new beginnings with my old friend

yo. if you are a regular or new in town — welcome. this is casually whelmed. a low key blog focused on high key content beautifully (and not so beautifully) curated and crafted by myself (j2) and my heterosexual life partner (j1).

the backstory is this: we met as awkward teens – blossomed in to cheerleaders – and went to college. from there– we have been places, seen things, kissed boys, kissed girls, drank great cocktails and even drank Potter’s Vodka from a Gatorade bottle. if you threw a dart at a board covered in rom-com status experiences, we have probably been there and/or done that.

we like to talk. we want to engage. and for that reason, we started a blog. or actually, piggy backed a podcast and a meme page from j2’s existing blog.

the early content is just that — early. from times in our lives when we didn’t need a 12 step k-beauty program every other night. (but like– k banana, if you wanna collab — we here.)

if we have your attention — subscribe. follow our journey as we leave our roaring 20’s and dive scrunchies first into the abyss of 29 + 30 (respectively).

also peep our other socials – insta:whemlingj podcast: casual j’s (available on Anchor, Apple Music + Spotify)

thx – the j’s

be a fucking tiger: a love note to the souls almost too lost to be found. almost.


Hard realizations are my forte. If you have ever read this blog before; this is not new, exciting, or even close to fake news. My name in the blogosphere (and my resume) has been made up almost solely based on hard fucking lessons of the heart, head, and even my fucking body. What can I say? I was raised a strong girl. Nay, woman. Nay, goddamn human being. And I go out to play hard. What’s the point in playing this game called, Life if you don’t have every intention to fucking WIN?!

While I may forget time to time– I will forever know my worth. Being a strong human being does not (and will not) ever cut that down in to itty, bitty pieces. I do not apologize for being a wild thing you cannot tame.

With tears in my eyes while riding an elevated train; I have written some of my most raw:

  • feelings
  • fears
  • desires
  • and dreams

I am 27 years old and I still call my mother after a break up. I call my father for advice. I call my sisters when I need to complain about the answers I received from my first two calls. And lastly, my friends. I call me friends for anything and everything between, above, or below.

I am first and foremost a writer. I became a talker when I realized the true strength and power in my own voice in a crowd. I am also kind of funny, so that helps. #handoutemoji I write to decompress. I write to get everything out and see it in plain sight. I write as a first draft.

I speak to be heard. I speak to be heard in all aspects. I speak eloquently and with grace. My voice rarely trembles. Because I am strong. I do not foresee a day where I speak only because I have been called upon. I speak the moment I have raised my damn hand (if I even get that far) and opened my mouth before another person had the chance to be called upon. I will be heard. And I will not apologize for being a strong woman with a loud voice.

The thing about hard realizations is simply that; they are fucking HARD. And sometimes (most times) you have these realizations too late. You get these gushes of “oh fuck” after the mess has been made. You have spilled the wine, broken the plates, said the harshest of words, and cried the tears.

Then there is this moment. The moment where everything snaps back and you are still you. Sure, you may be a little drunk or a lot sad; but you are alive.

That is my favorite response these days when someone asks me how I am: I am alive. Even when I’m broken and wanting to be dead; I am fucking alive. I am breathing and I am here. I am still a wild thing; running my mouth, running the world, and not asking for a damn apology anymore.

Tigers cannot change their stripes or whatever. I ask this:

Why would they fucking WANT to?!

Without its stripes, a tiger is just a giant cat house cat meandering the jungle that is life. A tiger without stripes is a house cat without shampoo bottles to knock over at 3 am during a sudden rush of the “zoomies”. How fucking tragic would that be? To be a giant cat with no outlet for all of that… power (for lack of a better, more eloquent word). We call a tiger, a “tiger” because of those stripes. Those stripes are the things that set them apart from all those fluffy little bitches ruining our curtains in suburbia.

Strength is a stripe. Having a voice is a stripe. In dark times of desperation, in times when you have lost yourself in work, school, or god forbid another person like I have; remember your stripes.

Be a fucking tiger. Be a fucking leopard. Be a goddamn otter (have you seen those claws? fuck.) Whatever you are, whoever you are:

Remember your self + remember your worth.

time. excuses. lies.

I don’t believe in bad timing. I don’t believe in fate or serendipitous notions. I do not believe in destiny.

I cannot however, say I NEVER believed in these romantic ideas; because I did once.  And then I grew up.

I realized that all of these poetic ideals were cop-outs. They are excuses. They are for fucking losers.

A wise Blair Waldorf once said: “Destiny is for losers too stupid to make things happen.” Whilst Blair is a fictional character, the girl has a point.

Destiny and fate and bad timing and every other fucking excuse is one fabricated by others too lazy or afraid to make good things happen for themselves. They are crutches for the weak; a band-aid over the bullet hole of overwhelming and deeply seeded issues.

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for a good truth. A bottle of wine, a bubble bath, or a slutty selfie to send to those who have broken your heart. I’ve done it. I have done it all. And I am not ashamed. I will never, ever, blame the fact that I am scared on something as menial and confounded as “bad timing”. I won’t do it, In the grand scheme of things, that is one of the most pathetic and cowardly things to do.

I have a pretty good friend of mine, “K”. We go back pretty far, I guess. He knows some of my darkest secrets and has also shared in some of my greatest accomplishments. He’s also seen me fall flat on my face climbing a mountain. K is really cool. He invented Super Dew and was the plug for contraband Four Loko the year after it was banned. I have always suspected K is a genius; not for his black market sales and affinity for mixed beverages, but for his mind. One night after some typical collegiate binge drinking, K looked me dead in the eyes (nay, my soul) and said to me this:

“There is no such thing as time; only clocks.”

Mind. Fucking. Blown. The universe snapped together, colors were brighter, and I heard sounds I had never heard before. Maybe it was the Super Dew, but my head was spinning.

At that moment, the concept of time became a swirling mess all around me. And, if I am being completely honest, something so vast as space and time cannot the sole reason for not being with someone you care so much for. It’s impossible. I don’t buy it.

I have never been one to believe in the fairy tale. I’ve said it time and time again. I do not picture myself riding off in to the sunset of a suburb with my loving husband and our 2.5 kids and a dog.

I do, however, believe very strongly that there are people you will meet and be enamored. There are people who come in to your life and everything just snaps. Like the time in K’s dorm, when time came flooding in to my brain.

That’s how it happens; Boom. Pow. All other onomatopoeias.

The moral of the story is this: I care. I have opened my heart to you. I have accepted that while you may drive me crazy; I do not fail. Your excuses are invalid. You need to grow up.

It’s a harsh pill to swallow, being the bad guy. And I know it. So please know this is not to break you down. This is not to make you feel bad. This is not to make you feel stupid.

It is to make you think. It is to shed light on the simple fact that you have taken the easy road, not the high road. Telling a half  truth does not make you any less a liar. You have dug your grave, now lie in it.

There is not such thing as “bad timing” when you care and feel like this.

Only poor choices by a poor boy in a poor place.



fuckin’ v day, man.

Ain’t it a bitch?

Whether you’re falling in love, falling out of love, or just being in love (with yourself or someone else); below are some nice copy and paste-able notes to send your cuties this Wednesday. You’re welcome.

Sig Oth:

I want you. I love you. To me, you are perfect in every way (even when you don’t __________). Not a single day goes by where I am not enamored by you. I cannot wait for the days to come with you. For us to grow and share and learn. Thank you for loving me, even at my worst. Now let’s have sex.

Player One in your Roster:

This day kind of sucks. Drinks and maybe make out? Cool. Happy V-Day.

Player Two in your Roster:

Oh it’s V- Day? I didn’t get you anything, sorry. Cocktails and see what happens later?

Cordial Ex:

Nah dude. Got plans but maybe tomorrow?

Ex You’re Still In Love With:

It may be a romantic holiday and this is wrong, I know. But if you aren’t doing anything, lets grab a drink. Miss you.

Ex You’re Still In Love With pt. 2:

God I miss you. I miss how your hand felt on the small of my back. I miss how you’d breathe me in. I miss how you’d hold on to my lips half a second longer after we would kiss. If you’re available, lets get together for a drink and be moderately miserable together?

Ex You’re Still In Love With pt.3:

What happened to us?

Retired From The Roster (good in bed):

*insert sexy bar* Drinks??

Retired From The Roster (bad in bed):

New phone, sorry.

Ex You Actually Hate:

New phone, sorry.

Your Gal Pals:

Wine and whine, tonight? Grigio is chilling. Love you.

I’ve only ever celebrated Valentine’s Day twice in my life that I can remember. The first was with my high school boyfriend and the second was the boy I spent a tumultuous chunk of college with. So I’m not good at this. Whether you’re spending it with a Sig Oth, someone from your roster, or with your gal pals. Know that someone, somewhere loves you and it’s just a fucking Wednesday. Get over it.

singing adele in the shower at the top of my lungs


You have trouble distinguishing the difference between your and you’re. Spoiler alert: the apostrophe signifies a contraction of “you are”.

You over salt every food; even salads. All the time.

You have a horrible attention span, but the best memory of anyone I have every met.

You are careful and calculated. You are quiet and thoughtful. You are my opposite.

It was something I could always count on.

But I could also always count on you. I could count on you for a shoulder to cry on. I counted on you for a stupid joke (almost always told wrong). I counted on you for support, advice, and kisses.

I could write a list of all of the things you did to drive me crazy but in true Rom Com fashion–

These things do not make me hate you. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

I once told you that one of my favorite things about you, was how each time you kiss me, I feel it. When I first said it, you looked confused. It still stands true. Every kiss with you, was like the first time. It was coming up for air after being underwater for so long.

I understand this is a romantic notion. It is a story filled with fluff. It is also a story full of truth, feeling, and above all else; heart.

I do not hate you. I do not wish ill thoughts for you.

I wish for you to forgive my selfishness. I wish for you to take the time and for the “things” to sort themselves out.

I am sorry

I miss your hand on the small of my back when you kiss me.

I miss how you would smell my hair each day and breathe me in.

I miss how special you made me feel.

We haven’t made each other feel special in a while.

I am sorry


for the guy who wanted to have it all.

We don’t love you. We don’t want to meet you in a sleazy restaurant/hotel/third floor walk up. We don’t even like you.

You’re disgusting. Pathetic. And irrelevant.

I hope she finds out. I hope your mother finds out. And I hope they both confront you. And make sure you know the pompous piece of shit you actually are.

And I hope you hurt. I hope your heart weighs heavy and your brain constantly reminds you of your lies. And cheating. And manipulation. I hope you never feel the same again. I hope the feeling in your gut that you’ve been caught never goes away.


digital (digital) get down

Let’s talk about sex(ting), baby. In the words of my favorite villain, “Everybody does it… it’s just that no body talks about it.” GIRL.

Sexting is a major deal right now. Gettin’ down online isn’t a thing of the future anymore. It’s a thing NOW. Right this minute. And increasing each second. Boys, girls, parents, doctors, lawyers, and everyone in between are using social media outlets like Snapchat and Instagram (slidin’ in to those DMs, gurrrrrl 😉 to scratch the itch. But why?

The world we live in, city|country|whatever; moves at an alarming rate. I’m not talking just time; but all of it is at a rapid speed.

  • instant messaging
  • instant (yet fleeting) photos and videos via snapchat
  • video chat

We don’t even have to wait to be home and safe in our own rooms; I’ve literally seen people sexting ON THE TRAIN. Because our brains (+bodies) crave stimulation. We need is NOW.

In ye ole days, we were stimulated by art and literature of a different medium. Before the world where a camera, telephone, and computer were in your pocket (zappin’ all your baby gravy, boys!) the build up was everything. Back then, we fantasized and romanticized about our partner(s). We played a different game. We met in public places. We thought of each other while apart. We plotted and planned our next moves carefully, to ensure Little Jimmy would be happy to see us.

It wasn’t until this future we live in now that we didn’t have to second guess if Jimmy thought we looked cute today because BAM! There’s his dick on your iPhone for 3-10 seconds. Thanks, Snapchat.

This may seem like a complaint. And it partially is. In truth, while I do bitch about the aggressive “dick pic” tactic. I enjoy it. It stems from the instant gratification phenomena. Because of this technology, we know right away if we are doing something right (or wrong) and whether to keep going (or pack it away). Does social media cheapen sex, love, and taco dates? Probably. But what doesn’t social media cheapen these days?

Keep on keepin’ on. Make those digital moves. Send Nudes. Think you’ve got great tits? Snap the boys and you’ll know (trust me). Wanna show someone how happy they really make you, let them see that flag pole full mast and proud (is that even a phrase? fuck it.). And if you don’t receive the encouragement you were hoping for… on to the next venture.

Get down with getting off, instantly. Or kick rocks loser.

And to teens on @snapchat, thanks for making it stickY (horrible joke, I hate myself too).


what if i told you, chivalry isn’t completely dead…

It’s only kind of dead. Like a moderate coma, dead. Chivalry is a vegetable.

A crazy notion, I know. But what would you say if I were to tell you I went on a date that wasn’t planned 45 minutes before. A date that wasn’t  JUST “drinks at *insert shitty bar name here*”. What if I told you I went on a date with food. and drinks. and an activity! What would you say if I told you that despite falling flat on my ass in the middle of a crowded restaurant (fuck me, right?) this gentleman suitor still held my hand, told me i was pretty, and kissed me so I felt it.

He did not let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. He did not ask me to split the bill (one of my biggest pet peeves). He did not even make me feel super stupid for completely wiping out… or being so accident prone. He was great. 10 out of 10, would recommend.

Too often single girls in the city are being invited last minute  to drinks in a dimly lit bar with draft PBR. *there is nothing wrong with draft PBR, but I’m not entirely sure there is something right about it either.*

Quick dates that lead to quick black outs that end in quick/sloppy/unsatisfying  sex. God I love the app dating lifestyle *hard eye roll*.

I’m not 100% sure when a last “yo girl. drinks tomorrow? emoji emoji” followed by splitting the bill in some dark, hallowed hall of shameful nights past became the only groundwork boys (yes, boys) needed to lay before we (ladies) allow them to lay us. Quite frankly, I don’t even believe that scenario would (nay should) warrant a nice over the jeans cock rub. A piece of me wants to blame feminists; mostly because I feel the need to blame SOMEONE for this outrageous “new era”. Fuck the wage gap! Let a man buy you dinner and stop ruining it for the rest of us! Let him open your car door. Let him steady you with his large hand on the small of your back. Let him do these things and I promise you, he’ll not only put you on a prim/pretty/proper pedestal, but you’ll get your turn to lead during that horizontal mambo. hashtagpreachgirl.

Also to blame (because lemme tell you, there is enough to go around): our quick culture, especially in a city. We are beyond addicted to having everything RIGHTFUCKINGNOW. With apps like Tinder, Bumble, JSwipe, what the fuck ever; we have a nearly unlimited supply of people (men and women alike) at our literal fingertips waiting to trade beers for blowjobs. Fast, casual dates have become this weird and deranged form of sexual currency.

It’s safe to say, I’m not in to it.  This dating game where I’m putting out for warm beer at a Cubs game (FTR, I haven’t). And the date I went on with this chivalrous unicorn was great. He planned an ACTIVITY outside of the usual burgers and beer. He took me to a totally cool (and I admit, kind of cheesy) Italian restaurant in Chicago. Pun, intended. We went on a tour of the most haunted places in the city (on Halloween). We got drinks at a super cool historic place. And he politely invited me to his apartment complete with incredible views. It was a whole… THING. And not once, did he hint that he expected something more than a polite, “goodnight”.

The world needs more of you, sir. (Because you’ve harassed me enough about this article and I know you’re reading it.) And ladies, we need to let men be this way. We cannot bully them for being “soft” or “weird.”


All images were found on Pinterest. Image does NOT belong to writer.  Pinterest search: lost things, love

“off” is the direction i would like you to fuck

Here’s a quick fuck you. Something short and sweet for you to read when you catch yourself thinking of me. (because we both know you will)

Fuck you, dude. I’m not sure which PLANET you believed it would be okay to have a girlfriend and still casually date me. And then for you to make plans with me only to feel guilty after. Because of your girlfriend, hundreds of miles away. Fuck you.

Never in my entire 25 rotations around the sun have I received a phone call like the one I got from you. I’ll admit, I was a little giddy when I saw your name pop up on my cracked iPhone screen because I thought to myself, “gosh he’s great. He also CALLS about plans instead of just texting.” But as quick as this all started, it was done. Fuck you.

The call wasn’t terrible in length, but in it’s content. It was just long enough for you to make me feel incredibly dirty. and wrong. and pissed off. You weren’t calling for the cute reason I thought. You weren’t calling to see how my night was or what time I would be ready for the zoo. You were calling to tell me that you have a girlfriend. FTR: I don’t care what prompted the call. Whether she found out that you were sleeping with and sharing casual meals with someone (ie. me) or your own guilt had consumed so much of you that you felt like it would crush you; I don’t care. Because you put yourself in a situation where you had to make that call. And for that, I don’t feel sorry for you. Fuck you.

I am not a bad person. And if she’s mad at me for this, fine. I’ll survive. But do not for a second, think that I’ll forgive you as easily as she does. If I even forgive you at all.


All images were found on Pinterest. Image does NOT belong to writer.  Pinterest search: fuck off photo

parental controls:disengage

So I spoke to my parents today, because they like me ever so slightly. We talked about the usual:

  • how am I enjoying Chicago
  • how is work
  • blah blah blah

While speaking, the topic of my blog (this blog) came up. I was just in the middle of telling them about how I’ve been invited to actually co-write another blog (updates as soon as I have them) when my mother casually dropped the “but you won’t be writing about choking right?”

And that’s when it hit me: my parents (and other parents) read this fucking thing

*insert mortified emoji*

I’ve always been one to push the envelope with my writing because for a large chunk of my writing career, I was either very selective on my audience or I was ghost writing so it wasn’t like, a major deal if I said “fuck” or talked about sluts or sex or whatever. Because when I was ghost writing, it wasn’t me and if I wanted someone to read it, I had friends to do it not my goddamn parents. 

My parents have always been very proud and supportive of my writing (probably because what I was showing them was academic or “vanilla”.) So it wasn’t a surprise when they were praising me for this blog. Until like I said, it hit me that they were reading THIS blog. The very blog where I discuss binge drinking and bad dates (where I could potentially end up on Law and Order). It’s quite a shock when your saint-like mother casually mentions the post about a man who wanted to “lightly choke” you. In the middle of a Starbucks, my eyes became as big as saucers while the light bulb in my brain clicked on.

Then it was that weird moment, do I apologize? Do I say a Hail Mary? What do you DO in that situation?! I opted for none of the above, and just laughed it off. Because at this point, what can you do?

The short answer is— nothing. They’ve seen it. They’ve read it. And now they may low-key worry for your safety a little more. That’s the beauty of parents, they worry for you in situations you should fear, but only see a killer article coming from it. (killer, haha…)

Long story short, I don’t feel bad they read it (because it was really fucking funny). But I do feel bad that I gave my parents access to this blog without so much as a warning or a briefing as to the content.

Sorry, Mam and Mark. I love you. It will probably happen again (the inappropriateness, not the light choking). And I’ll be better at disclaimers for you.

All images were found on Pinterest. Image does NOT belong to writer.  Pinterest search: oops photo