A Wolf on Adele

Adele speaks to me. Like, I’m pretty sure our souls are telepathically linked.

Now, I didn’t always feel this way. When her latest album came out, I was going through a very dark period in my life when I worked at an overcrowded and completely dysfunctional Starbucks. The aforementioned chain coffee shop from Hell would play Adele’s latest record hour after hour after hour, until I wanted to go on an epic rampage in which I would find the location Adele was currently at and ask her very nicely to SHUT THE EFF UP.

Also, if we are being completely honest, I believe my taste in music is superior to most other people, and I’m a snob. Not the “fat prick in plaid who overcompensates by talking about how overrated Arcade Fire is” snob, but I’m almost as disgusting. This flaw in my character is also what kept me from initially embracing such a smoky voiced goddess, as I am inclined to hate anything the mindless masses enjoy.

Yet, a few months after quitting my lowly barista gig, I began to miss Adele. I would hum the songs I’d so grudgingly been forced to listen to in my head constantly. I would wail her single,” Someone Like You,” at the top of my lungs while driving until I got strange looks from the next car over.

I gave in. I downloaded Adele’s discography. I couldn’t have made a better life choice. Not only is Adele a talented singer, but she is also a woman all other women should strive to be. In “Someone Like You,” she says she wishes nothing but the best for the scumbag who dumped her and then married some dumb skank. In “Turning Tables,” Adele lets the douche bag who is playing games with her know that she is emotionally cutting herself off. And, in “Rumor Has It,” she totally calls this dickhead guy out for dating some baby prostitute who she knows is a poor man’s version of her.

Adele doesn’t let guys walk all over her. She gets sad about heartbreak, but she handles it like a classy lady. Adele doesn’t sit outside her ex-boyfriend’s house and feel sorry for herself, in the way that say Rihanna does. She is a female role model we can all feel great about.

Next time a guy treats me badly, I’m not going to unleash my disappointment by passively-aggressively tweeting and refusing to shower. Instead, I’m putting my Adele on and walking down the street with my head held high.

A Wolf on the Importance of Guy Friends

This is why you need at least one platonic guy friend.

If you're anything like me, sometimes you get really depressed about the fact that no one wants to date you and that you are going to die alone. When this happens, it's best to run to your number one dude friend.

If he is anything like mine, he will buy you a Diet Coke and let you listen to Avril Lavigne for half an hour while you sing along at the top of your lungs. He will also give you a flannel vest and baseball hat to wear so that you may conduct aforementioned singing and dancing around his room in style. In addition, when he tries to empathize with your plight, and tells you that he has gone through the same thing, he won't be offended when you say that he has absolutely not and should probably shut the eff up.

And, when you read to him the first draft of the blog you wrote about him, he'll tell you it's really good as he folds his laundry. If your guy friend is as cool as mine, he'll most likely follow that up with, "Dude, I thought I had more cut off shirts than this!"

On a side note, if your guy friend is anything like mine, please let him know he needs to take more than three pairs of underwear on his eight day trip.

A Wolf on Whole Foods

This past week was really tough. I mean, life was getting to me. My ratio of regular meals to meals consisting of vegan donuts was embarrassing. I’d coined myself “grunge girl” due to the fact I’d been picking up the same crumpled outfit off my floor everyday and putting it on without looking in the mirror twice. My best friend, who I called on about an hourly basis, had just left for a two-month trip to Europe where she, to my horror, would be without a phone. I think my most pitiful moment, however, was the two-hour crying phone session I had with my mother in which I mostly wept about my lack of non-psychopathic male suitors.

I even thought about joining an online dating site. This is where I hang my head in shame. I was trying to convince myself I wasn’t serious about it but, deep down, I had hopes of creating a profile and, minutes later, being hit up by a sincere yet clever James Franco look-alike who wanted to take me on a bookstore adventure and, shortly after, marry me.

This is the frame of mind I was in this afternoon when I called my friend to discover he’d blown off plans with me. Yeah, I could mutter, “My life is a Shakespearean tragedy,” as I lie down on my bed and search for episodes of Felicity on the Internet. Or I could, for once in my life, take charge of my own happiness. Be an independent woman, my heart cried out to me.

So I did what any modern day Jane Austen heroine would do. I grabbed the book I was reading, a pack of cigarettes, and made a beeline for Whole Foods. In doing this, I made a critical discovery:

The cure for every overly emotional female is a trip to Whole Foods.

I mean, who needs Match.com when there is a line of rustic, tattooed hotties waiting to ring up your dinner at every register? And who needs friends when there is a wise yet sassy barista lady who is willing to give you free coffee? I ate my Naan and saffron rice, read my thrilling fantasy adventure novel, and felt pretty happy to be alive for the first time in days.

And, let me tell you, Whole Foods was just the catalyst for a whole other slew of amazing events. It was like it poured into me all sorts of good luck and positive energy. I wound up last minute working on a music video (another story in itself), and then set up an appointment for something else that will scoot along my previously nonexistent successful film career.

I’ll never complain about Whole Foods’ obscenely high prices again.