh stationary around in mocking pleasure. Secretly though, you are glad that they do not stop. School can be scary. You like being reminded of a time when Pokemon cards didn’t validate your status in the class. You like rereading the Boxcar Children while everyone else has a riot over Tiana holding DelRoy’s hand at recess. Simply said, you miss third grade.

You with your Juicy Juicy

Eagerly enjoying 100 percent Juice for a 100 percent kid. You watch PBS, particularly Arthur and Wishbone. You dream of one day reading The Count of Monte Cristo or Romeo and Juliet on your own. You sometimes sneak in watching Hysteria. Because it’s sort of educational.

You with your cafeteria meal

You graciously acknowledge the valiant attempt of your lunch ladies, who decided to offset the gravy of grease that sits upon your pizza by adding a mushy apple on the side. You are a planner, analyzing the schedule weeks in advance, deliciously anticipating next Thursday’s special: fish sticks. You are a schmoozer, knowing precisely which lunch lady will be persuaded with a smile or your story detailing your anxiety over the afternoon’s spelling test. She adds extra fries to your Styrofoam tray. You possess all the tools for a revolution: ketchup packets, fruit cups, and your weapon of choice, the spork.

And me, with my peanut butter and jelly in a plastic grocery bag and apple

Of all the things that do not need to be placed into a historical, psychological, or emotional context, the peanut butter sandwich is one.

It is simple: Skippy over Jif. Smooth over chunky. Strawberry over grape. The classics. I’m like most kids. We don’t overthink things.

via Thought Catalog

1. Talk to someone about how much you hate waiting for a text message
Nothing pains me more than waiting for a VIP text message. Whether it’s a text from your ex, someone you’re planning on having sex with later, or your drug dealer telling you to go to some seedy location, you’ll be kept on pins and needles until your phone vibrates and makes that luscious beautiful sound that indicates that you have a new message. To distract myself during the lull between messages, I’ll often try to get into a conversation with someone. It never works though because I’m just continually checking my phone throughout the discussion and being an absent-minded jerk. This can be especially insulting if your friend is actually broaching a serious talk. “Oh my god, you feel depressed and suicidal? Cool….wait! I’m going to DIE because he just texted me back and said, “Okay!”” Can you believe it? Sweet jesus!” I suggest that you just cut the crap and only talk about how much it sucks to wait for a text. It may seem small but trust me, this talk can last for hours. People have a lot of experience and anecdotes to share.
2. Stay away from alcohol
It might seem like a swell idea to pour yourself a glass of wine while you wait for a text but, um, it’s not. One glass can quickly turn into six and then before you know it you’re sending a slew of texts to your flaky sender that go something like, “hellooooo where r u hi im here waiting 4 u.” FIVE MINUTES LATER. “you know what’s really fun? when you don’t text me back. it’s the funnest thing you could ever do to me so thanks for giving me this gift of fun.” TEN MINUTES LATER. “i just don’t understand you. why are you doing to me? do you know how this feels? how hard it is to send a text? it takes 30 seconds. i just timed it. i literally just set a timer.” 20 MINUTES LATER. “i’m assuming you’re trapped underground or dead at this point. there’s no way you could actually be seeing these texts and ignoring them lol. hello?”

3. Take a long shower
Taking a long shower can be a great way to pass the time while waiting for a text. You can wash your hair for twenty minutes, sing along to your iPod, touch yourself, and blare out the sound of the outside world AKA your phone. Be warned though. If you don’t have a new text message waiting for you when you get out, you could experience crushing disappointment and losing your mind while wearing a towel is never cute.

4. Take Xanax
I mean, duh. That’s what it’s there for. It even says so on the bottle: “Reduces anxiety caused by everyday technology.”

5. Take a very long subway ride
Since you don’t get reception underground, taking the subway to a far away place like Coney Island could be just the thing you need to avoid someone not texting you back. Just like taking a shower, however, your sojourn to the boonies could make you feel doubly let down if you don’t have a message waiting for you above ground.

6. Binge eat
Pretend an Oreo is a text message and just eat 60 of them. Every time you eat one, imagine it to be the most glorious text message response ever. Oreo # 1: “U R Beautiful and I would like to have sex with you!” Oreo # 2: “Would you like to come to this amazing party with me tonight? The Olsen Twins will be there!”

Haven’t we all been here…

via Thought Catalog

I’ve always had the mindset that if a guy wears really expensive or “sexy” underwear, he actually lacks confidence – he makes up for his insecurity by expensively framing the goods. Likewise, boxer briefs and thongs tell a different story. So here’s my break-down of men’s underwear and the type of guy who wears them.

I was at a party a few weeks ago when this really attractive guy (he said he was a model) and I started to have an in-depth conversation about men’s underwear – my party-conversation skills are obviously very sophisticated.
He told me that underwear was the most important part of a guy’s outfit, and that he loved to watch his boyfriend walk around their apartment in just his briefs.

That doesn’t sound sanitary, I thought.

The model-guy then went into detail about how he likes to wear black underwear when he wears black clothing, because it makes him feel sexier. “It’s the same as women wearing lingerie,” he said.
I’m old-school – I like Hanes and Fruit of the Loom. To me, underwear is just about functionality and comfort. I don’t care what kind of underwear a guy wears (or lack thereof). I’ve always had the mindset that if a guy wears really expensive or “sexy” underwear, he actually lacks confidence – he makes up for his insecurity by expensively framing the goods. Likewise, boxer briefs and thongs tell a different story. So here’s my break-down of men’s underwear and the type of guy who wears them.

Unless they are whitey-tighties, briefs are usually considered the sexiest type of men’s underwear. Briefs hug the waist, accentuate the upper thigh, and increase the front-bulge. Popular brands include: Calvin Klein, 2(x)ist, and Diesel.
Verdict: Brief-wearers may take too much stock in their appearance and could be superficial. They might make for selfish lovers. Conversely, they probably have good hygiene and will compliment your outfit/ lingerie.

When I was in high school, boxers were the only thing that the guys in gym wore. Now that I look back, I think it had something to do with the fact that boxers are effectively just another pair of shorts and conceal any bulge (which was important in high school gym class). Boxers are the most uncomfortable things to wear because they bunch up and provide no support.
Verdict: A guy who wears boxers has no direction in life and is stuck in his high school ways. This probably means that he has a high sex-drive and will go on late-night Taco Bell runs for you.

Boxer Briefs
This is the liger of underwear, the hybrid combination.
Boxer briefs provide good support, while allowing for just the right amount of fabric. Boxer briefs aren’t usually sexy – they cover the upper thigh, the waistband is usually more forgiving, and they don’t create the desired hammock effect that briefs do.
Verdict: While a no-name pair of boxer briefs may be a sign of confidence, they might also equal a lack of ambition or drive. This underwear may not be the most passionate-type of underwear, but the wearer is probably more prone to cuddling.

Thong/ Jockstrap/ Bikini
Miscellaneous/ exotic underwear is unknown territory for me. I’ve seen it on store shelves and on the internet, but I don’t think I know anyone who wears any of them on a daily basis.
Verdict: The miscellaneous underwear guy might be a little more adventurous in bed or the most inexperienced – yes, this is contradictory, but there is really no way to tell unless you get in bed with them. This underwear is like a grab-bag – you never know what you will get.

Guys who don’t wear underwear are often considered “gross” or lacking basic hygiene. But don’t judge them right off the bat. The commando-man is probably the least concerned with appearance and might be the most easy-going of them all.
Verdict: The commando-man is hard to read: he could either be a free spirit or just plain lazy/ forgetful. The plus-side to not wearing underwear is that there is one-less step in the undress-process. He probably doesn’t care what you are wearing and won’t take any notice to your after-sex (usually sloppy) appearance.

I agree with the bolded above, but I don’t think I lack ambition – I’m just practical.

via Thought Catalog

Marble Hill– Basically the Bronx

Inwood– So far away, why bother

Washington Heights– Good to know Spanish here

Morningside Heights– Columbia trying to make ‘SoHa’ happen

Sugar Hill– Bougie, once upon a time

East Harlem– Sneaker capital of the world

Upper East Side– Old people love it

Upper West Side– Your nanny and kids love it

Columbus Circle– Tenth circle of hell

Rockefeller Center– No one lives here, I hope

Diamond District– Not as fun as it sounds

Theater District– Overdressed people with no style

Turtle Bay– Home of drink specials and wings

Midtown East– Drink here until you’re 21

Tudor City– What is this, even

Times Square– Nightmare for epileptics and everyone

Hell’s Kitchen– Great place to pick up hookers

Garment District– Better name: Bedazzled Ringer-Tee Row

Herald Square– There’s a Macy’s and other stuff

Koreatown– Korean BBQ and karaoke FTW

Murray Hill– Frat boys graduate then move here

Union Square– Wallet hasn’t been stolen? Go shopping

Kips Bay– “It’s a hell of a town”

NoMad– Nickname never stuck, mark as ‘Irrelevant’

Chelsea– Homophobic need not apply

Flatiron District– Looking for SVA? Check American Apparel

Stuyvesant Town– You’ll get lost here if stoned

Meatpacking District– Avoid roofies in your $18 cocktail

Alphabet City– Most expensive place to get stabbed

East Village– Score ramen, a tattoo, or heroin

Little Italy– There are some Italian flags here

Greenwich Village– You can’t afford that townhouse, sorry

West Village– NYU and lots of blue hair

Lower East Side– Narrow bars; be skinny to enter

SoHo– Don’t wear heels here

Chinatown– ‘No smoking’ in bars doesn’t apply

TriBeCa– Celebrities live here, for some reason

South Street Seaport– Where the best buskers perform

via Thought Catalog

Dear Sirs,

Despite what my appreciation for the musical stylings of one Mr. Usher Raymond IV might suggest, I do not want to make love in this club. I don’t even want to make friends in this club. I already have friends with me – friends I intend to use as human shields and/or surrogate boyfriends to provide myself with some modicum of protection and personal space this evening. I appreciate that the preponderance of insufficiently covered breasts has probably thrown your testosterone production into overdrive, but I’m sorry to inform you that this isn’t a candy store. You can’t just grab fistfuls of whatever looks good.

But I belittle you, Men of Clubs, for most of you are certainly more strategic than that. You prowl the dance floor like lions on the Serengeti, waiting for me to get really into whatever Ke$ha jam is playing at the moment, then without breaking your stride, grab my arm and attempt to pull me along behind you, never doubting for a second that I will follow. When I break free, you give it a good 20 minutes or so then try again. Are you hoping that during that time period I will have gotten drunker and changed my “no” to a “yes?” How charmingly rape-y of you.

Later I encounter you again at the bar, where, despite my four prior rejections, you offer to buy me a drink. I politely decline though, because just as I did not want to be holdin’ you on the dance floor, I also do not want to be beholden to you for a beverage or anything else. Your generosity might be better received by one of the underage girls who will otherwise have to get her drink on by slurping down her older friends’ two dollar cranberry vodkas in the bathroom.

Do be warned, though, for while I will try to maintain a good attitude and enjoy my night out with my friends, over time my patience will wane. I will become a little less friendly every time you grab me from behind, every time you tell me you own the club and order me to dance with you, every time you physically block my passage, causing me to hip-check you out of the way. I’m a lady in the street and Darren frickin’ McCarty in the club.

Perhaps you think me unkind. I can hardly be offended by guys wanting to dance with me at a club, of all places. And to those few gems among you who have asked me with your words and not your hands, I applaud you and absolve you of the general label of “skeevy” I have bestowed upon your bretheren. Never mind the fact that “do you want to dance?” actually means “would you care to rub your ass rhythmically on my genitals?” At least you ASKED. But no, no thank you.

Best of luck,


via Thought Catalog

While using WiFi at a public place
While working at home certainly has its perks (familiar bathroom, free sandwiches), I prefer to hole up in a coffee shop during working hours. I need judgmental eyes on me in order to complete my work. Feeling someone glare at me while thinking, “Bitch! Get off of Facebook and finish your work. I need your outlet, greedy asshole,” is my version of having a boss. But working in a coffee shop isn’t a cakewalk. Every time I have to use the bathroom, I struggle to leave my stuff unattended. “Just running to the bathroom, don’t mind me while I leave my MacBook, my BlackBerry, my wallet, and my entire livelihood here at this table! Totally unattended!” You don’t want to ask someone to watch your stuff for you, because it makes you appear unreasonable and unaware of the Coffee Shop Golden Rule (which is, don’t steal people’s shit while they’re in the bathroom). Alas, nature calls and you can either trust your fellow patrons, or pack up all of your belongings every time you need to use the phone, go to the bathroom, or refill your iced coffee.

When taking a cab
Beyond trusting that your cab driver knows where he’s going and isn’t ripping you off, you have to actually trust that this person is indeed, a cab driver. I sound like a Paranoid Polly, but my mom was actually kidnapped by a fake cab driver when she was my age. All you need is a Crown Victoria and a smile – boom. Cab driver. It’s also entirely possible that your cab driver is intoxicated or otherwise “under the influence.” Think about it – under any other circumstance, you’d probably be acutely aware of the risk in accepting a ride from a stranger. We don’t just trust cab drivers, we pay them to put our lives in their hands – “Here’s ten bucks in exchange for you making sure I make it to my destination alive, hehe!” Seems risky, but necessary.

When someone else makes your coffee
I’m really not a coffee snob. My favorite coffee used to be that machine-made “cappuccino” powder crap that you find at Mobil On-the-Run. But I don’t process milk all that well these days, and I don’t trust machines anymore. Instead, I have to trust that my drinks are made with soy. I also need decaf on occasion – otherwise, my pulse starts racing and I have to stop whatever I’m doing to pen a quick Microsoft Word explanation to the barista – “Heart. Beating out of chest. Can’t breathe. Needed decaf, you fu—“ Hopefully, I complete that sentence before I keel over on my keyboard and die at The West Café. Trusting that someone will bring you the right order when you have food allergies is major. If your barista respects your order on a regular basis, you should probably propose right then and there. That’s love.

When you must give someone your email password
I was at a bar one night when my phone started rapid fire emailing people. Seemingly out of nowhere, my phone had contracted a Viagra spam virus. I’d delete one “sent mail” notification, and forty more would pop up. It was like my phone had just snorted its last line of coke. “I know it’s 3 AM and no one is answering my phone calls, but I’m just going to email everyone in this address book, just to see if any of these people have a connect. If no one answers, then we call it a night. One of these people has to have a connect, though. Do you have an extra cigarette?” I was faced with an interesting problem – who do you call to change your password under these circumstances? I was already out with my roommate, who would’ve been an ideal prospect. We settled on the person that she would’ve trusted to change her password (since my emergency contacts were unreachable for a variety of reasons). The anxiety caused by someone, no matter how trustworthy, having control over my inbox was crippling. Is she reading my G-Chats? My bank statements? Embarrassing emails I’d sent to guys who’d vanished into the ether? In the end, I either had to submit to sending my grandparents Viagra coupons every ten minutes, or give someone my email password. I chose the latter.

When drinking alone at the bar
When drinking alone at a bar, whether it’s the beginning, middle, or end of a night – you need the bartender on your side. Their tasks as your one and only confidant can be trivial (watching your barstool) or life saving (watching your drink). You need the bartender to hold you down as you drunkenly wander outside to smoke a cig. You need them to keep the secrets you spill when you’re belligerent. You need them to care that you’re about to leave your favorite jacket behind when it’s snowing outside. Do not piss them off. Tip them well. If you have to forget everything you know when you’re wasted, forget your name or the words to a song – but always remember that a bartender can be your best friend or your worst enemy. We don’t trust our worst enemies with our drinks, do we?

via Thought Catalog

Up until recently, I have spent my whole life being defined by where I was in my education. In high school, I was a teenage brat whose life was consumed by tests, college applications and severe mood swings. My friends and I existed entirely in a culture that was created by our high school. Those seven hours we spent at school every day shaped our relationships, social lives, and identities.

Then I went to college, which is its own shitshow culture. Your lifestyle is totally bizarre, and you know you will never live that way again. It’s like you were sent to a summer camp for four years where you basically learned about Judith Butler and the drawbacks of binge drinking. You slept in late, ate a lot of crappy food, and discovered your favorite author. And then it’s over. The bubble pops and you’re let back into real life, which is what exactly? High school? When was the last time your life didn’t feel like summer camp?

But wait, you have one more label to hide behind—it’s a label that will once again inform your identity and buy you time. I’m talking about being a post grad of course—a state of being that has been captured in films like The Graduate and Reality Bites, and has been described way too many times on Thought Catalog (last one, I promise!). As much as people bitch and complain about it though, they also use it as a security blanket. They take solace in having something define them again. When you tell people that you recently graduated college, people immediately get it and are just like, “Okay, honey. You’re looking for a real job? Yup, I feel you. Having a hard time with all of it? That’s totally understandable. Well, good luck!” You ride that post grad wave until you can’t ride it any longer. Which brings me to my question, when can you no longer ride the wave? When do you stop becoming a post grad and start becoming someone who just doesn’t have a career?

I graduated college a year and a half ago, and it took me about a year to land a big boy job (thanks guys!). It happened just in the nick of time too. After being a college graduate for a year, I was starting to feel like I didn’t have the right to carry around that post grad title. I wasn’t someone fresh off the college boat. I had stepped off of it a long time ago and that shit was now barely a spec on my horizon.

Some of my friends feel screwed. They graduated in ’09 and haven’t found a job in their field yet. They know the post grad schtick doesn’t work for them anymore but they’re not really sure how else to identify. I mean, when do you really stop clutching to it? When you get a real job? Is that when you can rid your life of any post grad vibes and just be a person with a career?

You’re in limbo. You’re a post-post grad. You’re holding on to something past its expiration date because life won’t let you move on to your next label. So you’re just forced to sit in the waiting room until someone calls your name. In the meantime, all you can do to prevent yourself from looking pathetic is to stop making references to your life being like the movie Post Grad starring the chick from Gilmore Girls.

via Thought Catalog

What follows is a list of the different kinds of people I’ve noticed over the years at my gym. I’m curious to know if these people frequent other gyms too. Perhaps they only come out to bother me?

I am a regular at the gym. Not because I actually enjoy it, but because I force myself to go for fear of what my life (and body) will be like in ten years if I don’t; acquiring diabetes, hypertension and high cholesterol is a scary concept to me. In med school and in college generally, you tend to eat some really horrific food combinations, and I probably would have died of a heart attack at this point if not for the gym.

I know how to cook healthy meals for myself, but I prefer making excuses and following a herd of classmates to the McDonalds connected to the medical school I attend. If I had time for scheduled intramurals and/or the required hand-eye coordination to participate, I would take up a sport or join a kickboxing class. However, since just walking without tripping is difficult for me, the gym is my only other option. But even that hasn’t worked out well; forgetting to tie your shoelace before you speed up the treadmill can result in a terrifying life-flashing-before-your-eyes moment.

Ah, the gym: a sacred breeding ground of awkward times. For naturally awkward people like me, it can be an especially uncomfortable experience. I found that the best thing to do is to take a buddy with me so I have someone to cringe with or to blame in case of any unintended accidents, (like dropping a 30 lb. weight on a new elliptical machine). Let’s face it, the gym is incredibly boring, but clumsy people like me make the atmosphere there more interesting; I just pretend everyone is laughing with me. What follows is a list of the different kinds of people I’ve noticed over the years at my gym. I’m curious to know if these people frequent other gyms, too. Perhaps they only come out to bother me?

1. The super old and very nice gentleman in bright red short shorts: When he bends over, you can see his wrinkly… I just gagged thinking about it. Just don’t look at the… situation. The dude’s old. He’s lived this long, so he’s allowed to do what he wants. Besides, it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. This scenario is made even more scary when you pay closer attention to his face and recognize him as your undergraduate advisor. True story.

2. The roid-rage guy grunting loudly as he lifts what looks like a 400-pound weight: He will look you square in the eye as he is lifting said weight, simply to assert his alpha male dominance. Everyone is wary of him because he looks like an overgrown ape. He is usually found walking around like he owns the place and generally being an attention whore; he tends to wear tight sleeveless shirts that show off his bulging muscles and the colorful dragon tattoo on his bicep. He probably hits on #3 (see below) multiple times before growing confused at her unresponsive, apathetic existence. He growls under his breath if someone is in front of him at the drinking fountain and his smile looks like a hyena sneer. Whatever machine I want to use, it’s guaranteed he’s already dripped his nasty man-sweat all over it. The antibacterial wipes are on every wall for a reason. I admire his strong arms from afar while hating him at the same time.

3. The girl in tight booty shorts, a neon pink sports bra and full makeup: While the guys may enjoy this view, I question the practicality of it and grow more irritated as time goes by. Her hair is curled and she leaves it down and occasionally whips it back and forth like she wrote the Willow Smith song. She sways at 0.5 mph on the treadmill flipping through the latest Vogue with a lazy French manicured hand; I huff my way through a resistance 9 workout on the elliptical next to her while she shoots me disgusted looks. I feel self-conscious about my frizzy sweaty hair and then I snap back to reality. Sorry, I thought we were supposed to exercise in a gym. Isn’t that what I’m paying for? My bad. I do, however, like her nails. But I will not tell her that, because she is a useless person.

4. The middle-aged woman on her phone screaming at her husband while simultaneously peddling along on the exercise bike: I find great entertainment value in this. When I bring an exercise buddy along we usually put our headphones in our ears and don’t turn on the music so we can eavesdrop and shoot each other raised eyebrows. Yes, we are shameless, and that is your fault, for bringing your business with you into a public setting. Everyone can hear you tell your man that he needs to start washing the skid marks out of his own underwear. That’s not private at all. Please, continue to air out your dirty laundry. Who needs television when you have people who don’t understand boundaries?

5. The couple who works out together: They hold each others’ legs during sit ups, they trade dumbbells back and forth, and are never more than 3.5 inches away from each other. Why don’t they just run on the same treadmill too? This would all be fine if not for the fact that I see him reflected in the mirror in all his sweaty glory, groping her ass furiously with one hand while lifting a 40 pound weight in the other. I could just avert my eyes, but of course, as soon as he puts down his weight she jumps into his arms and their sweat combines and sparks fly…all while I’m right there. This wouldn’t be as bad if I wasn’t the only one in that particular section of the gym but as it happens this situation always occurs when I’m alone with the loving couple. Watching people have a tickle fight/humpfest on the mat where I’m about to do my situps throws a wrench into my workout. When he sits down on the bench to do some lifts and she straddles his lap with a seductive giggle, I feel my eyebrows rise on their own. When they disappear into the bathroom together, that’s when I know I’ll never use the gym restrooms again.

5 more under the cut …