We all have questions and need advice, but sometimes the pseudo therapy in the Instagram stories of astrology girlies doesn’t cut it. Or maybe the gate-keeping culture of adventure bros has you fearing the judgment that comes with revealing yourself as a newbie at anything. This monthly advice column exists to hold space for you and your Boulder queries (especially the uncool ones).
How do you dump a psychology Boulder girlie?
You are wise to tread cautiously, because they are hot but they are a LOT. Maybe you weren’t deep enough in your “evolved masculine” era to handle this maxi skirt-wearing, possessor-of-literally-every-single-Yogi-tea goddess who regularly murders fuckboys by psychoanalysis. Or maybe you weren’t a fan of how she clocked your OCD after you started twitching when the yoga teacher forgot to do the left side of a sequence? Either way, you can’t dump a Boulder psychology girl without her journaling the ever living shit out of you so hard that you can feel it, even underneath the pile of women you can pull by using the words psychology-girl taught you.
The secret is that Boulder psychology girlies are all not-so-secretly tarot girlies. Rig the Rider-Waite deck so she keeps drawing The Lovers and The Tower consecutively. Hopefully she’ll take the hint and break up with you in an emotionally articulate yet deeply confusing voice note, leaving nothing but the stains of her tea tree essential oil on your pillowcase.
How do you stop waiting for someone?
Let’s say instead of waiting to receive true love from a CU grad student obsessed with his ex in NYC, you are waiting on a dear friend. You and bestie are running late for the 8:30 Vinyasa Flow I class at Yoga Pod, but bestie prioritized getting Ozo’s and flirting with the barista, as if Luigi’s Italian error taught us nothing, and now you can’t even track her location because her phone died. If you keep waiting, the only spot left will be directly in front of the instructor with your yoni as the central attraction (or maybe you want that, cool!)
Should you keep waiting on this person, or should you leave a note and get spots in the back for both of you? This was going to be an analogy for why you shouldn’t wait for a fuckboy, but…you absolutely must wait for bestie, and do the walk of shame to the front of the class together. As for the other type of waiting, it’s not that they won’t come around, because they might. It’s just the time you lost waiting.
How do I get my housemates to pick up their crap and keep our house clean?
The Boulder Creative Housing Facebook page remains the sole marketplace for finding people with delusional expectations for living situations (“Transcendent communal living?” In this economy?) who will also pay a lot for a moldy sublet. Who would've thought a white man with dreadlocks who lists his profession as soul doula/entrepreneur/crypto king might be a shitty person to live with?
Nothing will ruin their shift at Native Roots like your message in the group chat asking to schedule a house meeting guided by the principles of kind and direct communication <3. At the meeting, you can break the news that your landlord (which is really you, but you lie about owning the house because who wants that type of dynamic, ya know?) will no longer accept payment in Bitcoin from renters who leave their shit everywhere. Yeah it’s a weird rule, but hey, you don’t make ’em.
Is it weird to still be friends with all my exes?
There are two reasons you could be asking this question. The first is that you’re pulling a not-too-subtle humblebrag, my friend. Honestly, no shame — these are heavy times and we can all be forgiven for doing the whole “Is it weird that I’m a dirtbag climber but also a well-paid coder?”
The answer to both questions is no, it’s not, and like, go fuck your … I mean, leave some for the rest of us. Not all of us can maintain civil joint-custody arrangements for monsteras.
The second is that your current partner has mentioned that it’s “kinda weird that you’re friends with all your exes lol,” and you’re looking for validation from a fake advice columnist with questionable tastes in personal grooming and in men. Are we talking about friends who occasionally send each other memes or Kyle Lipton reels? Super normal! Or are y’all the kind of friends who go out to breakfast at Lucille’s, i.e. an intensely romantic experience that come-to-think-of-it is pretty inappropriate? It might be time for a *puke* conversation about boundaries.
My long term partner ended things to get back with his ex-wife. Now what?
Now what? Honestly, just freak out. Freak. The. Fuck. Out. Become Diane Keaton in a Nancy Meyers movie and throw a salad on the floor and tear off your beige linen pants and run bare-assed down the street. This is almost literally the worst heartbreak that can happen, so become like the archetypes in The Women Who Run with Wolves and howl at the fucking moon. Haven’t read it? I’m sure a Boulder psychology girlie could lend you hers.