1. Shop On Etsy

You should incessantly trawl Etsy, sending your roommate link after crafty link to weird, wonderful, completely useless shit like this dinosaur planter. “I feel like shopping on Etsy is a really depressed girl thing to do,” my ultra-sensitive roommate finally said to me. So far I have purchased a dinosaur planter, embroidered Katy Perry and Beyonce pillows and some little ceramic pears that say “I Love You” on them. Etsy is basically all the stuff you never knew you needed (or even knew existed), but that is somehow completely essential to heal your broken heart.

2. Shop Generally

You need to purchase at least six new dresses that you can’t afford. You also need to spend a month’s rent on sunglasses. Max out all your credit cards. You’ll be paying for it later but it’s going to make you feel so good when you look like a damn fine hot piece of ass every time you leave the house. It might sound shallow but it’s an undeniable truth that a fancy new pair of heels can instantly restore all your self worth. Ergo, self worth from shoes = good; self worth from men = bad. Money comes and goes, but you’re only gorgeous and heartbroken for so long, you might as well make the most of it.

3. Interior Decorating

I bought a princess bed and eleventy-billion plants, and everyday I’m hatching plans to better my home. It’s therapeutic AND productive. Especially when you invite an attractive male friend over to drill stuff; just stand back and watch the manly. And while it has crossed my mind that one day when I’m not heartbroken anymore I’m going to look around my house and everything will remind me of That One Time When I Got Dumped, I’m also confident that if I play Katy Perry loud enough and jump up and down on my princess bed I’ll be like, “I don’t give a fuck cos I gotta princess bed, weeeeee!”

4.Girls Gone Wild (Male Models Optional)

My mother has always taught me the importance of gal pals and I didn’t believe her when we were all 16 and permanently PMSing, but now that I’m in my mid (OK, late) 20s it turns out that she was completely right all along and Girls Rule, Boys Drool. Get your gals together, get dressed up, ingest all sorts of things that are bad for you. You may or may not want to eventually team up with some male models for an after party and dance around to Journey, but that is optional.

5. Hermit Crabs

It’s New York so chances are you live in a shoebox, but moreover, it’s incredibly irresponsible to get a puppy when you’re this emotionally vulnerable. But you do need something living to love that is NOT a boy. I chose hermit crabs because they’re low maintenance, you can still play with them and BONUS you can paint their shells with pink glitter and give them names like Katy Perry and Beyonce.

6. Crafts

My bestie told me to get a hobby, so I bought some silicone molding to make molds of my body parts which will soon be candles. When you’re fucking up silicone molding and screeching in the kitchen trying to mix it right, the last thing you’re going to be thinking about is a broken heart. And when you finally get it right, you’ll feel very proud of yourself which takes us back to the (slightly adapted) point I made in number 2: “Ergo, self worth from craft = good; self worth from men = bad.”

7. Organized Clubs

Google documents are fun and time consuming, so is being a soccer mom. An active mind heals a broken heart, so get clubbing. So far I have started a book club, a poker night, a netball team and a witchcraft club (“light as a feather stiff as a board” anyone?).

8. Get Moving

Please, don’t develop an eating disorder or anything, but start eating healthy and exercising. You’ll feel great physically, which will make you feel better emotionally, and you’ll also get a banging bod which, if scientific equations by women’s magazines and Kate Moss are correct, will boost your self esteem by at least 247. Also, exercise promotes endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t kill their ex boyfriends.

9. Pretend vigilantism

‪You’re probably thinking of bloody murder right now (unless you’ve been on the treadmill, see above), but we’ve all seen Law & Order. Not only is it wrong, you will get caught, even if you wear gloves. Sit around with your girlfriends instead and convince yourselves you’re going to egg his house. Talk tactics and discuss how many cartons of eggs you’ll need. Really, truly believe that you are going to do this. Then don’t. The trick is in believing that you will.

10. CRY

I don’t mean a quiet tear in private that makes you look super adorable. I mean, “Someone Like You” blasting, empty bottle of red wine, guttural sobbing. To the point your friend has to sedate you with Valium and drag you into bed at 3am while you scream, “But why doesn’t he love me?” at her. It’s cathartic–you’ll wake up in the morning feeling like a brand new person.

Send your questions to asmith@manhattanmedia.com or via twitter @N_YPress.

Question of the Week: I’ve been seeing someone for almost six months now, and I think I’m falling hard. There’s one major catch…He’s had a girlfriend for almost three years. He keeps telling me he’ll break up with her, but nothing’s happened yet. What should I do?

Awww, c’mon man. Do you mind if I call you “man”? Because you are very clearly acting like one. Is the sex really that good? I have to imagine that’s what’s anchoring this thing down, because any dude that’s had a girlfriend he’s been cheating on for (at least) six months out of the three years they’ve been dating is not a “nice guy.”

Let’s go to the furthest hypothetical possible.  Say he makes good on his word. He dumps his main squeeze for you, and everything is hunky dorey. You take walks around the West Village. Hit the Green Market and blow on hot apple cider together. Peachy. How long is it going to be before you piece together that this guy that you’re now exclusively dating, could very easily be cheating on you, as he did his ex? Sure, at first you’ll tell yourself it’s ridiculous. But soon the claws are bound to come out. Maybe he’ll be late for a dinner. Maybe he’ll go out with friends and come home in a black out state that wreaks of perfumed perfunctory. Think how simple the word rage is. It’s four-letters. That’s all it takes, four letters for a complete and total mental breakdown. Sick.

Now let’s go to the nearest (and most likely) hypothetical. He doesn’t break up with his lady love. You’re still seeing this dude, while he’s getting his from the gal next door. It’s gotta worry you that’s he’s been able to get away with it this long. I mean, damn, that’s some Dana Carvey “Master of Disguise,” type espionage. This dude’s gotta be a lying machine. If he’s able to lie to his girlfriend and say, “Naw babe, it’s the weirdest thing, my little nephew Tommy fell into the blue whale tank at the aquarium, and I just happened to pull him out and only stain the groin region of my pants in the pool!” Think how easy it is for him to say, “I’m going to leave her,” to you.

Drop him. I know right now it seems like you’re not going to find anyone as great as him (what?!), but think about all the other guys you’ve thought that about. Now try remembering how they turned out. Oy gevault. There’s nothing more baseless than a cheating lover. It means they are able to constantly deal with guilt. Adapt to it. Numb it. And big D or not, you’re gonna get hurt.

The problem is this: You meet Guy. You like Guy. Guy seems to like you. You would definitely say yes if Guy asked you for a drink, but you don’t want to be the one to ask (viva le chivalry!). You drop a hint instead of asking outright—hit the ball into his court, so to speak. You find a neutral medium (email, Facebook etc.) and casually drop your number into a message.

And here is where the whole system breaks down. My dear friend says that the message should be relatively clear: “Thus essentially giving, I think, the sign that YES I might say YES if you ask me out, but definitely giving the sign that YES you should use this number for fun banter/flirting.”

However, using this method, she’s never had the desired outcome, “EVERY TIME the guy has just sent me their number back. Via the medium I sent mine. WTF?! USE THE NUMBER. Ugh. So then I am back to square one?!”

Guy, what up with that? That number isn’t just a ball in your court—there are balls flying at you from all directions, and I know it must be confusing and a little bit overwhelming, but even if you flail your arms about wildly, you’re sure to hit one back over the net, right? As another gorgeous friend hilariously put it, “it’s not even like they hit the ball back into your court. You hit the ball and they picked it up, like they don’t know this ball game at all, and they walked it around the net to give it back to you.”

Is it not enough that we’ve wacked a ball over to you? Do we also need to place the racquet in your hand? While we’re at it, should we show you how to swing? And we know the answer to this problem isn’t, “he’s just not that into you.” Believe it or not, girls have a pretty good spider sense for when guys are into them, and it’s incredibly rare that we’re wrong.

So why no figurative backhand? We’re not looking for a Federer style swing—we don’t expect you to immediately ask us out upon receiving our number; that’s pretty scary and we understand. What we do expect is a text that kicks off some sort of dialogue. Yes, we’re modern women and we are taught to take what we want, but we can only lead you to the water—it’s you that must drink.

Because aren’t you flattered, Guy, that we want you to have our number? Why not flatter us back by getting in contact instead of pitching straight back in a completely cowardly way that makes us think you’re squealing like a little bitch and freaking out in front of your phone? Help us out—we’ll take a little of the responsibility in the contemporary dating game (we’ll even do it happily!) but you’ve got to do some work too. Rome wasn’t built by one woman and some canny flirting tactics now, was it?

So girls, yeah, we’re not completely without fault. We can be crazy, demanding and difficult to appease. But here’s the thing about girls: it’s all tangible. She’s got her period, she’d going to cry and hate you and scoff chocolate. She’s happy, she’s going to spin about and laugh and flick her hair. She’s hungry, she’s going to cry and hate you and scoff chocolate… Wait… OK, you get the picture.

Girls are open books. The only time a girl is difficult is if she has her period or she’s hiding her feelings because she thinks it’s the best thing to do in the interests of the relationship. Because sometimes a girl knows when her feelings and demands are irrational, so she does her best to repress them. Never mind that they always end up boiling to the surface where crying, hating, and eating chocolate will ensue.

I’m gender stereotyping, of course. Not all girls eat chocolate. Some prefer a healthy heaping of carbs or candy. But I digress. Sometimes gender stereotyping is necessary in understanding the differences between men and women, and it doesn’t mean that the binary distinctions are always correct, but they can still be helpful. Women do a lot of atypical things, as do men, but in my experience, when it comes to my relationships and the relationships of the people around me, it’s fairly easy to put people into two very clear, gender specific roles.

And now I’m going to let all the boys in on a little secret—girls aren’t that hard to work out. For instance, if we’ve clearly put effort into our appearance, all you need to do is acknowledge it. A simple, “You look great!” does the trick. Because really (and I think I speak for the vast majority of women here), we don’t really care so much for waxing, makeup-ing and hair straightening. If it were up to us, we’d be more than happy to grow a jungle in our pants and skip the lippy.

We do it for you. We do it because we care, and we only want you to have the very best. And believe it or not, we don’t expect much in return. Just some sort of sign from you that you’ve seen what we’ve done, and are pleased by it. So this is why boys are idiots—the simplest of things, in terms of relationship etiquette, seem to elude them.

If we send you a cute text about missing you or some other bullshit, don’t say something practical about how you’re so tired and work’s a bitch. Or if you do, preface it with a “ditto.” We know WHY we haven’t seen you in a week. And we don’t care. We just want to know that you miss us too. WHAT’S SO HARD ABOUT THAT? Because the thing is, you do miss us. And deep down we know you do. But everyone needs to hear something nice from time to time, so c’mon. Throw us a bone.

Silly boy, do you know how much conflict could be avoided with a simple nod? A simple word or two just so we know we’re appreciated? All those things you think in your head but are too inept to communicate—all those little, tiny, might-seem-irrelevant-to-you things are the key to keeping your woman happy. You don’t have to be an idiot about love anymore, because I’ve told you how easy it is to not be. Don’t worry, it doesn’t emasculate you to say something sweet, and we promise not to tell your friends (although we will tell all of ours, of course). Now make with the compliments and don’t be stingy on the cuddles.

McScary is, you guessed it, scary.  McScary is also rare. From my experience in New York City, people date a lot, and the ratio of McScarys to McMeh?s is grossly disproportionate. We’ve all met McCreep, McNeverCallsAgain, McHuge (work it out), McCriesDuringSex and McBartender (or four). But not many of us have met McScary.

The last time I met McScary wasn’t even in New York City. It was in London. I’d had a rough year blah blah and then one day I met a boy that my heart instantly opened up for. And there is nothing scarier than when your heart starts screaming, “Him, him, Kat, It’s HIM!” Hence the name McScary.

Every second with McScary is the perfect nightmare. It’s like you’re dreaming that you’re eating cheeseburger after cheeseburger [or insert your favorite food here] and it’s so delicious, oil is dribbling down your chin and bits of pickle are stuck to your cheek—but at the same time you’re swelling, getting fatter and more gruesome with every bite. As Beyonce would say, “a beautiful nightmare.” One minute you’re greedily chowing down, the next minute you’re dealing with some severe, long-term health risks.

The time you spend with McScary is like scoffing all those cheeseburgers. The more you eat, the more you want, but the higher the risk of cholesterol, and eventually heart attack, becomes. When I was a younger girl, I used to face McScary with wanton abandon—yeah, I’d pick up like six of those cheeseburgers and stuff them all in my face at once, with no regard for the future pain and possible lockjaw my actions might cause.

And what pain! McScary is scary for the precise reason that he is the one you instinctively know will break your heart. And not break your heart in an argh-screw-that-guy-short-cry-margaritas-and-dancing-with-the-girls-omg-I-totally-like-party-macked-on-two-guys-where’s-my-baggie? sort of heartbreak. I mean real, sordid, you-can-feel-it-smashed-to-pieces-in-your-chest-shards-scraping-against-your-rib-cage-and-puncturing-your-lungs broken.

Most of us have been broken by a McScary at one time or another—that’s how we can identify McScary now. Chances are the first McScary was simply a McDreamy, in the time before you knew what awesome power the person you fall madly in love with can wield.  So now that you’ve been brokenhearted, McScary is scarier than ever. And you’ll find yourself asking, as I am asking myself now, what the hell do I do? Based on the reactions of me and my friends, I see that you have three distinct options:

- Self sabotage so McScary leaves you wounded, but not mortally

- Quit being a cry baby and just roll with it

- Play Katy Perry really loud and dance around in your underpants singing into a hairbrush

I’m a hopeless romantic. And I’ve learned that in the self-sabotage scenario, you don’t get second chances. This isn’t a rom com and you’re not Katherine Heigl (sucks to be you). So I say do the Katy Perry thing to calm your nerves, then hitch up your panties and dive in, headlong. Because the thing is, everybody just wants to be loved. Sometimes when I think about how desperate everyone is for such a simple thing, and how hard such a simple thing is to come by, that’s what really breaks my heart (I seriously cried today when I thought about all the people who want nothing more than love but don’t have it).

So if you have the opportunity—take it. Grab McScary by the balls and squeeze them (not too hard, just enough pressure so it’s sexy); let yourself fall in love. If it doesn’t work out, well there’ll be an article for that too, and I promise you, we’ll get through it together. Hurting is OK—you’re allowed to hurt. That’s why God invented things like red wine, best friends and bacon. And besides, no one likes that deer-in-the-headlights whiny bitch off Grey’s Anatomy anyway.

Follow Kat on Twitter: @kat_george

I love sex. I think sex is wonderful, whether I reach climax or not. It’s fun, raunchy, great exercise and I feel wonderful afterward. What’s not to love about sex? I want to do it all the time—yes, even if I just finished. I’m like one of those kids you see at amusement parks getting off the rollercoaster screeching, “Again, again!

Sure, I have my days where I’m tired or too drunk—I’m not the Energizer bunny, I’m human, just like you. But overall, it would suit me just fine to lie in bed all day on a Sunday feeding the beast with two backs. That’s not to say I like to sleep around or have multiple partners; I’m quite content with just the one, as long as he’s not saving it for marriage.

Sex is something that I’ve noticed to be quite prevalent in New York City, more so than in other cities I’ve lived (Melbourne and London). Everyone is doing it. Think of everyone you know, even that really quiet, geeky guy you think isn’t doing it. And guess what? He’s totally doing it. Like, all the time. Fat people, skinny people, weird people, boring people, loud people, angry people, happy people, shy people, dumb people, smart people, all the different kinds of people—they’re all doing it.

All day I dream about sex; yeah that’s right, like a weird rap/rock song. Sometimes I’ll take a break to think about getting a glass of water or to write about having sex, but even the most mundane things end up becoming innuendos. Like this: Wouldn’t it be awesome to pour this glass of water all over my naked breasts while I’m having sex? Or maybe I’d just really like to be having sex in the shower. Or in the ocean.

Here are some big questions about the whole sex crazed persona (if you relate to any of the above then you should probably ask these questions of yourself, too):

—Am I actually a teenage boy trapped in a young adult woman’s body?

—Is this like that movie with Zac Efron where Chandler is 17 again?

—Is my mother right and my biological clock is not just ticking, it’s slapping me in the vagina in a way that’s completely inconvenient but also deeply arousing?

—How do I control myself?

—Is a baby alien about to explode out of my womb and does that alien also have raging libido?

—How much sex do I need to have to quell the desire?

—Can I pass myself off as a sex addict?

—Do I have an illness?

—AM I SICK?

But eventually it all gets to be a little bit too much; especially when it feels like it’s an obsession. The amount of times I’ve heard my friends say things like, “I have to get laid tonight,” or “I haven’t done it in a month, you might as well shoot me in the genitals,” is somewhat worrying. Sometimes it feels as though sex is the most important, most profound activity in our everyday lives. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want the headline to read “Really Smart Pretty Young Greek Girl Tragically Overdoses… ON SEX!” when I die. What would my mother think?

Follow Kat on Twitter @kat_george

It wasn’t particularly romantic, but it was what it was—amazing sex with someone who for one drunken night would fawn all over me, but from whom I could walk away the morning after without a second thought. That is, until the unambiguous, drunken “Hi,” one would inevitably text the other a few nights later. Everyone knows what that “Hi” means; is there a more profoundly unabashed way to text for sex?

The biggest problem with The One (You Always Go Back To) is that you’re likely to be simultaneously looking for The One, and it can be difficult to let the former go when a potential chance to fall in love comes along. Especially when the sex is: So. Damn. Good. And besides, The One (You Always Go Back To) can’t break your heart—it’s not theirs to break, and it probably never will be.

I met someone “special” in the midst of my summer romp with The One (You Always Go Back To) and for the briefest time there was a probably-wrong-but-not-all-that-wrong overlap. How could there not be when the sex was: So. Damn. Good (did I already mention that?)? I managed to “get a hold of myself” and curb my activities with The One (You Always Go Back To), but that didn’t stop me from flirting dangerously with him the entire time, and I even found myself pining for him more often than I should have been when I was in a relationship.

As soon as my “relationship” ended, you guessed it; I fell straight back into the arms of The One (You Always Go Back To) without even skipping a beat. Lying breathless on his bedroom floor, scanning the room for my missing underpants, mere days after becoming freshly single, I found nothing but a certain confusing feeling, and wondering if I would have to do my walk of shame commando style. Why was I back here? Could The One (You Always Go Back To) be just plain old The One? Was our chemistry so intense that we’d always come back here to bump against each other desperately? Was I still drunk from all the whiskey.

I looked at him, already snoring on the carpet next to me. He was so beautiful. So charming. So good at sex. For a second, I tried to love him. I willed it. I thought about our future: romantic dinners, drives to the countryside, reading the paper to each other in bed on a Sunday morning, gorgeous, tan, golden-haired children. I smiled softly to myself as I retrieved my underpants from where they’d been tossed under the bed. It all seemed so impossible to me in that moment, but less possible still was the notion of not finding myself scrounging for my underpants on his laundry-riddled bedroom floor a week later. I walked out into the night with the sense that I would always come back here. I would always walk this way; it was my routine now.

But something changed, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as I was preparing to fall back into the old whiskey shot and a root routine, I met someone special. And not “special” like the aforementioned relationship—special as in there hasn’t been any overlap, and not from any want of trying on behalf of The One (You Always Go Back To). It’s a strange thing, the changing of plans, and I get the sick sensation that this might be the end for The One (You Always Go Back To).

Because there has to be an end, right? If you’re not going to make The One (You Always Go Back To) your One And Only, eventually you just have to stop—cut it out, don’t touch those genitals again. Because how many times can you run out on someone before they start looking for a better deal? Don’t they deserve better than to be left high and dry every time your heart seeks something else anyway? How many times will someone take you to bed when you come calling with your broken heart before it exhausts you both? If someone can’t be Your One, can they ever be satisfied with being your fall back? And can you always be satisfied with them simply being your go to when you’ve got the blues? Should you just get out now, before it turns bitter and sours the whole lovely sex thing you’ve had?

Eventually, you have to grow up, I suppose. And part of growing up is being able to find solace in your own company when you’re downtrodden, rather than turning to someone you know you’re only using to boost your self-esteem. The One (You Always Go Back To) will always be just that—what you have is habitual and ingrained. You’ve been acting out the same old scenes with them for so long now that it’s impossible to script new ones, let alone improvise. And that’s when you have to make the decision and The One (You Always Go Back To) becomes The One (You Need To Let Go). It will take willpower, but I think it will be worth it when you’re cut loose, and can be completely unburdened to fall crazy head-over-heels with someone that gives you a companionship beyond a shot glass and a 3 a.m. scurrying tiptoe to find your knickers.

Follow Kat on Twitter @Kat_George

Last year I wasn’t seeing anyone on New Year’s Eve, so I missed out on the midnight kiss. Although at some ungodly hour of the morning, finding myself at a Williamsburg loft party, I ended up tonguing with a good friend. We’d been dancing for what felt like hours, both of us drunk and high (him maybe a little bit more than me), and the scenario went where all good drug fuelled scenarios go.

The details are sketchy but in his stupor he said something obscenely nonsensical about wanting to kiss my eyeballs and we just went for it (on the mouth, not the eyeballs). Afterwards I walked up to my girlfriend who looked at me, horrified.

“Have you been kissing?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you’ve got lipstick all over your face,” she said, cracking a smile.

I looked in the mirror and lo! There was a halo of red lipstick in an almost perfect circle about one inch out from my lips.

No, New Year’s kisses do not need to be romantic. They can simply be as foul and inglorious as that. But you must have them, you simply must. I’ve thought long and hard about the mysterious New Year’s Eve kiss and all it’s connotations, including the pressure to have one, and I’ve come up with the following points as to why we feel we need to kiss when the ball drops:

- because they made a really big deal out of it on Friends

- because otherwise you’ll deem yourself a fat, undesirable loser

- because everyone else is doing it

- because you want to rub it in the faces of all the people not doing it, you smug son of a bitch

- because it’s tradition

- because you’re so high you HAVE to kiss SOMETHING right NOW or your face will explode and oh my God, we should totally take a road trip tomorrow because you’re my best friend, hold my hand, doesn’t that feel nice, oh my God, do you have a cigarette?

- because superstition tells us you live the new year the way you start it

- because deep down we’re all just a pack of horny frat boys

So basically none of it makes any sense at all, really. That mad scramble to find anyone, anything, to mash your face into on New Year’s Eve is entirely ridiculous. But we still buy into it, just the same way be buy into face cream, kale and Brangelina—because even though it’s stupid and doesn’t fulfill any kind of practical reality, it’s still fun. And isn’t it just magical to think that maybe, one special New Year’s Eve, just as the old year ticks into the new, someone you really like will kiss you right on the mouth while everyone around you is shaking hands?

You can follow Kat on Twitter @kat_george