Lately my friends and I have been discussing the topic of how you define yourself. For me, my career defines me. Without it, I don’t know who I am. I don’t introduce myself as a Californian, an only child, an Aquarius, a patriot or a My Chemical Romance fanatic–even though I am all of those things. Instead, I say “Hi I’m Shallon, I’m a writer.”

But is this even healthy, especially in this economy? When my job(s) fluxuate (and believe me they do), so does my self esteem, in an extreme way. So what is the alternative, to define yourself by your boyfriend? Your kids? Your place in your family? That doesn’t sound much more sane.

“It’s not what you do,” my friend Marcia said, “it’s who you are and how you interact with the world that defines you.”

Uh yeah but if I’m not happy career wise, I ain’t being too sweet to the rest of humanity, TRUST.

What do you guys think? How do you define yourself?

OK enough heavy talk…vampires!!!!!

Oh mah gahhh you guyz, look where his left hand is. That lucky BITCH. I had a sex dream about him last night…there was a nuclear holocaust and I was dying and he said that he could save me but I’d have to become a vampire, and rebuild humanity somehow.

My exact words were “But you’d put your mouth on my neck, right?”

“Well…” he said, not prepared for that response, “yes but–”

“Fine. Sold. Bite away!”

Wow. I need a boyfriend.

The other night I went to an NBC press party with my darling friend Nasim, who’s on Saturday Night Live, and we ran into Mel B, aka Scary Spice. Actually, we ran into her husband, who is quite a charmer and took one look at me and said the words I’ve been waiting to hear pretty much my entire life:

“Oh damn, you have an ass like a black girl! You might be the only white girl I’ve ever said that to!”

Then he grabbed my by the hand and drug me over to Mel exclaiming, “Honey look! Look at her ass! Isn’t it just like yours?!”

“Go ahead,” I said proudly, “give it a pat–it feels even better than it looks.”

I wasn’t scurred–I do a hell of a lot of squats thanks to my trainer, Reggie Chambers. Mel and Stephan gave my fanny a little smack and declared that it was indeed as good as hers.

I think I can die happy. Srsly.

All I can think about is Eric Northman. I was actually looking for the scene from last night’s ep where he feeds on Hadley (AMAZING) but alas this will have to do.

This is just the beginning…

GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE AND AROUND MEN!

Sammy and I illin at Islands for lunch, old school UHS style. Goooo Trojans GO! (I’d print the lyrics to our fight song there if our school wasn’t so geeky and won a football game every once in awhile.)

PS, sometimes people ask if I knew any of the Laguna Beach girls since our hometowns are 10 minutes away. I say no, hell no, because as nerdy as our school was (minus the soccer boys…delish), Laguna Beach High was 1,000 times worse. Their mascot was the artists. The artists.

So embarassing.

Behold, true words from my friend Pete, who always puts things (like finding out someone that two people you truly loved are nothing but vile turds) in perspective:

But then I thought, letting go of stuff like that while painful at first, can sometimes be truly cathartic and can allow you to move on in ways you never realized before that you hadn’t. As good as he was, someone else is better. And as happy as he made you, others will make you happier.

Did you know that often, when I lose something, I don’t look for it. When it wants to be found, it will turn up. (unless it is my car keys because that is an idiotic philosophy for that sort of thing.) I think someone is going to turn up in your life when you stop trying so hard and just be. Just be you.

(stormnado, i hope you don’t mind that i put this on the internet…people just kinda need to know how awesome you are)

As if I didn’t love Tom Hardy already…

Buuuut then again the whole “Of course I’ve had sex with men, I’m an actor” thing is a liiiiiiitle creepy. I wonder if he’s a top or a bottom…? Judging by “Bronson” I’d say a top but if we’re going on “Inception”, bottom for sheezy.

Proof that we’re a Southern family–we grow tomatoes. Lots and lots of them.

(Did anyone else get the gamma phi reference here? No? Bueller?)

Please don’t sleep with my ex boyfriends.

Actually, I’m feeling generous today. I realize that I’ve dated a lot of dudes, so to steer clear of all of them might be a little taxing. So I’ll amend my rule: please don’t sleep with any of these five guys:

Ryan
Jack
Sid
Marc
Matt

Seems pretty easy. Five people out of the jillion humans populating Earth’s surface. But hey, sometimes two people meet and it’s kismet. But if you were there to witness our relationship, if you were front and center for the drama, the love, heartbreak and the misery, stay the hell away from them.

Because if you don’t…I will find you, and I will beat the living hell out of you, is that clear? I don’t care how long we’ve known each other or how far he is in my rearview mirror. You cross this Rubicon and there is no going back, not ever.

I just watched my first three minutes of Mad Men ever and I’m afraid to get into it because I’m pretty sure I’ll turn into Don Draper.

What I’m trying to say is: I’m going to start talking down to my dates.

Can’t you just picture me swirling the ice around in my glass of whiskey and saying stuff like:

“I don’t have to ask you any questions.”

“No one thinks you’re happy. They think you’re foolish.”

“Lower your voice.”

I can feel the chauvinism coursing through my veins already. Boyfriends, I apologize in advance. (Pfft, not really. Now bring me a Scotch.)

Mama and I drove up to Cal Poly today, my college, and the only thing I cared about seeing was my old ROTC building. I miss the military so much, sometimes I wish I wouldve fully joined. Its strange, out of all the things I did in college–improv, Gamma Phi, the sex column–nothing is more precious to me than Army ROTC. The building still smells like grenade powder and M-16 oil, duty, honor, and country. Hoorah!