Just slow my gosh darn roll! It’s a saying.  My kids use it, I think. They also called me, “savage” the other day. Not so sure that’s a good thing. But whatever. And how about “lit”, is that a positive adjective? Let me use it in a sentence for ya, “Mom, my friends at school think you’re totally LIT.” Hmm. Again, I question its exact connotation….but hey, I aim to please! But I got this “slowing your roll” phrase down! It means to ease your shit up, slow your ass down…stop moving into everything so dang fast. And for the love of all things holy STOP FALLING IN LOVE SO QUICKLY! Phew.

Ya, just gotta slow my damn roll, Cowgirl.

But really, how do are you supposed to move slowly when the guy is doing everything in his power to make you WANT HIM so damn bad? 


Can’t live with them.

Can’t live without them.

Can’t kill them.

But fuck sometimes, I wish I could.


So, I have dated some of the worst…and some of the best. Good ones, and bad. And I just keep on trucking. I keep on putting myself out there, hoping that one day I will find my “plus-one”. That awesome guy that I can just hang out with. The one fella that just gets my shit, and thinks I’m cool. Wants to be around me for a while, or long enough to have dinner and sex. Jeez, is it that hard? I think not. But hey! For some reason, it is. And that’s ok, really! Not a problem. I’m not going to settle for just anyone. I mean, why would I? At this point in my life, I know exactly what I want. I have list in my head, and I am checking off the boxes. What? You aren’t? Well, you should. Have a cat? Out. Have a gun? Done. Have a small dick, and a bad attitude? Fuck it. I am not wasting my time anymore. I swear, I think I’m going to start my very own dating site. The Truth Hurvitz-Men.com. Just for me. I’m accepting applications now. Ha.





out of


fucking mind…

Oh, wait, that’s me. I’m the one that thought I was “in a relationship” when I wasn’t. Right. Moi. Crazy, party of one. But hey, at least I can admit I’m nuts! I know I have a screw loose. I can laugh at myself, and joke about my spaz-like qualities. Can you? I think, the girls that know they’re coo-coo are actually in fact, the non-crazies. It’s the ones that get all fucking defensive when you call them out…those are the REAL nut jobs. Those chicks? Bunny-boilers. Run like the wind from those tarts. Men, try using this tactic as a litmus test for psychoses, ok? When you take a women out on a first date, simply ask her if she’s off her rocker. Ya…go ahead! Tell her Hurvitz told you to do it! I’m sure you won’t offend her, she’s surely heard worse. And depending on her immediate response, you’ll smell the insanity!

I was having this exact discussion with a guy I found on Tinder! He does it. He tests for crazy. He is the one that actually told me about it, and I should probably give him props. But fuck him, we ended up getting in a little tiff. He called me crazy. So no royalties; I am stealing his stupid fucking “Crazy Test”. Obviously, I just did. Done. And I just named it, and wrote about it…and the real point of all this jibber-jabber is that I am back on Tinder. Follow me? Good. After the bullshit I’ve been through over the past few weeks, I have decided that the best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else. Do not judge. I clearly could care less what you think, or I wouldn’t be sharing my plan of attack. Plan of attack. Ha. I sound like a psycho.

But have all y’all seen Tinder lately?

Married men looking for “discreet women”. Polygamists searching for “wives” to add to their “happy homes”. Guys looking for “friends with benefits”. Men with rulers showing the length of their members. Yup, you heard me. Just this morning I came across a profile with a picture of a ruler, that said “8 inches”. (She said came across) Ha. Pun totally not intended, but it just fit so nicely didn’t it? And these guys think WE are the crazy ones? That WE are the nuttier of the genders? Holy Fuckballs, guys. Give it up. You must be drinking the crazy juice, because there is nothing more insane than the shit going down on Tinder! It’s a dating site…I am simply trying to find a nice boy to have lunch with. Share a little conversation, have a cup of coffee. My finger is throbbing from swiping left. Left, left…left. Loser, loser…and LOSER.

Ok, that was harsh.

I shouldn’t be so Judgy Smurf. Perhaps there are women out there that are looking to fuck married men. Or that are interested in being with a guy that has 3 other wives. Who am I to judge? Maybe, there is a woman, sitting home right now…swiping RIGHT on that guy that posted his pepe with the yardstick. Yes. She didn’t see his face, or his body. She didn’t care. No! She was just swiping right for his 8 inch cock. HA! I am laughing so hard? I swear, I can’t stop. I’m seriously imagining some asshole-chick matching up with the Penis Poster! Can’t stand it! Oy. My poor father. I have like a bazillion readers that send me messages about him. My Dad, not the Penis Poster. They want to know if he reads the blog. And the truth is, he can’t. He just can’t. How can he? He is the most supportive father in the Universe. He loves me with all his soul, but for Goddesake…I don’t think his poor heart could survive The Truth Hurvitz.

But, fingers crossed please…the pilot is done, and being shopped this summer! Whoop whoop!! I didn’t tell anyone. I am kinda keeping it a secret…just in case it all goes to shit. Which it won’t. It just can’t. I have to think positive. I have the BEST people in LA working for me. Pulling for me, and they have my back. I mean, its come this far. Omg. I’m definitely keeping it on the DL, so if it doesn’t happen I won’t feel like a total ass. But if the pilot does get picked up….my DAD WILL WATCH MY SHOW! Yep. He will. And maybe, just maybe he will be my “plus one”. Ya know, if I’m ever like famous or some shit like that. He did put up with me writing this vulgarity for the past two years. Don’t you think HE should get my “plus one”?

Hmmm. Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it. (she said come). What a dirty-girl I am today. I must have sex on my brain. Or maybe I swiped right on a new guy, and I have a hot date…after all, nothing says”over it” like a NEW man. What?! Gotta keep on fucking! Shit. I meant trucking! I totally meant trucking, yeesh. Keep on trucking! ;)

xo j






I have lines on my upper lip.

I do.

I was looking in that stupid, blow-up mirror.

I saw them.

I can’t fucking believe it…

I have those little, tiny, vertical lines on my upper-flipping lip.

Like an effin’ Bubbie that’s been sucking on a cigarette while playing Mahjong on the beach in West Palm. No offense, Sadie. I’m sure you have a perfectly good reason for just sitting there all day. Shit, who am I to judge? I sit here all day…doing nothing but slurping on Starbucks, and blogging about dumb stuff no one could possibly give a fuck about. But yes, I have lines. Little, tiny fucking lines. And I seriously want to kill myself over them. When I noticed them at first, I did a double take, I did. I called Zac into the bathroom…and I made him look. My twelve year old. And he was pissy. He was like, “Mom, are you for real? You are so weird.”  And maybe I was a little embarrassed. But then, I wasn’t. Fuck him! I have done so much for that kid. He can get up off his lazy ass, and look at my lip. I wiped his ass until he was eight.

Confirmed. He saw them. Lines. Fuck.

So, I got on the internet.

And I ordered every God damn lip product on the market. I didn’t care if it plumped, or it de-aged. Or it makes my lips fall off, I ordered it. I am not going to go down gracefully, people. I will fight to the end. No way am I dying looking like crap. I wouldn’t even look at my Grandma last week, in her coffin. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember her pretty. And youthful. And well, how I pictured her. Is that bad? I swear, those bitches at the Esteé Lauder counter used to sell my Grandma wrinkle cream, and I couldn’t believe it! And she was 90. Come on, you assholes! You can not take advantage of a little old lady like that! But you know what? She wanted it. And she loved it. And it made her feel good to use it. And at 90 years old, if she wanted Esteé Lauder wrinkle cream…then she should have it. Jeez. It’s so hard being a woman.

Maybe it’s not…

Maybe it’s me?

Maybe I just make it hard? Rhetorical.

So, I joined this new site, OKCupid. Have you heard of it? You answer all these INSANELY personal questions. And I mean, personal. Let me give you an example: You walk into a room, and see your significant other licking red wine off of another person. Do you? And then they give you four choices. One of which is to join in the fun. HA! I shit you not. This site is legit. So, I just figured, if it’s a match…it’s got to be real! Wrong. I got verbally abused, berated…and I walked out of a restaurant. Oh, and those were three different dates. Solid guys. Not. The first asshole called me a “stupid bitch” for not wanting to date him, when I realized he lived 89 miles away. He asked me why I didn’t use the “distance filter” on the website. I explained I was new, and to cut me some slack. He told me I wasted 20 minutes of his time. I told him I dodged a major fucking bullet. The next guy accused me of flirting with another guy on our date. Can you say insecure much? Fuck I don’t have enough energy to flirt with one guy, let alone two. Kiss my ass, Mr. Asian Fusion. Needless to say, I left the bar in an über. Buh-bye.

This is my life.

OkCupid, you suck balls.

Who needs you anyway? Mr. Right will find me, when I’m not even looking. That’s just how this shit happens. It’s all about timing. And I’ve got nothing but time. But I do wonder sometimes if my Mr. Right will mind the fine lines on my upper lip. Or the scars on my tits. Or the cellulite on my ass. I wonder, if he will still love me when I’m 96, buying wrinkle cream. I had a date the other night, with this charmingly handsome man. And he had the sexiest wrinkles next to his eyes. I pointed them out. I actually said, “I just love these. They are my most favorite part of a guy.” And I touched them. I think I freaked him out. But wow. Sexy. Men get hotter with age, don’t they? Maybe I’ll leave the crow’s feet next to my eyes alone. I think my Mr. Right might just like them. ;)

xo j