That Time I Flew On Spirit Airlines…

“When you know better, you do better.” – Maya Angelou
That’s the quote that kept running through my head as I boarded my SPIRIT flight to New Orleans. Of course I knew all the terrible things people say about Spirit:
“It’s like Soul Plane”
“It’s the Greyhound of the skies”
“Worst. Customer. Service. Ever.”
“It makes Con Air look fancy”
But against all those incredibly accurate analogies I still booked my flight. Not because I wanted to save money, that’s the biggest misconception about flying Spirit, you save zero coins. Because there’s a fee associated with literally every interaction you have with the airline; checked bag fees (including a carry on PERSONAL item), seat selection fees, talking to customer service fees, standing in line fees, pouring water in your hand to drink fees, hell, I’m surprised the bathroom isn’t credit card operated!
So why did I book a flight on Broken Spirits airlines? I wanted to arrive at a bachelorette party on time also it was the only direct flight that day. I think it’s fair to say that if I book a flight for a certain time, during non inclement weather season, I can generally expect to reach my destination on time, right? LOL what was I thinking? This was Spirit, their sole purpose in life is to make everyone who flies with them late as possible.
On my way to the airport I was so excited. I was meeting up with another girl in the bachelorette party and we were gonna have breakfast and mimosas at the airport and then jet to New Orleans for what would be one of my funnest trips to date. When we sat down at the gate we saw a woman with two adorable little girls who was taking pics with people as if she was a celebrity. A celebrity I didn’t know but all the black people on Spirit seemed to be infatuated with. We found out she was a reality TV star on Love and Hip Hop New York. I don’t watch reality TV so I wasn’t star struck when I was seated next to her due to my random seating assignment. If anything, I was a little annoyed I was placed at the back of the plane next to a woman with kids who looked like she could use a nanny.

I shrugged it off and got settled and put on my Frank Ocean Endless album as it’s the only album saved in my iTunes that I can enjoy in airplane mode. I closed my eyes only to be awakened by the sound of the LHHNY mom scold her baby for knocking over a coffee cup that landed on my shoe. No big deal, she apologized and gave me a baby wipe. Then I was like wait, why are we still on the ground it’s been at least 15 mins and everyone was seated? That’s when they told us there was an issue with the AC and they were working to get it fixed before we take off.

The AC was still on the fritz and we were asked to deplane. There were lots of groans and comments like: I can fly without AC…It’s not that Hot…Most of yall aint got AC at home anyway. Then there was the flight attendant over the speaker who said, “Don’t go far unless you wanna get left.”
As this was happening the LHHNY mom was FaceTimin’ with her LHHNY boyfriend and/or baby daddy, Peter Gunz. I probably shouldn’t call people out like that but he probably shouldn’t let the mother of his children AND his children fly on Spirit airlines.
With that, my friend and I exited the plane with all the other passengers and all we could do was laugh. I believe the busted AC was a result of all our collective expectations as most people on the flight said it was their first time flying with Spirit. It was like a TV show people were snapping insta/snap stories about their experience.  And I for sure thought a fight might break out and we’d end up a Daily Mail article or a segment on Desus and Mero. But after multiple inaccurate emails updating us with the new flight time and an hour and half later, we were able to re board the plane and take off.
This was just my flight getting to New Orleans. My returning flight was canceled. In my next post I will explain how to wait on hold for 2 hours without killing someone in a Spirit uniform.

The Apartment Search

Aside from my usual life filled with work, LA ass events, stalking my Twitter crush, and pretending to be a writer, I’ve been looking for an apartment which is a full time job in itself. And not just any apartment, but an apartment on the westside which is arguably the hippest/most sought after area to live in nowadays. My quest to find the perfect apartment started after my roommate and I decided to ditch our cushy 2bedroom 2 bath apartment in Westwood for our own places. I mean we’re both in our 30s and one day one of us would get hitched or decide to quit their job on some Eat, Pray, Love ish (probably me). Looking for an apartment in LA is a lot like dating for me in that it requires a lot more effort than before and the pickings are slim.
In the beginning I decided to do what everyone does when looking for an apartment, check Craigslist religiously and purchase a Westside Rentals account. Which, by the way, Westside Rentals is free now courtesy of But they sure didn’t stop me from purchasing that useless $55/mo. membership! Anywho, first thing I noticed is that the rent is WAY more expensive than when I got my first LA apartment in 2011. So when you do see a reasonably priced place on the westside people descend upon it like vultures. I went to an open house that no lie had like 30 people there for the shittest smallest studio I had ever seen. I watched as everyone tried to sweet talk the realtor into renting to them. Another LA dating analogy, shitty options with lots of competition. So I started to get more aggressive with my search upping my budget and expanding my desired living area to K-Town and I even looked into some spots in the South Bay. Which is sad because I wouldn’t even date someone who lived in those areas much less live there myself. But I was getting desperate.
Then there were the managers you had to contact to see these properties. Maybe it’s just me but are you required to be an old eccentric weirdo in order to manage properties in LA? Because every single manger I met with was weird AF. There was the old man who showed me the Westchester apartment that was great at ‘selling’ me on the apartment; “No kids, No AC, it’s not that big, there’s no pets, oh and did mention NO KIDS”. I don’t have kids but he sounded like he’d shoot one if he saw them on the premises.
Then there was the old half senile half racist Asian lady I called to view the 1 bedroom in West LA. The conversation went something like this;
Me: Hi I’m calling about the one bedroom for rent, is it still available?
Asian Lady (thick accent with abrasive tone): Yes! How old?
Me: I’m 33.
Asian Lady: Oh you are YOUNG! No pets, no kids, no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no music!
Me: Okay I’m single.
Asian Lady: No pets, no kids, no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no music!
Me; Got it, I’m single.
She then asks for the spelling of my first and last name. This took a full 5 minutes.
Asian Lady: Garner? Where you from?
Me: I’m from LA.
Asian lady: No! Like you French, German, etc?
Me: I’m black.
Asian lady: What!?
Me: I’m African American, black.
Asian lady: Ohhh black..
It goes on for a while like that, needless to say I didn’t end up viewing that apartment. Then I started to lose hope. Would I have to settle? I wanted to move by June 1st but there were no viable options. So I decided I was moving out no matter what. I went even harder on my search and decided to show up to these viewings prepared to show these managers that I was about this apartment life! With my pay stubs, banking statements, and application fees in hand, I went to see a cute studio in Miracle Mile. This time there was only 3 people waiting to see it. When I saw it I realized I had paid no attention to the square footage, 275ft to be exact. It was by far the smallest apartment I’d ever seen in my life but it somehow managed to have a full kitchen and no closet. But in my desperation and determination to find a place asap, I filled out an application on the spot and was approved! I think I was more excited about the location than I was about the actual apartment; walking distance from the LACMA, bars, and a health food market. The neighborhood was like the Manhattan of LA.

But when I started telling friends about the new apartment their attention shifted to the size. I knew it was small but my thought process was much like someone in a toxic relationship, who thinks; “I can make this work”. So my co workers started sending me links to other apartments in the area. I thought if I could hold off the manager of the shoebox sized apartment I could find something better. And I did, a studio apartment in the middle of Culver City and Mid City. It was a palace compared to the Miracle Mile apartment; faux wood floors, closets, actual closet space, and a full kitchen. I dropped my deposit and ghosted the prison cell apartment.

Now that the apartment hunt stress is over, work has calmed down (barely and only momentarily), I can channel that same determination I used to find an apartment in writing!


We’ve all been there before, some guy or girl you met that you thought you vibed with so well, they were so cute, and they could even possibly be ‘the one’. You’d know from that one time meeting that you’d at least get the chance to introduce them at a friend’s gathering. It’d go something like this, This is (insert new bae’s name), we met IRL, and he’s an actor/writer/owns his own business. And your friends would think you’re so cool for dating a new guy who’s agreed to meet your friends so soon… <— and this daydream right here is probably what caused him to ghost you in the first place, crazy! I’m not a social scientist but I’m pretty sure that 90% of ghosting happens because the one being ghosted is too eager (i.e. appears desperate). And there are a few things that can make you look thristy to your new bae, maybe you:

1) Texted them 5 days after meeting them instead of the standard 8 weeks.Clearly, you have no life.

2) When you did text them, you asked them a general question about their life (i.e. how many siblings do you have).What’s next? Asking them what their ring size is?!

3) You followed up about the date THEY planned.Sounds like someone is getting clingy.

4) You called them. Which means you’re a total sociopath.

There’s a new group of people who have adopted ghosting, job recruiters. It’s one thing to be ignored by a person but to be ignored by an entire company, that’s just pathetic. But THEY reached out to me, THEY asked me for a phone interview, and THEY told me THEY were gonna follow up, then radio silence. I guess I just have to adapt to this new way of rejecting people, when it’s too soon for the “sorry we went with someone else” email or the “sorry I’m not interested” text, it’s considered more socially acceptable to just…


F*ck Jesse Williams.

Yo f*ck Jesse Williams. Like seriously. He comes in our lives with his good looks and perfect body and then has the nerve to drop knowledge on us! You can’t be fine AND woke. It does not work like that sir. The things he says should only come out of the mouth of some guy I’m in no way attracted to. So when he speaks I’m actually listening to what he says and not distracted by his piercing blue or whatever-color-they-choose-to-be-that-day, eyes. You know what Jesse Williams is to single women? False hope. I’m supposed to believe that men like him exist in real life? Nah bruh, I need some kind of scandalous information to come out about you like; you kick dogs, you litter, you put bowls of cereal in the fridge, or you’re a sex addict — actually that last one wouldn’t even be an L in his case. Sh*t, something has to be off about this man so we can all breath a sigh of relief that he’s imperfect just like the rest of us.

I’m being facetious of course. I don’t know much about Jesse Williams besides a handful of his tweets, a controversial/brilliant award acceptance speech, and a ton of shirtless Grey’s scenes. And then there was that one time he came in for a meeting at the network I was working for. I was working the front desk. He walked in and headed straight for me. Time stopped. It was like a movie when a character encounters their crush and they’re so busy daydreaming that they don’t even hear what their crush is saying in the present moment. “I’m here to see (insert network executive).” I like to believe he imprinted on me that day and that all the unicorn energy he gives off somehow rubbed off on me and one day I’ll meet my own Jesse Williams, and he’ll be fine AND woke.
You shut your gorgeous mouth!


SAVAGE1 {adjective}: An act that is either cool or hardcore, going beyond the normal scope of the given situation.
2 {noun}: A person who often displays savage behaviour according to the above definition – Urban Dictionary 
(For the kids reading this, that’s Ben and Fred Savage)

I love new slang especially when it gets archaic. Savage is being used a lot these days it’s even the name of post-trap rapper, 21 Savage. Pause. I like 21 Savage’s music and I judge myself for it everyday so you don’t have to. It’s like, the more ignorant the better.

Anyway, the term is also used to describe someone who gives no f*cks.  Rihanna uses it to describe herself to a man who confuses sex with love in, Needed Me.  It can also be used to describe a man eater (Female) or womanizer (Male). Feminist side note: why does a promiscuous man have a cool/smooth sounding name and a promiscuous woman is called something so…savage? 


So last week my boss scheduled a meeting with me or a ‘sync’ as we cool business people call it. I thought it just going to be to touch bases about new work but it was to tell me I got a raise. Not a real raise but the shitty 3-4% ‘raise’ they give everyone for doing the bare minimum at their job, you know, showing up. And I as excited as I was about this ‘raise’, I immediately (while I was in the meeting) asked my friend in HR if these ‘raises’ were negotiable. She said yes, but then I thought about how arguing for a raise, getting it, and then leaving this job for my dream writing gig in a few short months, would be kind of f*cked up. But you know who wouldn’t think that was f*cked up? A man, because when it comes to getting the respect, appreciation, and compensation that they deserve, men are savages.


‘Adult’ Parties

Whenever I go to a house party in LA I feel like I’ve been transported back in time to college, many, many, many years ago, circa 2005. We still talk about what we wanna be when we grow up, who we have a crush on, and drink Fireball straight up. College was like our model for how parties should look. It’s not like we learn a new way to party as an adult. I mean, we can pretend to party like adults by mimicking what we see on TV, films, and Pintrest. You know, charcuterie plates, wine, indie music, and adult conversations (i.e. who are you dating?, do you like your new job?, etc.) . But somehow, some way, the night always ends with pizza and flip cup.


And there are a few people you always encounter at these ‘adult’ parties:
The Girl Who Gets Too Drunk – She’s like a pit bull off her leash and we have no idea what she’s gonna do next. One thing we do know, she will wake up the next day with many regrets.
The Guy Who Stands Against A Wall The Whole Night And Sips His Drink – Who is this guy? Who invited him? Did he come alone? Why? Maybe some girl invited him and he thought they were gonna hang out, but she’s wasted, and dancing with some other guy…
The Dancers – The 2-4 people who start dancing that people make a circle around. The onlookers take pics and video to add to their Snap and Insta-stories to validate how ‘Lit’ the party was.
The People Making Out – Maybe they’re a couple or maybe they just met at the party. Either way, they’re drunk enough to not care about anyone watching.
The Owner Of The House – They’re pretending to have fun but are secretly hoping everyone magically disappears before the neighbors call the cops.
The Clique – The girls or guys who stay in their friend group the whole night and don’t branch out.
Which category do I fall in, you ask?
The Introvert – The person who walks around, talks to only people they know, checks their phone a million times, has a drink or two, and finds a place to sit and observe. They do all of this within 35 minutes and are ready to go because they’ve met their social interaction quota for the day. They Irish exit the party because saying good bye gives them even more social anxiety. They need to go home to be alone and recharge so they can do it all again at the next party.


I write this post today from my bed on Friday at 930am. I’m on a staycation BIT*HES! And it’s the best time to be writing in bed because a storm is brewing so it’s cold and gloomy outside. The perfect environment for a long day of writing. I wish I could get a day like this every week. This setting, this mood. Just once a week be able to write for a whole day. Finish something, God I just want to finish something! All these projects left undone is making me feel undone.

Momentum, that’s always been an issue for me. It’s like something good happens and instead of letting that propel me to do more, work harder, I decide to take a break, pretend like I can pause and celebrate my tiny victory. When I should be going harder than ever because the next win won’t be as easy, you’re going to need to stretch yourself even farther in order to get to the next level.

Momentum effects every area of your life; love, career, wanting to finish errands but instead going home for a nap, which is what inspired this post. I had a ton of errands to do on Saturday and an event or two to attend and I started to get tired and feel like all these tiny errands weren’t amounting to anything. I felt like I needed to go home and rest and perhaps put things off till tomorrow. But when I got home and realized how much I had to do my mind wouldn’t let me rest.  It’s a gift and a curse. I’m always doing something but I’m not really doing anything at all. It’s all a distraction. A distraction from doing exactly what I should be doing, writing.