Love Me Tinder

I know what you’re thinking, “Victoria, you’re late to the Tinder game. This is old news.”

That is where you’re wrong, my friend. That is where you’re very wrong. For me, this was a long time coming. It’s time I share my story.

You see, it all started over a year ago. It was November. I first downloaded Tinder when two of my friends kept talking about it. I was down in the dumps for, ya know, reasons… for, ya know, boy reasons. But that’s not important. Anyway, I figured HEY, I literally have nothing to fucking lose and I need a good laugh.

I downloaded Tinder. I picked out pictures that made me look fun, my teeth look whiter, my hair look prettier.

It was all a joke to me. So much so that I actually made my bio read, “just make me laugh, dammit!” The results were actually hilarious:


Sometimes poets are found in the least likely of places



Dropped some knowledge on Jordan



I desperately needed a hobby



Gus would do anything for love






I’m not



I don’t know, Reaves, what IF we found out we were cousind?



Norris? More like BORE-iss, AMMIRIGHT?



Turns out Max was a real animal lover



Tyler was just looking for a booty call



Marc was looking for answers that I just didn’t have






Nothing coherent happens on Tinder after 2am



That’s my dream date, in fairness






Liam and Hank are probably married now, shitting on each other’s chests and cumming in each other’s ears. Just call me a modern day Cupid.



Still awaiting an answer from Timothy




Michael came on a little too strong




I don’t get it



still recovering


Needless to say, none of these “matches” were actual matches. Personally, I’ve outgrown Tinder. But I’m glad I have these little screenshots to look back on. I’m thankful for my time on Tinder. I’ve talked to so many characters. It’s basically the virtual equivalent of standing outside of a club, talking to the drunk smokers at 3am. Sometimes people are dicks, sometimes people are nice but incredibly dull, sometimes people are somewhere in between. And then there are people who will straight-up confess to being full-on rapists.

You know…I did eventually meet up with someone from Tinder.

He actually murdered me. I am writing to you from beyond the grave.

Rest In Peace,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek 


Sunny-Side Up Your Ass

Let me take you back. To a particular day in my life that I’m not very proud of. A moment where I let life get the best of me.

It was a Wednesday. I remember because I woke up in the morning particularly pissed that it was a Wednesday. What a shit day, Wednesday; who does Wednesday think it is, right in the middle of the week like that? Right in the way of my weekend plans. Mondays get the bad reputation, but Wednesdays are the true enemy in my eyes. Why? Because if you have a bad day on a Monday, everyone accepts it as, “poor thing, she’s having a bad day; it’s Monday!” But if you’re having a bad day on a Wednesday, you’re fucked. “Get it together,” they’ll say, “It’s Hump Day!”

Well fuck your Hump Day! There’s nothing worth celebrating about two days keeping me from my weekend. And don’t you get me started on Tuesdays! But I digress.

Right, back to the story.

It was a Wednesday. 2010. Late July. One of those disgustingly humid days when you sweat behind your knees and leave perfectly embarrassing imprints of your ass sweat on every surface you sit on. It was such a hot, muggy day and I couldn’t be bothered to eat, mostly because it would use too much of my energy to cook. And cooking implied heat, and heat implied more sweat. I wasn’t interested. I let most of the day pass surviving only on ice pops and my anger which was slowly reaching a boiling point.

There was a marathon of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel. Perfect. My day was sorted. If you’ve ever seen it, you’ll know how remarkably interesting yet infuriating it is. The concept of the show is lovely: white American male travels the world and tries bizarre foods. What’s not to like, right? I’ll fucking tell you.

It’s not the foods that are frustrating or disgusting. The foods are interesting. It’s how good ole Andy insultingly describes the taste of said foods, in front of the people who just slaved over a hot stove making him beloved family recipes. I recall one episode in particular when he described a dish as tasting like “city park benches and dirty sidewalk curbs.” Excuse me, what? “It has that delicious moldy vomit taste.” Park benches and moldy vomit? We all know what kind of guy Andy must have been in college.

But I couldn’t look away. I kept watching the show. But it pissed me off with each passing second. It was creating a rage monster inside that not even a sewer could hold.

My tummy started to growl. Maybe it was the heat talking, but the disgusting descriptions were beginning to sound almost appealing. The ice pops weren’t holding me. It was time to make real food.

I looked in the pantry. Oatmeal? Nah. Soup? Definitely not. I moved to the fridge. Eggs. Yeah, why not. Easy enough, quick, and I love a good egg with the runny yolk. Over-easy.

Over-easy eggs always give me a hard time. No matter how hard I try to be gentle, I always seem to crack the yolk, making a yellow mess in the pan and not on my plate.

I heated the pan. I cracked the first egg. Beautiful crack. I cracked the second egg. Brilliant. I wait and then at the perfect moment, I execute the most impressive and satisfying double-egg flip one could ever imagine. This Wednesday was looking up.

Or so I thought.

I plated my food, set the plate on the table, and sprinted to the bathroom. I had to cook with my legs crossed because those ice pops went right through me.

I sat down on the toilet and let out a delightful No. 1. I glanced up at the toilet roll to see that my brother didn’t replace the paper. No worries, we usually keep a spare in the top drawer under the sink. I checked. No luck. Annoyed, I waddled with my pants around my ankles to the other bathroom down the hall. Attractive image, I know.

While I was washing my hands, I heard my dad walk through the front door. I didn’t think anything of it. I fiddled with my hair in the mirror, forcing my then curly hair into a braid and out of my face in this painfully hot weather.

I started towards the kitchen. I heard the clinking of silverware. No! I ran to the kitchen only to find my dad eating my eggs. MY eggs. My perfectly flipped eggs. I nearly lost it. At that point, steam must have been shooting out of my ears and nose and every cavity of my body.

My dad looked so pleased that I made eggs for him. “Thank you, Victoria! I wasn’t expecting to have lunch waiting for me!” Sweet, clueless man. He didn’t deserve my wrath, he didn’t know any better. So I kept it in.

I said to myself

No big deal, Victoria. Just make more eggs! Really, it’s no big deal. No harm done.

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

I headed to the fridge and grabbed the carton of eggs. I opened it to see only one lone egg left.

ONE EGG? I’M BASICALLY STARVED TO DEATH! LOOK AT ME! I’M WITHERING AWAY TO NOTHING! ONE EGG? I thought to myself. Woah. Cool it. One egg is fine. Honestly, who did I think I was making two eggs in the first place? One egg is more than enough. 

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

Like before, I heated up pan. I cracked the egg. The very last egg. The egg dropped into the pan and, FUCKING YOLK EVERYWHERE.





Pissed off, I threw the pan into the sink and stormed off to my room. Behind me I heard my clueless dad say, “hey, next time can you make my eggs sunny-side up instead?”

Fucking Wednesdays.

The Break-Up

It’s not you, it’s me.

And I just can’t do this anymore.  This isn’t healthy.

Our love was so strong. I was somehow able to break your hard crust and feel who you really are, on the inside; so warm and soft— you comfort me. But this can’t go on.

This relationship has gone stale. I was trying to stay strong, I was trying to keep my distance, but I just can’t. I don’t have the willpower. Maybe it’s how you look, or how you smell, or maybe even how you taste. I tried to change you, and I’m sorry for that. I tried to kneed you into what I wanted. I tried to weigh my options and look elsewhere. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I found something I liked better, I would find the strength to walk away from you and never look back.

It’s harder than that. And I realize that now.

My strength would only last days, a week at most.

We would meet at Panera and I would pretend like I wasn’t there to see you, but we both really knew I was. I would give in and indulge in your warmth and comfort. This would only leave me in pain for the days to follow. You make me sick to my stomach, and that is NOT okay. It’s like I’m allergic to you now. This can’t be healthy. This is not healthy.

I lied before; it’s not me, it’s you. You do this to me.

So, it’s time for a change. It will be hard, but I have to do this. For myself. I’m ending this, once and for all.

Bread, we are done. Gone are our days of sandwiches, grilled cheeses, toast, bagels— we’re over.

I’m a better me without you.

I’m gluten free, baby.

I’m so sorry,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek

Birthday Blues

10 pm November 30, 2014.

Nice. Only two hours until my 21st birthday. It’s a Sunday, so I can’t go out. I guess I’ll take this time to unwind.

You know what? I’m going to paint my nails and put on a face mask. Dammit, this is about to be MY DAY! And dammit, I will look damn good. I’m the goddamn Birthday Princess for crying out loud!

But what color? Hmm.. Something….trendy yet sophisticated. Something that says “I’m mature, but I’m still here to party.”

Settled on a nice nude color.

Chicka chicka yeah. Nude color to match my nude body tomorrow night….BECAUSE BIRTHDAY SEX, Y’ALL!

Now that I have the color sorted, I can focus on my face mask. I’ll put on the mask and start painting my nails. Ya know, to really give the mask time to work its magic while I focus on my nails. Damn, I’ve got this 21 thing all figured out.

Time to slap on the mask. I squirt some into my hand and start applying it to my face. It’s chocolate scented, so it looks like I just rubbed my business all over my face. Not to mention slightly racist.

Oooh. And it’s cooling! What a treat! Smells and feels like two chocolate Easter bunnies doin’ it in Heaven.

Time for the nails. First coat: completed. Eh, a bit streaky. Definitely needs a second coat. I put on the second coat. Eh. Maybe even a third coat? Sure. Done. Now, we wait. This shit has to dry! I’ll just relax. Let me lay down, I still have 5 minutes before I can take this mask off at 10:17pm anyway. So cooling. So relaxing. Let me close my eyes for a second.

FUCK.10:56pm November 30, 2014.


I run to the bathroom to wash it off. CHRIST, it’s in my eyes. Like two chocolate Easter bunnies are doing it in my eyes.

I proceed to splash water in my eyes for the next 4 minutes. Four minutes of my 20-year-old life I’ll never get back.

But I’m in good spirits! I still have an hour left!

11pm November 30, 2014.

An hour! One whole hour! A complete 60 minutes! What to do! The options are endless!

I look down at my nails. They’re ruined. They’re all dented and scuffed from the chocolate bunny incident of 10:56pm. Guess I’ll do them over. No big deal, I have a whole hour.

I take off the polish. Different color this time. I reach for a fast-drying formula. My classic shade: Rimmel’s “Mind The Gap, Victoria.” It has my name in the goddamn color’s name. Meant to be. My nails are done without a hitch. And I managed to kill some time. Perfect.

11:30pm November 30, 2014.

30 minutes. The home stretch. I can do this!

You know what? I’m going to take a shot! I’m 20 years young baby! I’ve basically spent the last five years of my life saying “fuck you” to the Man anyway! Might as well fuck legality one last time!

To the liquor cabinet!

Yikes, lookin’ sparse. There are only three dusty bottles in the corner. Strike that, two are empty. One bottle. The label is handwritten. I recognize that the handwriting is that of my neighbor, Jack, the italian immigrant who makes his own wine. Label says, “Grappa 120 Proof”

Jesus. I google it. Basically it’s fermented grape skins, stems, and other shit I don’t want in my mouth.

I pour a shot anyway. Do you even take shots of this? Fuck it, I do what I want.

It smells absolutely awful. Like someone bottled the contents of a port-o-potty and topped it off with some cheap wine. Nice. I can do this. FOR AMERICA!

I toss it back. HOLYFUCKINGCUNTJESUSSHITCHRISTGODDAMMIT. My face scrunches as soon as the Grappa touches my tongue. I set down the shot glass too hard and knock over the bottle with the back of my hand. Broken glass and grappa now cover the kitchen floor.

I grab some rags and clean up the mess I had just made, tiptoeing around the broken glass as I do so. It takes forever and it’s a sticky mess, but I get it done. And right before 12!

12am December 1, 2014. My birthday.

The last two hours were rough, but they’re behind me now. New year, new me. Just call me Vicky Martin because I’m livin’ la vida loca, baby! But I have tomorrow to live it up! Exhausted and defeated, I call it a night.

I brush my teeth and crawl into bed. I reach to turn off the light and see my bottle of nude nail polish from before. hmm…nude. It reminds me: BIRTHDAY SEX, Y’ALL! It’s not too late! I can really make this count!

But not with a real male, unfortunately. I dig through my underwear drawer and pull out a certain purple, phallic, vibrating, silicone dream I like to call Leo.

I crawl into bed. Excited, I pull down my panties. I turn on Leo.

Batteries are dead.



I’m so sorry,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek

This definitely isn’t where I parked my car

What am I doing here?

What am I looking for?

Well, here’s the long-winded story:

I am a young woman, first and foremost; doe-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to get eaten alive by this “real world” that everyone keeps warning me about. I was given a name at birth, sure, but like everyone else on this planet, I’m looking to make a name for myself. The real question here is How?


Okay, now what?

Well, let’s see…maybe….


I would love to be a beauty blogger or YouTuber, but there’s more to it than making a channel and calling it a day. Major road block: I’m broke! I go to college, I spend what little money I have on alcohol and club entry fees. And alcohol. I don’t have means to buy expensive BB Creams, fancy foundations, and $35 mascaras on a daily basis to keep up with blog posts and YouTube viewers who are losing interest every day. And don’t get me wrong here, I’m not hating on YouTubers or beauty bloggers at all. In fact, that is a lifestyle I envy. Ask anyone, I’ve been talking about making a YouTube channel since middle school. I guess it means I’m growing up because I’ve come to terms with my failed YouTube dreams and empty wallet.

Oh, I’ve got it!


No, no… that would never work. Mostly for the empty wallet previously mentioned, but also for the body image comments that come along with it. I’m no skinny mini. Clothes don’t hang on me like a hanger, but rather cling to me like a stuffed sausage link. I know what you’re thinking…”buy bigger clothes, stupid!” Hey, fuck off! I like the person I am.



No, that would never work either. Not that I don’t have confidence, because I do. It’s just, I don’t know…that takes a lot out of a person to be confident all the time 24/7, especially online. I enjoy staying home and basking in my own ugliness and self-pity some days, IS THAT A CRIME? Besides, I’m looking to adopt a healthier lifestyle these days…OH! THAT’S PERFECT!


YES, OF COURSE! A blog to rule all blogs! A journey! Come, join me. Come with me through the Fat Forrest as I make my way to The Land Of Skinny! No, no. Absolutely not. That is some heavy stuff (pun intended) to be writing about every week. That’s something I would rather keep to myself and do how I want to do, without people telling me what I should or shouldn’t put in my omelet in the morning.

Hmmm. I’m out of ideas. Well, I’m a woman, so what else is there?

See, right there! That’s the problem with this society. Women have such narrow roles, especially when it comes to making it on the internet. What ever happened to Wonder Woman, girl power, a woman’s right to choose, or Susan B. Anthony? It’s true what Lily Allen says, it’s hard out here for a bitch. This world needs more feminists.

uh oh.

Watch out, here I come.


Yes. I’ll wear lipstick, but kick ass. I’ll tell that man where to stick his sandwich. I’ll lecture men on gender equality while making out with 3 girls at once. No, I could never keep up with this. This is all wrong! Oh, no…that’s not what I meant…the kissing another girl part isn’t wrong, I mean, if that’s what you want, by all means kiss away! That was a close one. I pray I don’t get attacked by real feminists or a gaggle of gays for that one. Love is love!




Pause for laughter.

My love life consists of wine, Tinder, tears, and the complete series of Boy Meets World on DVD. So, there’s that…

So, turns out I’m still lost. Maybe one day I’ll find my way on the internet. Until then, please read the shitty things I post. I will most definitely make you feel bad for me, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll make you laugh too? Hey it’s worth a shot, right?

I’m so sorry,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek (it’s ironic, dammit)