Why We Should Teach Girls How to Jill off

A bouncy ball, A washing machine, A plethora of bottles, A carrot, Pens, Markers, Celery, The handle of a Venus razor blade, A chair, A showerhead, A cellphone, A cucumber, A hoodie, A hairbrush, A banana, An electric toothbrush, A bunch of tampons.

This isn’t the wish list of a first-time homeowner with a healthy appetite and a heavy flow. These are the items I tried to masturbate with before I turned 18. All of them failed to bring me to orgasm except for one. Can you guess which one? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t my fingers.

At this point, I think we’re all pretty aware that girls have it a little harder in the orgasm department than boys do, but no one ever talks about how this affects girls who don’t have access to safe solutions like vibrators and sex toys.

Basically, any girl under 18.

Ever since puberty I’ve had an outrageous sexual appetite. Problem was, I was a half-feral nerd too awkward and ugly to make any real advances toward sexual contact with another person. So, I did the only thing I could: I tried to get myself off by any means necessary.

And I mean any means.

When shoving fingers up my vag and probing my clit failed to produce anything even remotely akin to an orgasm, I started to look elsewhere. I went through the list, growing increasingly convinced that something must be wrong with me. It was supposed to be so easy. Girls on TV seemed to get gooey in the gash from a simple kiss and here I was bundling tampons together like firewood in order to get halfway to a decent dildo and still I felt nothing.

Then my dentist convinced my parents I needed an electric toothbrush and the true Kylie was born.

Like my male counterparts, I started jacking it like crazy. Small difference though, I was often hurting myself. I was young, dumb, and using an electronic dental tool not meant for gentle clitoral caresses. I used the bristle end (no, I didn’t use the same head as the one I brushed my teeth with), and would often rub myself so raw the brush would be red with blood at the end of a session.

I knew this wasn’t good, and I knew there were better ways, but I was too young to buy even a simple vibrator. You have to be 18 or older to purchase sex toys of any kind, so I was left feeling like a freak for trying to ease the incessant screeching of my teenage hormones. It wasn’t until I was sixteen when a friend went to Spencer’s and bought me a pocket rocket and my poor, abused clit finally got some relief.

In a perfect world, parents would awkwardly breech the subject of safe and effective female masturbation to avoid both injury and feelings of “being broken.”  The potential problem lies in the legality of buying sex toys for a minor as it may fall under “Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor.”

So, instead of taking your daughter down to The Pleasure Chest, I believe misdemeanor charges and awkward conversations can be avoided with a vague note about safety and still finishing homework on time atop a box left subtly in a sock drawer. It’ll save her clit and save you a lot of missing or ruined household items.

This was written by the lovely Kylie Chi. You can find her on instagram here



Escapism and Mad Men

This was originally posted on The New Grls Club in August.


There’s a pretty sexist and racist show that used to be on television. It had scenes filled with men cheating on their wives, women being treated like objects, black people, Jewish people and Chinese people getting treated like less than other people, but that wasn’t all it was.

Ten years ago this past July my favorite show of all time first aired. It wasn’t incredibly popular, it wasn’t on a channel people knew about and it was literally right before the so called “golden age of television”. It aired on July 19th, 2007 on a channel that previously was associated with a movie theater chain and popular movies from the 1950’s. The channel was AMC and the show was Mad Men.

I need to say this up front before I get into this show because I know people have problems with it. I consider myself an intersectional womanist. Meaning I vouch for the rights and humanism of all types of people because I am a middle class, mixed race, dual citizen, bisexual woman. I fall at literally all the crossroads. I understand struggles of minority humans in an incredibly complex way.

But I also consider myself a writer and a storyteller and often times those identities collide.

One prime example is with my love for the TV show Mad Men.


It’s strange that I began watching my two favorite shows the same way (the OC being the other, but that’s for another blog). I watched an early episode of the first season randomly on TV, liked it and then didn’t continue watching it. Then I started purposefully watching Mad Men when I was incredibly sick and bed ridden. It provided the perfect amount of escapism. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s a hard show to begin. There’s a ton of mostly unlikable characters, a lot of business jargon and frankly when you don’t know what’s going on the drama of the show goes over your head. Eventually, after a few episodes, I got into it and fell in love.

This isn’t a blog about the details of me watching it because that’s boring. I’m here to tell you that as a womanist writer, this show is something unique. This show understands theme in a way a lot of shows don’t. One of my favorite episodes explores the themes of old and young that seem so subtle on the first watch and so sucker-punch-to-the-face obvious on a second watch.

And that’s what I love about the show. I love that as a half black women living in 2017, it allows me to escape into a world neither my parents nor I know anything about. A world that feels so foreign yet so fantastical. You know how people dreamily talk about getting lost in a world of a fantasy novel? That’s me with Mad Men.

I know this show front and back. I know minute details you’ve probably over looked. I’ve read Mad Men Carousel while watching the show to better understand the episodes and I’ve read Philosophy and Mad Men to better understand the characters.

I’m not here to brag, I just want you to know that I know more than your average obsessive viewer of the show.


So why do I love it so much?

Why does anyone love a show? It’s for the characters and their development. One of my friends once said the most poignant point about Mad Men and it’s that you love and hate every character while watching it. At first watch, it seems clear who to hate. Pete was obvious for me, then Betty then Jane. But with more viewings, I grew to love these characters and hate other characters I used to love: Don, Joan, Megan. It’s with hindsight that you can truly understand why they do what they do. These characters experience so fucking much through the 10 years we know them. It’s hard not to grow to love all of them. To escape through their lives.

The details in this show are flawless. Their ability to weave in real historical events into the fictional stories is incredible. And it’s not just assassination and elections, it’s the typewriters and the weather.

Because immense amounts of research have been done, it doesn’t feel clunky, it feels seamless. Like this is actually a show taking place in 1960 with an incredible writing staff and HD cameras.

Since this month is all about escapism, the idea of getting away from it all into a new and mostly foreign world, when I want to escape, there are four Mad Men episodes I go to.


Season 1 Episode 7

Red in the Face

This is probably my favorite episode of the series. It’s one of the best examples of how a general theme is weaved into the plot of an episode in such a subtle but profound way. The theme is in everything from the relationship between Pete, his coworkers, and his wife, the Nixon ad campaign assignment and Roger’s relationship with Don.  Pay attention to the ideas of old and new or young and old.

Season 4 Episode 7

The Suitcase

This episode is a masterpiece of television in my mind. I know it’s on a lot of people’s lists of best mad men episodes and rightfully so. This episode goes so far without really leaving the office. There are monumental relationship growths and changes that happen in this episode. Also, the fact that it’s mostly contained to one location makes it feel extra dream like. If you’re at all a fan of Peggy and Don’s relationship, this is the episode.

Season 5 episode 5

Far Away Places

Roger is such an understated character. What really is his job and purpose at the company? I believe it’s to bring a sense of childlike honesty, and comic relief to those who he works with and also us. He’s one of the few characters who genuinely tells it like it is. He doesn’t sugarcoat a thing which is refreshing and helpful to have to stabilize the other characters. There are other important elements of this episode, but this is a stand out for Roger and how important honesty is for him. Additionally, this episode is a prime example of the people behind the show letting your figure out for yourself what’s happening. You’ll know when you watch it.

Season 6 Episode 12

In Care Of

This episode is a difficult one to fall into if you’ve never seen the show before, but in a way, it’s also not. The show does a precise and almost delicate job of never really telling you too much. Things are rarely admitted outright, so in a way, you could watch this and get all the backstory you’d ever need about the characters, in addition to some pretty pivotal information. If the relationship between Don and Sally has ever intrigued you, this is one of those subtle and telling delves into their relationship.

I Never Thought It’d Happen to Me(me)

Meme? Like, Mim? Or is it like Meh-Meh? Oh, I know! Me-me! Hmm, meme? Like theme? Okay sure, I’ll write an article about that.

The above was my reaction when I was asked to write about memes for a Columbia journal my sophomore year. You can look up the article if you’d like. I honestly don’t have the wherewithal and self-confidence to revisit it. I promise it’s not good. Actually, don’t look it up. I don’t want you losing faith in me.

Okay, now that you’re back from BETRAYING MY TRUST, I want to explain how my appreciation and understanding of memes has completely changed. They’re a huge part of my life, now. I only recently stopped scrolling through multiple Instagram humor accounts before bed because I have a complete lack of self-control and was starting to stay up really late because of it. I always laugh at the jokes and pass them on ad nauseam, but I never really think about the people – and hand puppets – captured in those pictures and screenshots. Were they chosen at random? Were the pictures posed for? I honestly didn’t care… until it happened to me.

So, peep this: I wake up one summer day ready to face a completely empty schedule. I know to most people this sounds like the dream. It’s summer and you have nothing at all to do! You should be rejoicing, Karen! Well – I wasn’t. I have a very obsessive personality that requires I be constantly busy or being made to feel useful. Three task-free weeks between school and work were hell for me. Let’s just say I wasn’t in a great place.

I logged into Twitter. I passed through a few memes – it all comes full circle – and landed on a tweet from @OfficialJaden – Jaden Smith:

Jaden smith tweet

I GROANED. I thought about my annoyance with the proclivity of individuals – namely men – to call women “females.” I remembered in that instance how I recently schooled one of my cousins on the discrepancy. “You wouldn’t call guys ‘males.’ It reduces us to nothing more than a set of privates. I’m more than just a vagina, right, cuz?” He grimaced because I’d mentioned my vagina, but said he thought he understood. I remembered that small victory and took it upon myself to be a warrior for justice once more.

I hit reply on the tweet and typed:

Karen tweet

I immediately got push back. A guy asked me why I couldn’t just take the compliment. I considered ignoring the response, but I thought about some of my favorite internet savvy writers and creators. @Chescaleigh (Franchesca Ramsey) wouldn’t back down, neither would @HeavenRants (Heben Nigatu) @EveEwing or @AmandaSeales… one would assume.

I responded, using a helpful Buzzfeed article written by Heben and Tracy Clayton as my main reasoning. My internet assailant did not take kindly to my use of Buzzfeed as a source. Suffice it to say, he didn’t agree with my grievances.

 The hate started flooding in, and a few hours after my original tweet. It happened. I became a meme.

Versace tweet

I thought, “but I’m not… I can’t be… I’m not annoying, am I?” The whole point of a meme is to define something with an image that can’t or might not necessarily be so easily defined with just words. This unseen person – whose account has since been deleted mind you – had defined me.

The meme got TONS of likes and comments and sent a horde of people flooding over to my original tweet to say both mean and nice things – but mostly mean things. At the time of my publishing this article, my original tweet has 136,822 impressions and 52,290 engagements. Keep in mind that before this I only had 70 Twitter followers. I mostly used Twitter to say dumb things like:

karen regular tweet1

karen regular tweet 2

karen regular tweet 3

Clearly, I was speaking to the void and suddenly I had people going through my page and commenting on old stuff with:

karen lbj tweet

lbj reply 1

karen lbj reply 2

It’s like people were just trying to find some “gold” that would get them as many retweets and interactions as @VersaceSilk got before. It was sickening. I learned how to turn off notifications for that specific post, but that wasn’t enough. I turned off notifications for Twitter completely… but that wasn’t’ enough. I still couldn’t help logging in to see what people were saying about me. Things like:

rude reply 1

rude reply 2

rude reply 3

rude reply 4

That last one struck fear in me and made me delete the Twitter app completely. Then it showed up on Facebook. @FuckJerry had reposted it. I thanked God my Twitter name was a silly spelling of my name and not close enough that random people could make the connection to my actual Facebook page. Then it showed up on Instagram. @BeigeCardigan, @FuckJerry’s “sister” account, posted it with a caption telling me to “sit down.” Some girl tagged me in a comment saying she’d “found me” on Instagram. “IT’S THE SAME HANDLE, GIRLFRIEND!! YOU AIN’T NO SUPERSLEUTH!” Is what I wanted to respond, but I was scared there’d be more pushback. I made my Instagram account private and curled up under my covers.

My friends seemed to find out one by one. Matt called me – “Karen, you’re famous!” He encouraged me to capitalize on this. To let this launch me into fame. He said I’d have to become a feminazi online to keep it up. “But I don’t wanna be a feminazi. I just want to express my opinion every once in a while and not be demonized for it.” My writer’s group friends from Columbia told me they’d all reported @FuckJerry for reposting it. This was way before reports of how reporting doesn’t actually work for black women, but it was no use anyway. It was everywhere. I couldn’t run from it.

The first two days were incredibly hard. I pretended to be okay and laugh it off, but I cried… a lot. By the third day, I had people defending me wholeheartedly when I just wanted it to all disappear.

The last place it showed up was Reddit. A friend with whom I went to camp in middle school called me. “Hey Karen did you know…” “Yes, Ryan. I know.” He helped me laugh about it. He told me he’d make fun of me for a while for it, but he knew that was just my brand of sarcasm. He knew it didn’t read like I’d have actually said it.

And that’s just it. I listened to a podcast recently that talked about how with text-based platforms, there emerges this certain level of intimacy that feels violated when questioned. Our words are unavoidably close to who we are and when they’re misconstrued, we’re at a huge loss to regain control of what we “meant” or “intended.”

Thankfully, the buzz subsided. In fact, exactly a week later, I was able to log in to my social media accounts and not see anything concerning the meme. It was a huge relief.

Now, every once in a while, someone online will bring it up. A new, burgeoning humor account will repost the meme in hopes of getting the same kind of acclaim. There’s nothing creative or nuanced about their approach. It’s just a cruel, uninspired rehashing. People will tag me in it thinking they’re the first to do so or hoping I’ll go off. They aren’t, and I won’t.

Initially, part of me wished I’d been more straightforward. I thought, “if only I’d been clearer about what I meant, maybe people would have been more inclined to hear me out.” I had to stop that destructive thinking. No one should have to cater their dissent to the understanding of their oppressors. I know, I know. “Dissent” and “oppressors” feel like big words for something that seems so small, but it’s not small! Calling a woman a female reduces her to nothing more than an animal or an object strictly defined by her genitalia. On the one hand, it doesn’t make sense. “Female” is an adjective. On the other hand, this is dangerous for multiple reasons. For one thing, this nomenclature completely erases transwomen and lumps gender nonconforming individuals into a basket they didn’t ask for. This kind of thinking can also inevitably lead to physical and verbal violence and the continued oppression and belittling of an entire subsection of the human race.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I still drop it low in da club to all the misogynistic bangers from the 90’s, 2000 and beyond (and before, I see you “Tootsie Roll”) but I don’t deny that the language used in these songs is reductive and incendiary. It’s a tough line to tread – being a woman who considers herself “woke” but who also wants to participate in many of the facets of daily life and pop culture. There’s a lot to juggle. Way more than I could address in one article. Nevertheless, I’ve decided I can personally choose small battles day by day.


I have about 100 more followers on Twitter now. I know. I’m killing it. And I know most are there waiting for me to say something else they consider dumb or “meme-able,” but that’s okay.  Not everyone is going to like you and not everyone is going to understand you. But if you’re smart, you’ll spend more time listening to the people who love you and do understand you.

Either way, the moral of the story is – if you’re gonna come for Jaden Smith, be prepared to face a little push back :).

– @Ckharyn


How To Buy A Bra in Six Easy Steps

By Ailish

Confession: I don’t regularly buy bras. According to some studies, you’re supposed to replace your bra every six to nine months. I usually buy new ones once every two years. Why? Because bras are expensive and as Heather from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend would say:

Screen Shot 2017-06-04 at 2.29.42 PM

(Which is to say I have limited funds.)

So here’s how I buy a bra in Six Easy Steps.


Step 1

Realize your bra is getting a little worse for wear.

The underwire is gone, there are holes in the straps, the lace isn’t as cute as it once was. You’re wearing your sports bra more often than your everyday one. There are many tell-tale signs.

Step 2

Check your bank account.

See if you have an extra $50 -$70 in your bank account. This could be for just one bra. Unless you go to a place that has a sweet deal maybe you can snag two!!

Step 3

Find a store

There’s plenty of places online that have dope deals on dope bras (shout out ThirdLove), but sometimes you just gotta get measured and find your true size. Go to a place like Nordstrom or Victoria’s Secret where they specialize in boob holders AND have ladies who work there with special boob measuring tape.

Step 4

Get those boobies measured

You gotta get measured! Obviously. Or else you’ll end up with a bra that’ll have you constantly nip slippin. Find a nice looking employee who looks like she won’t judge you (your body or your janky ass old bra) because you’ll have to be shirtless to be measured properly. She’ll put the tape around the part under you boobs, and your boobs themselves. Be chill. Make conversations. Good topics include “How long have you worked here?” Weird topics include “What are your favorite boobs to measure?” Just be super chill.

Step 5

Find dat bra

Once you have your true size. Go find yourself some cute bra options. There’s about a billion varieties. You got your strapless, racerback, your tee shirt bra, push up bra, bralette or a bandeau if you’re feeling fancy. Grab all the bras you want to try on in your size and have at it!

Step 6

Find a sale and make that purchase

Once you find the bra or bras you like. Check out those prices and see if you can find a sale where you get two for one or half off. I personally get one strapless and one push up. That way I basically have three bras AND lucky for me there was a two for one sale so I managed to snag two bras for $52. Still, a shit load of money to spend in my opinion, but bras are mad important and make a huge difference when they’re good bras. It’s basically an investment in your body.



I could write a whole thing about how bras are just another form of the existence of the patriarchy being in control and forcing us to conform to old school gender stereotypes.

(But I like bras.)

I like feeling feminine and confident and like an adult. I like that there are so many options and how cute they are. Obviously, I hate how expensive they are. But bras are bras and I need them to wear my clothes properly so, for now, I’m a bra wearing lady.

And I know now I won’t go two years without buying a replacement bra.

I’ll probably just go one.



Period sex? Use Flex!

By Ashley Maruyama 

Let’s admit it, nobody is actually excited about getting their periods… well, unless you’re having an unwanted pregnancy scare, then you might be a little excited. But after that first little rush of excitement fades, you’re left feeling inconvenienced by its annoying presence for the next three to five days. Although feeling less than unenthused and a little grumpy during that special time, I have never been the type of person to let a sore uterus and a little vagina blood keep me from living my life.

When I first started my period sometime in freshmen year, my mom handed me a pad which I used for probably a day before I was like “Fuck that!” and switched to tampons which have seemed to be the most convenient option for me in my last decade or so of menstruation. A few years ago, I started seeing videos pop up of people raving about menstruation cups. I had to try one. My mom is actually the one who bought me the Diva Cup for my birthday or some sort of holiday after I wouldn’t stop talking about periods or shut up about how much I wanted to try one. (Clearly, my mom and I have a very open relationship. It takes outsiders some getting used to.) If you don’t know what a Diva Cup is, google it. It’s a little silicone cup that suctions in your vagina and catches all the discharge. Not only is it the safer option to wearing tampons, but it’s also environmentally friendly because it is reusable. I was stoked! Having less bothersome periods and saving the planet at the same time?! Bring on the crimson wave!


As eager as I was to try the Diva Cup, my excitement for the product quickly faded after the first few uses. Although it’s a great product and many women swear by it, I just felt that it wasn’t the right size for my body. You know that annoying, rubbing feeling you experience when your tampon isn’t in right? That’s the feeling I constantly experienced with the Diva Cup, no matter how many videos I watched explaining how to insert it, or how many times I took it out and tried again, I could never wear it for more than an hour or so because it would make my vagina sore. I honestly think it was just too big for me, so back to tampons it was.

A few weeks ago my friend Sabrina sent me a link to this new feminine hygiene product called Flex. As I scrolled through the website, I was pretty impressed by the claims the site boasted; could be worn for up to twelve hours, leak free, and sex friendly. I looked at the pictures, I watched the videos and I read the product reviews. Flex seemed like a great product, even though my excitement was a little curbed due to my previous Diva Cup experience. I just didn’t want to let myself down, you know? After thoroughly examining every inch of the website, I discovered the best part about Flex; they will send you a free sample! You do have to pay shipping, which was like $3.95 I believe but, I was totally okay with potentially falling in love with a product or even hating it for less money than all you girls are spending on a pumpkin spice latte right now. It was definitely better deal than spending $30 on a Diva Cup that feels like a roll of sand paper in your vagina.


Fast forward a couple weeks, my Flex had arrived in the mail and was patiently waiting in the medicine cabinet for me to use. I admit, I was actually excited to start my period so I could give this product a try. Finally, it was time for Aunt Flo to pay me a visit. Since I only had one Flex, I had to calculate the perfect time for me to use it to test out all of its qualities. I wanted to make sure it was comfortable, it was leak proof and definitely challenge the mess-free sex claims. I decided to test Flex on the third day of my period, when my flow was a little lighter, just in case it didn’t hold up its end of the bargain. I also wanted to wait until the evening to put Flex in to make sure I could sleep the whole night wearing it. I put Flex in around 9 pm, it took me two tries. The first time I put it in felt comfortable in my vagina, but when I felt it with my finger I wasn’t convinced that it had sealed correctly so I took it out and tried again. The second time felt the same but since it felt comfortable inside of me I decided to just go with it. I went about my business, walked to the liquor store, picked up the apartment and then worked on some homework. So far so good.

About two hours after I had inserted Flex, my “partner” was finally off work and on his way over. When he got here we watched a Netflix movie and drank some beers; soon Netflix and chill turned into Netflix and chill. However, after about four beers in, I had completely forgotten to mention to him that I had this weird plastic disc in my vagina which led to me awkwardly warning him about the situation “So I forgot to tell you about this thing that’s in my vagina, just a warning that it’s there. Let me know if it’s uncomfortable….” One thing led to another and there was sex to be had and still no blood. Everything felt normal to me, I couldn’t feel it at all. Curious about his experience I asked him about it. He said he could feel it with his hand but not with his penis, which didn’t bother him. I kept Flex in all night though my continuous tossing and turning and we put it to the sex-test two more times. When I woke up in the morning, it was still there, still comfortable and still leak free.

Although I was impressed that Flex had done as promised all night, I was still skeptical about its menstrual-proof power. Since I was having a lighter than normal period anyway, I was convinced that my period had already stopped, that’s why it seemed to work. The true amazement happened when I took it out. I decided to take it out in the shower since some of the reviews had warned of horror-movie-like messes. First of all, I was pretty impressed by how easy it was to take out. Believe me, the thought that my “partner’s” penis would push it so far inside me, I wouldn’t be able to reach it had crossed my mind… but there it was, right behind my pelvic bone where I had left it. When I pulled it out I could feel it kind of de-suction itself from my insides which was pretty cool. Also, my assumption was wrong, I hadn’t stopped my period early and the true show stopper was seeing how much fluid Flex had actually caught and kept from coming out all night long, despite certain sexual activities.

Flex really is a game changer and I am definitely going to start recommending it to EVERYONE. It really provides a sense of worry-free control for women and also a sense of sexual liberation for those who might be embarrassed or too squeamish for period sex. Obviously, you have to be comfortable with your body to use Flex and have a general understanding of how your vagina works in order to be successful with the product, but even if you’re not and you want to try Flex, a little self-exploration can solve that issue. Although the price point of Flex is definitely steeper than using tampons ($20 for a box of 8), it is totally worth the extra money to me. Even if you don’t want to wear Flex every day of your period, it is worth the $2.50 each to not have to clean bloody sheets whenever you’re feeling frisky while you’re bleeding from your vagina.

Check Flex out for yourself at flexfits.com

#tbt: An Open Letter To Cat Callers

So every few Thursdays we’re planning on posting some old blog posts we’ve dug up from previous versions of our website. I realize we posted an “Open Letter” yesterday, but who cares! In the middle of summer this felt appropriate and timely and relatable to us.


Cat Calling e card


Dear Cat Callers,

I have two questions:

  1. Why do you do what you do?
  2. What do you hope to gain?

Before I go any further, for those who have been lucky enough to never experience cat calling, it is essentially someone in their car, calling out to someone one the street. What they’re calling out is usually something slightly rude or sexually aggressive, along the lines of  “Hey Ma!” or “Ay yo shawty” hoping to get their attention and to talk with them further. Generally speaking it’s males calling out from their cars to attractive females they see walking on the street.

Which brings me back to my questions, first of all, why do you it? You’re better off starting a conversation with someone at a bar or a coffee shop or just somewhere where you both are stationary. Clearly, you’re driving somewhere and clearly the person you’re calling to has somewhere to be. Why do you think they would pause what they’re doing to see what you have to say? Especially when you get their attention so aggressively.

But more importantly, what do you hope to gain from this, Cat Callers? What is your best-case scenario? That the girls you’re calling to will come over and chat you up? That, maybe you’ll hit it off and go back to your place, hook up and fall in love?

Plus, how do you even know you’re right for each other? I once got cat called by a dude in a lime-green impala while I was wearing sweatpants and a shirt with The Flash logo on it. Right off the bat, did you think we had something in common? Maybe opposites attract, but in my experience an interest in comic books and tricked out cars don’t usually go hand in hand. But I could have been wrong, sorry I didn’t give you a chance. Also I was on my way to the library that day; if I did decide to stop and talk with you, do you honestly think we would have had anything other than a basic understanding of the English language in common?

My advice to you cat callers, perhaps find a method with a higher success rate. Go somewhere you like going, like a car show for tricked out cars (that’s a thing right?)

Because what are the chances that you’re going to cat call to your soul mate?