*Disclaimer: This is NOT a piece about marriage or having children or any statement of judgment on either of these two things. If you’re my friend I’ve probably been in your wedding, held your child, or both. I love doing this for you. Please continue to let me be a part of these beautiful life milestones in whichever ways you see fit.*

Phew, glad we got that out of the way.

Now let’s get into this shit.

In the summer of 2014, I went to a friend’s wedding up in the mountains of Colorado and spent the entire time hiding my sobs underneath burlap table runners and behind adorable photobooth props.

It was snowing. In May. And she looked fucking beautiful shivering in the snow in her little cowboy boots.

But no, I wasn’t crying about that.

I wasn’t emotional because I trekked through the snow in my high heels to get to the barn or because I watched the groom cry tears of joy when he saw her walk down the aisle.

I was crying because I knew this shit would never happen to me.

At least not with the guy sitting next to me that I’d been Fake-gaged to for nearly five years (that’s ‘fake’ and ‘engaged’ if you were wondering).

Me: *gets distracted for 30 minutes* Sorry...got distracted by all the wedding porn on Pinterest...

Me: *gets distracted for 30 minutes* Sorry...got distracted by all the wedding porn on Pinterest...

This rustic and Pinterest-perfect barn wedding was not in the cards for me then.

Neither was the garden palace entrance another friend made that same year. Or the magnificent old school church setup yet another friend had the year after that.

I’ve been going to weddings non-stop since I graduated college four years ago.

I’ve seen seven-layered dips, champagne fountains, and cakes made out of maple-bacon donuts.

I’m the real life 27 Dresses except I’ve gotten smart and have recycled a few so as to not burn a hole in my non-existent wallet.

I fucking love weddings.

And while I sometimes gripe about shelling out cash for airfare, attire, and gifts, the fact of the matter is I’m stoked for this bottomless mimosa situation you’ve got going on here, my friend.

But more than the fun, I rather enjoy watching my friends be happy.

Weird. I know.

The painful part was knowing that I wasn’t happy like that.

I hid it well during the festivities, shying away from the “how are you?” questions and answering instead with, “OH MY GOD THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG LET’S BOOGY” and sprinting to the dance floor with the 5-year-old cousin of the bride.

I didn’t want the looks of pity. Or the well-intentioned but weird commentary about my joke of a dating life.

“Oh, you’re into online dating, how…adventurous…” they laughed uncomfortably as they held hands with their significant others or patted their pregnant bellies. I imagined them having a discussion about how worried about me they were later as they brushed their teeth together.

Because that’s what you do when you’re married right, you like brush your teeth at the same time, shit I don’t know I’m not married.

For a while, I was sulky and obsessed. I thought married people my age could go suck a big fat one. I’d never say that to any of their lovely faces, obviously. But they had no idea about my single person pain.

I hated that I felt this surge of anger every time a good friend of mine “bit the dust,” but I couldn’t shake it. Especially after my big breakup left me feeling like I’d been so close to that mountain barn party only for it to go up in epic flames at the last second.

I pictured my poor guests running for their minivans from the explosion as I sat in my tarnished gown, alone because my betrothed got trampled to death by the horses in the stables, using my broken heel to roast the marshmallows from my all-you-can-eat smores buffet.

In reality, I was miles and miles from being emotionally equipt for something like marriage.

And kids? Ah, shit don’t even get me started on how un-ready I was to birth a small human out of my you-know-where (I still am by the way).

So here we are in 2018.

I’m 26. I have a health insurance plan that I don’t know how to use. Single in every sense of the word. No kids although I take care of other people’s children. With a book on the way and all saddled up for the most life-changing year of my life.

Did I mention I’m single with no kids? Have we covered that?

And guess what.

That’s fucking okay. That’s more than okay. That’s the best news I’ve heard since He Who Must Not Be Named began his stupid orange dictatorship.

I did not always believe this.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with who I actually am, and also who I’m becoming now. I’m not there yet. There are a lot of things I want to get done in my personal and professional life. I want to get better with money. I’d like to lose ten pounds or so. Get a pug puppy. I want my Ted Talk to go viral and my book(s) to become best sellers which will land my delicious, athletic booty on Ellen’s awesome white couch.

And I’ve got time, Y'all.

Holy shit I have so much time.

And I’m not really talking about marriage or kids anymore, although there’s time for that too. The time I’m speaking of is the amount of hours, days, months, and years that I have in this life to love myself and what I’m doing. Time to make an imprint, no matter how small. Just a tiny speck of a scratch on this earth’s surface that proved that I was here and that I mattered.

And even if nobody sees it ̶ even if a bunch of fucking aliens pass by that lil’ speck like it’s nothing when they colonize our asses and blow this shit sky high ̶ at least I will have known that I was there.

So at the end of the day all this bullshit about some 30-year-old deadline to accomplish these life “milestones” like getting married, having kids, or having a 401-K and a stable 9 to 5?

It’s exactly what I just said. It’s bullshit.

Hopefully, you read my disclaimer, or you’re probably real mad at me right now. Maybe you’re mad because you have these things and you think I resent you (Nah, I don’t). Or you’re mad because you don’t, but desperately want them for yourself (it’s cool if yuh do).

And maybe you should be mad.

Be mad that society pushes us to care about stupid garbage values like “not dying alone.”

You know what I wanna do when I’m croaking on the side of some toilet and all my vital organs are shutting down causing me to shit my own pants and cry so loudly I might actually wake the dead (that I’m about to join)?

Be by my fucking self.

Jesus, I don’t want my family or loved ones to see me like that are you kidding me?!

Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds?

So onto the main attraction of this blog post.

What life changing event am I preparing for this year?

Oh, you know already! My book is coming out! HOLY SHIT I KNOW RIGHT.

So what does one do with such an epic life accomplishment?

Have a big ol’ party! With the donut cakes and champagne towers and everything!

Yes, you’re invited. And aren’t you all stoked that I don’t care who you bring as a +1? Bring your grandma, your dog, your second cousin three times removed, IDGAF! The more the merrier!


And just like my friends out there in suburbia, I’ll be taking on a lot of new responsibilities and expenses to prepare for my big day. I’ve got linens to pick out, book jackets to design for my little one, and food truck vendors to call.

I’ve got to come up with hotel plans for other people’s in-laws, prepare thank you speeches, and I will most likely spend way too much money on my dress, hair, and nails because this is my special day and you can’t put a price on happiness (yes you can it’s approximately several thousand dollars that I don’t have).

I’ve got my hands quite full.

Literally. I’ll probably be hauling 300-odd copies of my book from some warehouse to the launch party to distribute to you, my fine-ass audience.

But damn I’m going to look and feel like a million bucks up there. I’m going to have my moment in the sun and errybody’s gonna wanna have sex with me.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s not what I expected.

It’s better.

Nothing against weddings, baby showers, and the “standard” trajectory. I’m just doing things differently right now. By myself. Which is how I like it.

But I’m never really alone, am I? Because I have YOU.

Yes, you reading this right now because I probably tagged you in this and you’re like oh my god seriously quit blowing up my newsfeed with your blog posts I have better shit to do.

And I’m going to need YOUR help!

Because it turns out getting married to your dreams and birthing a book baby can get pretty expensive. There’s the venue, invitations, marketing, food, decorations, and flights back and forth once I plan on touring the U.S. for comedy shows and book signings.

It’s starting to add up, Y'all!

Which is why I’ve started a GoFundMe page and opened up a separate bank account solely for my big day and making it the best it can be.

I know you’re going to buy the book. And that makes me so happy! I’m going to enjoy that 10¢ royalty check from you so freaking much (Yes, you read that right! Welcome to my fancy author salary! Hollywood here I come! Step aside, Peasants!).

But in the meantime, I’d really appreciate it if you threw a couple dollars into my GoFundMe campaign. If you were planning on getting a Starbucks this morning, just keep walking past that twelve-armed Sea Lady and put those $5 toward your ol’ pal Memes chasing her dreams instead.

It would mean the world to me.

And if you send me your address I will hand write you a thank you card.

I just picked up like a thousand from Target. They’re cute AF.

I’m thrilled to go to all of your weddings, graduations, live-water-birthings, and your kid’s pre-pre-K coronation ceremonies. And I’m so glad to be a part of all of your stories, no matter how small my presence may be in your day to day life.

Thank you for reading and being my friend (and donating!)

Stay tuned for my book launch updates in Denver and New York City and the release of my memoir, “I’ll Be OK, It’s Just a Hole in My Head” coming to bookstores near you this September!

Click here if you'd like to pre-order my book and click here if you'd like to contribute to my GoFundMe campaign.