LA ✈️ UK & Back to PA.


I’ll just come right out and say it: this celibacy journey is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. Not only have I been abstaining from sexual intercourse, I’ve focused a lot of my energy into trying to catapult my professional career to the next level. Working 50+ hours a week combined with a “no-sex” diet equals a lot of cheesecake and emotional eating. Going to the gym is satisfying in the moment once I muster up the energy to finally get there. I won’t kid myself; I still felt the urges to express a “bad girl” factor, so the gym and clean eating seemed like a lot of “good girl” all at once. I needed to make love to cheesecake. A lot of cheesecaking has been going on right now.

Throwing myself into work hasn’t been completely horrible, definitely stressful but not horrible. I’ve taken on a multitude of projects in attempts to keep me occupied, gained new clients for my company, traveled to LA for a half vacation half business trip, and managed to meet a British Gent in between. Sometimes I don’t realize all of the things that I actually do until I visually see them in writing. In a matter of two months, I did a bucket list of things that some people spend their lifetime trying to do. This is where I insert the smallest pat on my back and remember to be grateful for all the feats I experience and overcome in such a sort time.

With all the traveling, dating and overwhelming feelings that I would’ve normally concealed in sex, I’m handling head-on in celibacy. This is no walk in the park or “hee-hee, ha ha” situation. Everyday feels like another day that my patience is running low and getting weary. I want sex. Good sex. Memorable sex. Sex that will lead to something real with someone just as real. 

I’ll know I’ve completely lost it when I start grinding my teeth down in my sleep. Chain dating hasn’t made anything easier either. I end up wondering if every guy is thee guy worthy enough to have sex with, so you can imagine how things in my mind may escalate quickly and I end up yet again, heartbroken and making out with cheesecake.

British Gent, I can’t even consider him much of a gentleman. Again not horrible, but there’s always that notion of not settling. Call me picky, but I tried to imagine settling and of course in my mind we were a great episode of “Pleasantville”. In real life, he was standoffish with little to no desire for commitment. Obviously, there were signs he displayed that I tried to overlook. He always wanted to chat via Skype but never wanted to make eye contact. I even noticed in many of his pictures, he didn’t make contact with the camera and if he did he was wearing sunglasses. Call me crazy, but I took this as a sign of someone with commitment issues. He won’t even commit to the viewfinder on the camera for goodness sakes.

The way we met was a modern day Pretty Woman scene (minus the prostitution of course): “We met while he was out of town on a business trip…”. That was the beginning of the story, however the way I scripted the end was far from the way it actually happened. Thankfully, I managed to get out of the situation without sexual intercourse. (You can sarcastically insert, “Yay you” here with a bunch of eye rolls). I’ll completely understand.

He wasn’t the only one I dated without giving away the cookies, just the only one I really wanted to attempt something serious with, and the furthest international zip code. He was like something you order off EBay or Instagram: You know there’s risk involved but you’re willing to take it anyway.


The GodMother

My number one goal in life is to teach the unteachable, and guide the misguided. There are those who have been counted out for one reason or another, whether it be their financial, demographical, racial or educational background. These are the individuals that I aspire to teach because for some reason, I could’ve once been in their shoes. Untrainable, unreachable and definitely a lost cause by various definitions. The greatest part of my story is that I was fortunate enough to have a handful of people who believed in me. They believed so much, that I had no choice but to believe them also.

The first person outside of my family to see something in me was my first grade teacher, Mrs. Preggler. Unfortunately I wasn’t a shining star in her classroom or academically with my stellar grades. No, I was the outcast on her playground who taught all of her students about sex. I can still recall that day I stood in the middle of the playground, educating a bunch of elementary students that they were actually brought into this world because their mommy and daddy had sex. There wasn’t any stork, birds or bees. Their mom laid on her back, and their dated inserted his penis into her vagina. That was how they came into this world or (ended up on the playground that day). That was my explicit conversation to a group of bewildered kids.

Talk about the horror on their first grade faces when I exposed their parents’ truths, and the horror on my first grade teacher’s face when she eventually had to sit me down and tell me she would have to tell my mom. The horror came full circle when I burst into tears, and informed my teacher there was no way in hell she could tell a Jamaican mother that her child got in trouble in school. Much less the contents of the trouble. I assured my teacher I would come back to school with my behind split in half if she told my mother.

That was the first time I had someone believe in me. She believed in my truth, and I’m pretty sure that first grade teacher took my secret to her grave. From that moment, my destiny of leading and mentoring others became my purpose. My first grade teacher mentored me about sex and made me promise to never talk about sex on her playground again. I promised and learned my lesson. Teaching my peers about sex in exchange for my behind was nota question at this point. Those little white babes would’ve had to learn about sex on someone else’s watch.

Fast forward more than two decades later, my purpose is to not only teach and mentor others about adult topics, but how to become a great human. I’ve realized in 2018, we may need a refresher course of what it means to be a great human now more than ever. Through my education and experience, I’ve had no choice but to be a greater, stronger, yet ethical person and I love to share what I’ve learned with others. If I didn’t share what I’ve learned, I believe I would be doing those inspiring individuals that believed in me a great disservice.

Diamond Earrings

Dear Whom It May Concern:

I didn’t forget about your need to read, I’m still here in the midst of life hanging on for more than dear life. Today had a few shitty hours, but that’s all I’ll give the shit credit for; a few shitty moments. I wont let the shit take over my day. Shit shouldn’t have that much power anymore. I’m learning to let that shit go…

“Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.” – Muhammad Ali

The great champ died last night, rest his soul. Life can be so unknown, you know? One minute you close your eyes for bed, another minute you wake up and learn Muhammad Ali passed away during your slumber. Death has been so rampant, I’m almost completely numb to it. I still cant believe he died, but on the other hand I can’t believe he lived so long. Life is totally unpredictable and you simply can’t put a price tag on it. Life can’t be bought. Not an hour, not a minute, not a day. You cannot buy more time no matter how wealthy or successful you are. There’s nothing you can do to control destiny, but you can make the best of what your destiny is. Instead of going on and on about death and life and all of that depressing shit in between, let’s learn to leave the shit where it needs to be. Down in the shitter.

Around two hours into my work shift, I realized one of my diamond earrings was no longer in  my ear. You can picture my distraught, gasping for air, retracing a few steps, but instantly coming to the realization that its probably gone for good. Between home, the car, the parking lot and walking around my store, the countless number of places it could’ve been quickly broke my heart. This pair of diamond cluster diamond earrings were purchased for me by my ex-boyfriend along with an insurance policy, and guess what the insurance policy doesn’t cover? A missing earring of course! I called Zales to confirm what I was already aware of.  Missing diamonds, covered. Missing earring, uncovered. The most painful part of losing this earring is the fact that it isn’t that painful at all. Truth be told, I simply dislike knowing I lost or didn’t take care of my valuables. That’s what’s bothering me the most. The sentimental value behind the diamonds isn’t my biggest debacle, but my wounded pride of knowing that these earrings are yet another thing I couldn’t hold on to. What is my problem with retention, and why is it so hard for me to have longevity in my relationships? Even if the relationship was simply with a pair of diamond earrings. Why is it such a problem for me to hold onto things? I beat myself up for as long as I could, retracting my steps like a mad, frantic woman who really lost her mind and not an earring. I need to know I have the willpower to consistently hold on to something in my life. The last few weeks have been loss after loss, and a pair of diamond earrings was not one of the items I had the strength to add to list. Recently, I officially broken off all physical and mental ties with present and past baggage, in hopes of preparing myself entirely for my future,self and love. Deep down I know I can never be one of those people moving into my future, but still wondering or curious about the “what ifs” over an ex. I needed to be completely and utterly detoxed. Losing this earring was like the last, final purge. Just three days before, I booked a hotel reservation on this same ex-boyfriend’s credit card, because the app we used in the past still had his information on file and processed the payment using his card. You can imagine how mortified I was, making plans to have sex with one deadbeat person from my past using another past’s credit card to seal the deal. Long story short, I didn’t have sex and had to write that embarrassing Facebook message to my other ex letting him know the mayhem on his credit card. I was completely turned off when my ex calmly let me know, it was okay because he already reported this purchase on his card as a fraud.

What?! Why was that okay? That’s not okay! Are the cops going to come after me? It hasn’t even been 24 hours! The way this particular ex micro-managed his bank account was like an ironic slap in the face. Of course the man that could afford to buy me diamonds micro-managed his accounts and had alerts of every purchase sent to his phone. It’s like I remembered why we broke up all over again. I was turned off, and maturely sent the funds to his PayPal account which he requested I do in order for him to close the report he filed with Wells Fargo. What a shitty joke. Completely my fault that I take complete ownership over, but still shitty…

As for the other shitty asshole from my past I was willing to finally give a taste to after over a year of playing cat and mouse, let just say I’m still very much celibate. I won’t lie to you: It’s very hard and becomes very tempting. For example, this last occurrence I was determined to get my boots knocked and just have a “Sex in Another City” moment or a few  hours. Not only was I stood up but my period came on like the Nile flipping River. I cursed God that day, and the universe, and Mother Nature but then I remember the vow that I made. The next time I have sex, I want it to be with the one. The one that loves me as much as I him and can spoil, and flip me any way I please. Yes, I will be his personal pancake.

So am I still bummed about losing my diamond? Yes. Will I get over it? Probably. While I scurried my job site looking for my earring, a woman about fifty feet away from me had a seizure, and passed about in front of her grandkids. While I stood looking for and EMT to come quickly, all desire and materialistic urges to freak out over a diamond earring quickly diminished. It’s just a diamond earring, and a personal life lesson to remind me there’s more to life consume my thoughts on than a pair of diamond cluster earrings.

“It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; its the pebble in your shoe.”- Muhammad Ali  (1942-2016)




Fur Collar & Vans Sneakers

Sometimes the best things in life happen when we just let life happen. Let’s marinate on that thought for a moment: Let. Life. Happen.

I let life happen with a Cuban tattoo artist and a 6’8 Music Therapist, and came home from both encounters still a proud celibate woman. I can let life happen. I don’t have to give up sex just to live life. God forgive me, but I’m no Virgin Mary. I am merely more in-tuned with my worth and the value of my puss*. There’s been so much going on between Fashion Weeks, growing professionally and figuring out what I want personally, I just couldn’t see myself succumbing to the temptations of penis right now. Sex would just complicate things, and I have enough to tackle. Despite all of the items on my plate and penis proposals,  I’m realizing my family is highly important to me. My Grandmother is going through a lot of health related issues, so for anyone wondering where I’ve been: There is your answer, I’ve been sitting with my Grandmother on my days off skimming as many fashion shows as I possibly could. There’s been a couple times I’ve felt like I was going to lose it, I can’t recall the last time I’ve truly taken a day off. Thank God for an amazing support system and a monthly fashion magazine purchase because I’m not quite sure how else I would stay sane. 

A big dilemma for me was whether I should have sex with the Cuban tattoo artist or not (6’8 Music Therapist wasn’t even in the running after our first date). In the midst of the madness, sex seemed like a quick fix to my growing anxieties. 

“Tattoo Artist” was so sexy, I couldn’t stand it! I knew he was a ladies man. It was written all over his handsome ass face. He was just my type: 6’1, tattoos (over 40 to be exact), gages, thick full-pink lips, a messy comb-over hair style and an awesome footwear collection which included some of my favorite classic black Vans sneakers. He was visual eye-candy, all 6 feet plus of him with this amazingly mannish beer- belly. It wasn’t a gut; just a belly. One of those stomachs you’d find yourself rubbing while you “Netflix and Chill”, but I knew with every fiber in my body, I wouldn’t be the only one he’d be watching Netflix with. It was agony just to even think about. “Tattoo Artist” was literally one of those things you’d want to own just to be able to say,”Look at what I have!” I didn’t even consider him as the person he was, just a thing. An accessory to show off, but not necessarily the best mental catch. Yes he looked awesome, but would he support me emotionally the way I needed a man to? I battled a few nights not driving to this guy’s house just to give him a taste. Everytime I almost came close, God stopped me directly in my tracks.   

“Tattoo Artist” couldn’t understand how much self -control I had, he was obviously used to women throwing themselves at him. I tried to explain it was like my love of cheesecake: I love it, but I won’t eat it. If I start eating it, I won’t want to stop so I’d rather not eat any at all. Of course I’d eventually treat myself to a slice or two, but now just wasn’t the time to fall off the wagon. No matter how much I love cheesecake or his looks for that matter. I can look at cheesecake, I just won’t touch it.

He must’ve grown weary of me teasing him. How many times have you made out with someone for over three hours? Three hours of just kissing made me the ultimate “dick teaser”, but I couldn’t give it up only after two dates! Our first date was like finding your new favorite heels. Every time you think about it, you smile. I wore my infamous red and black harness bra, with an all black attire, black sneakers and my fur collar opened enough to show off my bra and chest. By the time of our second date, we built enough sexual tension through two rounds of pool to make me fantasize about him taking me directly on the table (God forgive me). But I kept my composure, even while being in a close-knit proximity of the car. I let him tongue me down for an entire three hours with conversation in between, without even pulling out a tit. I wasn’t fully aware of how much willpower I actually had until that experience. Our kisses were like fire upon fire, I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone that deeply. My insides were tingling, but I just couldn’t give him me without fully knowing where we were going. He didn’t give me any answers, and ultimately I only wanted him for his looks. I eventually realized I wasn’t attracted to anything about him past his physical features, so where would we go beyond sex? 


    I let our dates happen because that was part of the universal plan. Sometimes just through dating, you learn so much about yourself: you learn your likes from your dislikes. However, having sex would’nt have taught me anything other than what he could possibly do with his penis. If the sex was horrific, that would’ve not only been a waste, but a major setback. I’m on the mission of growth. I’m not interested in intentionally setting myself back. 

Let life happen exactly the way it’s supposed to happen. Even if that means “it”never even happens..

Peace, Love and Growth,
Tamara Styles.

“All I could do, is just offer you. My love.” ~Prince



Groovy, Baby

Fashion is heading into an era I am so in love with: the 70’s. If I could ask God to send me back in time, I’d humbly request to live as a hot, young red head in the late 70’s. From the fashion, disco music, to the infamous Studio 54 parties, the late 70’s was an opening to women and gay liberation. The late 70’s administered a new level of self-love, and was an entrance to the acceptance of individuality. People actually wanted to see the weird and different. Normal was just boring and overrated. The conservative consensus of the country finally opened its canal to a new state of mind with so many negative outbreaks happening, from wars to various protests. Women were also breaking away from being submissive to men’s demands once the government approved birth control. It was like women finally had a chance to say, “Kiss my ass, I don’t want your baby.” 

   Could you imagine living in an age where celebrities and ordinary people party together? I don’t mean VIP sections and ropes. It was utterly everyone who was anyone with an eclectic style or personality on the dance floor having a groovy time. Ordinary, everyday people were inspiring designers and celebs while happy substances were being shared like favors! That’s sheer, awesome tranquility. Party-goers flocked to Studio 54 to get an opportunity to not only rub elbows with stars like Micheal Jackson, Andy Warhol and David Bowie. I know I’m sharing a lot of history, but fashion is history baby! If life were still so simple with less social-standard boundaries, we’d live in a much better place!   

This period in fashion and music history is the ultimate nirvana. Everyone wanted to dance, feel high and have a good time. People weren’t stuck, glued to their cell blocks (aka cellphones) watching moments of the past, people actually lived in the moment. I miss living in the moments. Not saving the moments for others and their standards or expectations of what my moments should look like. I like to do what I want, when I want leaving a trail of golden glitter behind.   

But more than anything, I’d love to revisit the late 70’s for the carefreeness and less pressures of perfection. Seriously, when else would loads of blue shadow over a naked face, false lashes and big hair be accepted? Now, everything in life is so focused on being perfect, we’re missing out on the beauty of life. This is the hardest and biggest pill I’ve had to take: I don’t care about the perfection anymore. I’ve spent years wasting on perfection only to realize I’m the farthest thing from it. I don’t want perfection. I want beauty. Beauty inside as well as out is much more fun than just perfect. I save my perfect for Jesus. Give me beauty baby.


If the late 70’s didn’t teach us anything else, it taught us to live a zen life and not be afraid of bell-bottoms or blue shadow. There is no harm in striving for beauty, its the perfection that slowly kills. 

“What is perfection anyway?”

Fashionably Yours Forever,


Power In The Head

I came across a wretched article online about giving blow jobs. Well, the idea of blow jobs wasn’t the wretched part. The content of the article is what bothered me most.

Half way through reading, I spared myself the agony of continuing any further without mentally gagging. This article was truly a ploy to lure people in and like bait, I fell. The title of the article was bluntly in your face, “Something About Blow Jobs” or whatever the name was to reel readers in. To summarize what I managed to get through, the author gave a notion (in addition to probably giving terrible blow jobs) that women give away their power to men when they perform oral sex. Whether you agree or disagree with performing oral sex, let me just share a secret I’ve learned from my elders: Men never have the power in the bedroom. In consensual, adult sex, men have nothing more than a penis. Forgive me if the topic of BJ’s still makes you uncomfortable in 2016. However, I simply refuse to sit back and let women think that men actually have power in the bedroom. If and when they [men] do, its because we [women] gave it to them.

Adam Eve Michelangelo

Appalled by this article, I madly sent it to a group of friends (male and female) to get their opinion. I couldn’t stop chuckling by the message in this topic. Why the hell would women willingly give oral sex to lose their power? And if we lose our power by doing it to them, do men lose theirs by doing it to us? If there’s an exchange of power happening through oral sex, we either need to do much more to one another, or go on strike all together. I received so many different responses from close knit friends, and the consensus is that women do indeed hold the “power” key in the bedroom. The only person to disagree that women actually do lose their power, made it more of a moral issue and self-respect stance. Foremost, I’d hope women aren’t still sucking any Joe Schmo’s anymore. Those cave-man BJ days should’ve left the building with “free nights and weekends” cell phone plans, darling. I’m sure even “Sex and the City’s” Samantha would have burned that bridge by now. BJ’s should be a special gift along with the prized cookies. You don’t see airlines offering first-class treatment to passengers flying coach- do you? It just doesn’t happen!

So yes, oral sex with a respected partner that you know almost everything about up to or including his social, is completely your power and your choice. Even if the man makes an idiotic move by pushing your head down there, the ball’s still in your court or wherever else you’d like to put them. Women, always hold the power. If you’re having to question your morals, self-respect or if you’ll still have your power moments after the BJ is over, then his member is not something you should be putting on or into your body darling. If you’re going to do something, do it with respect for yourself and your best interests at heart. We honestly know before anything leads to a BJ if an individual is even deserving of our time, let alone oral sex. I share this knowledge because I too had to learn and go through the, “Is he worthy?” checklists in life. The entrepreneur that can offer you professional advice along with personal guidance? He has the potential of being worthy. The struggling filmmaker that wants you to pay for your own drinks on the first date, but drops sexual innuendos in initial conversations doesn’t even deserve a text back much less a BJ.

The topic lingered in the back of my mind for a few days, and I couldn’t help but to ask the only person I would consider doing or performing anything with at this point:

Me: When a woman gives you a BJ, is she giving you her power?

“Minnesota”: “…You only give what you want when you want to.”

There you have it. You give what you want, when you want to ladies. I personally never give away my power in the bedroom. I give love, and I may submit because I fancy the dominance of an Alpha-male’s authority. But to willingly give away my power, that is something I cannot see myself doing. Someone once told me, “You can make a man think he has the power by letting him win, but in the end you’re the one who actually won because you had the power to let him win in the first place”. I like to win. BJ or no BJ, it’s my choice and my power.

Don’t suck just any lollipops dolls! Find your worthy, favorite and save your mouth power for that one, or none at all!

With Love,



Drugstore Vs. Department Store Makeup

The past couple of days of my life have been on more Red Bulls than snow on the ground. I don’t know what the hell is going on but things are moving at a rapidly fast pace, so much that I now find myself up at 2 in the morning when I have a client scheduled this afternoon (nice). Not the time for an insomnia attack. One week life is moving turtle-slow, the next you’re wishing things slow down!


For those of you thinking this post was going to be just about makeup, there are great finds in the drugstores but there is nothing like department store makeup. The end, now move along honey. Those of you that know me by now, know that it isn’t just about the makeup here. There’s always more to it. Lets be honest with one another: If we could afford only department store makeup, would we ever consider drugstore lines? Or for my “Well, there’s good finds in the drugstores” ladies, who would you marry? Say for instance, Mac and Target (makeup not the entire store) propose to you. You’d take that Mac ring and give the forehead kiss to Target. Sorry, but not sorry!

I attended a skincare training on Tuesday, and guess where the instructor happened to be from? Minnesota! Of all the states, cities, and metropolitan areas a skincare instructor could come from they had to pull her from Minnesota right? Just my luck! (For you newbies, Minnesota is where my “heart throb” is.) I’ve been tight-lipped on spilling the tea about “Minnesota” after the whole Vegas ordeal because as any girl would be, I was kind of heartbroken walking around like life was peachy. Inside, it was utter torture. “Minnesota” and I met, kissed in Vegas and the rest was history! So automatically I felt a kindred vibe to this instructor (not to mention her personality was so welcoming- it must be a Mid-West thing!) and felt inclined to be forthcoming about my Minnesotan Irish sweetheart.

As our instructor came around testing products on our hands, I just beckoned out all the polite questions I could about Minnesota, never really having been there. I was like a giddy kid. “Is it really, really cold? How do you guys get around? How’s the plowing over there?” I’m just all questions because I need to know! I eventually want to visit! Then she asks the question, “Do you know anyone in Minnesota?” and like word-vomit, I’m spilling out the word “boyfriend” like a love-sick teen (OMG). To make matters worse, she announces to the whole entire training room about how she and I were talking about my boyfriend in Minnesota…blah, blah, blah. Instantly, I was over-the-top embarrassed. If I didn’t have so much melanin in my skin I would’ve turned bright red at that very moment. “Oh my God,” I thought to myself. I just put my foot entirely in my mouth. I could feel the room instantly getting hotter and my temperature rise at the thought of “boyfriend” echoing around the room. “What the fu*k did I just say?” I felt my boss behind me, burning eyes into the back of my head saying, “B*tch that is not your “boyfriend“. I spent the entire next day freaking out. One thing I dislike is my character on the line. Am I optimistic or delusional? I start questioning every choice I’d ever made that morning. I’m not a habitual liar, especially not about any damn man. Ask me why I’m late, the answer is always traffic even when it was indeed my makeup routine. But other than that, I try to keep a pretty clean mouth.

So there I am, walking around devastated thinking my boss will out me or question my trustworthiness because I spewed out the damn word “boyfriend”. It was 9 am in the morning, way too early for my liking. Now that I look back, yes there are a ton of other things I could’ve named him but definitely not boyfriend. For one thing, I’m pretty sure I’m passed the boyfriend age. At some point in a girl’s life, the term “boyfriend” is null and void. If he isn’t your man by now, have several seats darling. I had to do something. I racked my brain trying to figure out how the hell to pull myself out of this, so the best scenario was to actually just talk to him about it. The truth is Minnesota and I are indeed in a really good space. After sending him a message via Facebook with three simple words, asking for his number, almost immediately he replied back to me. I asked my two-year old cousin if I should text him. In the most innocent voice she responded, “Uh-huh.” I couldn’t resist. At two-years old she is definitely too pure to steer me wrong.

Once we left Vegas, things (I) got crazy, and we took a break. A much appreciated break I can look back and say to not only him but myself, “I made a mistake.” Like the gentleman he is, he welcomed me back with long-distance open arms. I’ve dated, hit on guys, and extended myself to other possibilities but he is my virtual ‘sigh of relief’. This is a man I can express my business plans to and have him give me crucial feedback, send all my naked ‘selfies’ and receive rather intimate ones in return, or I can call and vent to about anything and receive a level-headed response. Yes, I immaturely threw out the word “boyfriend”, but he is not far from it either. I’ve dated guys after him that weren’t worthy of even knowing my panty size, so I began to withhold more and more of myself to undeserving pieces of meat (literally). I don’t need a man looking at me expecting sex. That’s another ship that has sailed. When a man flies you out to Vegas for your very first date and single-handedly sweeps you off of your feet, it’s going to take a lot of persuasion to get to know me on a physical level.

Minnesota is not my boyfriend, but he is definitely department store makeup. He gets me, he has my color and is worth the investment. I came across an article that talked about not being emotionally available for a relationship, and I honestly feel that is very much-so me. I think I want a relationship until I actually get into one, and I’m draining myself entirely into it. Not only am I not emotionally available but partially physically as well. I don’t want “Friends With Benefits”, and I don’t want to jump into another situation where I’m giving so much to my personal life that I’m losing and sacrificing my professional one. He and I talked for an hour about what we want and he honestly admitted he jumped into a situation with me, yet ironically I couldn’t admit to him that I did the same thing. I broke up with an ex in August and was seeing Minnesota by October. Did I really give myself the time to heal? Or did I rush into something not wanting to be alone? We jumped into something and I know I fell, but I’ve never thrown around the “L” word to him (Bye ship!). He is not my boyfriend, but he, I still believe to this day is my soul mate. Until I meet someone else to prove me wrong, I will continue to wait and focus my energy on my passion. He upped the ante of what a gentleman should embody and the level of support you should receive from said “boyfriends”. You never know, sometimes life just blesses you with an “Ante Upper”, and Minnesota could be just that. Once you find the right shade of department store makeup, drugstore foundation just doesn’t feel the same. I simply refuse to sleep with anymore drugstore makeup, so I’ll continue holding out for that department store quality.


Say “No!” to drugstore boyfriends. Save your “cookies” for department store ones.


Fashionably Yours,