I am so excited to announce I am officially writing a second book with Plume books!
I know it’s not proper etiquette, here, but all I want to do is put on some fierce lipstick and guzzle whiskey as I run around the city in celebration.
This second book is an important one for me. It will not be about being a 20-something. (PS If you haven’t read the first one, links are on the side you beautiful disasters.) This next book will be about being a woman, a feminist, and my own accounts of the female experience. It will be funny but it will also be extremely raw for me: I’m gonna slice myself open and write about some pretty real-ass things, some of which I was too timid to do on The Frenemy, even. But I am ready to write this book. I am pumped to write this book. I think it is something I have to do because it is nibbling in my stomach and will pop out like an alien no matter what.
And as always, I have you guys to thank again—loyal readers who were the backbone I needed to get this book proposal picked up. I love you, I love you, I love you. This is for you and I hate when people say that but I really mean it: your support has made me into a warrior, because to me, you are all warriors too.
NOW GO and drink something hard tonight to celebrate with me! I know I will, while watching the first season of the OC.
Men. Fashion icons. Men. Men who have worn button-down shirts for almost 2000 years. Men who were born wearing charity run promotional t-shirts and Heineken boxers. These are the men that have opinions on the outfits I choose to wear. According to this article on the HuffPost, these men—decked out in basketball shorts though they have not run for years—realllllly hate our clothing. They also believe that we need to hear about it. Oh! OH! Thank you, Oh Lord in And1 Sweatshirt From HS! I greatly appreciate the advice! I only dress solely for you and old people, who seem to be the most vocal about my dresses! Still, in the words of “CARRIE BRADSHAW” it got me to thinking. I’d like to explain myself. I don’t want you to think I don’t love you guys and need to look like a constant walking fuck machine for you! So I’ve come up with a counter-list, explaining why I wear the crazy trends I do:
I don’t know if you know this about me, but I LOVE makeup. I’ve been wearing eyeliner since I was 12 years old. It was bright blue and I looked like I was trying out to be a precocious best friend on a Disney Channel show.
I especially love makeup trends lately, from sharp claw-nails to bold lips and hella winged eyeliner, it’s very clear trends are more about feeling confident for yourself. No need to be conventional Maxim Mag sexy for all the men and shit! I think makeup isn’t supposed to be a way to “hide your flaws.” It’s a way to make yourself look badass. Today, I bestow my best and most special makeup tips to you (this isn’t sponsored in any way, what am I, a fucking sellout? NOPE, DAD I AM NOT):
Today is the 6 month anniversary of my book release! Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse, was released on May 7th, 2013, a special day I put on the tightest Spanx I had and tried to walk in heels. But hey, whiskey gingers abound!
I know six months doesn’t feel like a long time, especially because if this was a couple posting on Facebook I would roll my eyes to the back of my head and stare at my brain. But in bookland, this is a nice landmark!
I have experienced various changes since my first published works. For one thing, I’ve discovered “true red lipstick” looks good on me. Is this the mark of a mature woman? I sure think so! I also know that if somebody held a weapon to me and said “write 250 pages worth of content!” I could do that, although the person might need to give me a second.
Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse is in its 4th reprint, which is also pretty cool news. That means I still can go to various Urban Outfitters in NYC and find it. The last time I saw it there I was trying to find a pair of chic patterned pants that might work on me (I did not find them). A guy had put “Girl, Interrupted” on top of my book stack so I moved it. When I came back down the stairs HE HAD MOVED IT BACK! I think I have some enemies, obviously.
This is really just a note to wish myself a happy anniversary, which is selfish of me but whatever, BUT also: thanks for all the tweets, emails, instagram photos and ask box messages from you guys. They make me quite a happy camper, which is saying a lot because I do not camp and would not be happy if I did. All jokes aside, hearing that you have read and liked the book is truly a dream come true to me..although not my other dream of singing “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” with Jimmy Fallon. I have had this dream since I was 12.
I have other “things in the pipeline” that aren’t set in stone at the moment, but I’m not a head-up-my-ass blogger and I know it’s weird to like, try to pump people up and say “I’ve got some neato projects I’m excited about!” without telling what the projects are. Like, it’s YOUR LIFE you can be excited but tell us when you actually have the info! So I’ll just say that I will continue writing on the The Frenemy because free content on the Internet is exactly how I got here and I won’t forget that!
Okay. I’m done.
Also, links are on the side if you want to buy my book! So do it! Bitch has got to get that cheddar.
10 Things You Need To Do In Your Twenties (If You are a Vampire)
1. Go out to a bar on a Wednesday and meet somebody you want to kiss. You’re young! Throw caution to the wind! Grab a hold of their artery and suck the blood out of them, which feeds you, until they die.
2. Go on vacation to Europe with just a backpack. Then slaughter hundreds using your force of will and your teeth, which are actually fangs.
3. Who cares about what you look like? This is the time to be able to dress how you want: you can’t see your reflection in the mirror because you are a vampire!
4. Be so broke you can’t afford dinner. Feel alive because your checking account doesn’t have enough money to pay your credit card minimum, but you’re beautiful and experiencing things and young. You can’t even afford to get Taco Bell! Go to Taco Bell and feed on all of the employees until they are too weak to stop you from taking a satchel full of gorditas and cash.
5. Go on long drives…..BLOOD DRIVES!!!!!!!!!!!! (runs through a field of teenagers receiving well deserved high-fives) (feeds on all the teenagers)
6. Be single. Really enjoy just learning about yourself—the little rituals of coffee on the weekends, avoiding wooden stakes to the heart, dancing by yourself in the mirror, reading Twilight and laughing hysterically, turning Kristen Stewart so she understands, waiting for somebody special and worth it enough to become a maker for. DO NOT EAT GARLIC THOUGH.
7. Experiment. Heroin, Orgies, Type O Blood, Type A Blood, Feeding on an Icelandic Orphanage, EDM Music, Raves, Crop Tops, Nursing Homes. You’re immortal! Who gives a shit, baby? You have no Gods!
8. Find Yourself. Are you a sexy vampire who has lost their humanity, only to find it again through the help of a beautiful high school student? Are you another kind of sexy vampire? Are you so plot-heavy and odd you have to live in the world of True Blood? Are you a sexy vampire? That’s really the only option, unless congratulations: you find yourself and you are Nosferatu! He is very ugly!
9. Sleep the whole day away hahaha oops that’s a real 20-something!!! I really meant rip somebody’s heart out because heart blood is really delicious and so is the immense power that comes with taking somebody’s life.
10. Don’t worry about making mistakes (like the time you accidentally murdered your really cute date!). You have a whole lifetime of lifetimes to be sensible, buy and own a series of Transylvanian houses, go to sleep at sunrise, and feast upon the flesh of those who write 20-something lists. They taste the saddest :( :(
-Throw your lover in a pile of wet leaves. Cover them in wet leaves. When they ask why, tell them it’s because now they can never “leaf” you. Pick bugs and ticks out of their hair.
-Also shoving them in a pile of leaves and saying “have a nice fall” is a great and excellent joke (but not really sexy, so maybe just be wiggling your tongue around when you do it?)
-Sprawl out on a sexy couch and tell them to paint you in “this and only this” and the “only this” is your brand new peacoat from Target, your favorite infinity scarf, an adorbs floppy hat from Urban, and your best boots!
-Stick a straw in them and tell them you want to drink them up like a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Wait for this latte for 10 minutes on a Starbucks line. Throw six dollars at them. Start to do things with them, but leave them abandoned in the corner of your desk when you realize they are too sweet after all.
- Pour wax on them (while they are nude!) from all your Bath and Body Works Candles. Have them guess each scent. Teach them the various nuances in all these great scents. Do not let them eat or go to the bathroom until they can correctly identify the difference between “Sweater Weather,” “Leaves,” “Pumpkin Cookie,” “Half-Eaten Pumpkin Cookie,” and “Forget Your Past And Your Present You Are Mine Now.”
-Roleplay in Halloween costumes. Be “guy who is insufferable and decided to go as some sort of beer-themed penile costume” and cut your lover on the bathroom line and pee on your lover’s floor in a drunken state. Be “the worst kind of person” in your Miley Cyrus costume and twerk right into a two-hour long argument with yourself about race and gender relations in this country. Be a cat and question why it is considered sexy to go as an animal.
-Hocus Pocus sex game: Take off a layer of clothing every time you recite a line word for word and then when Bette Midler says BOOOOOOOOOOOOK slam a book on their genitals.
-Become a witch. Using herbs, the blood of both virgins and animals, and a hefty dose of black magic, try butt things.
-Claim eternal life: if you cover your lover in candy corn, they will never expire and can be enjoyed for years and centuries to come, although very few people will enjoy them.
-Ask your lover if you can “invite somebody into the bedroom.” Summon a vengeful child-ghost to torture you until you both go insane.
-Play “scary movie” in the bedroom: when you are about to have sex, a maniac will bust through the window and chop up your partner to bits. Not recommended.
Got some good mullin’ over questions to take a crack at (one about anxiety that I’m particularly excited to answer). Gonna try to post a video today or tomorrow—so if you have any more questions you want answered, send em over to my ask box!
I am driving down a highway somewhere through Texas. There is a large Cherry Coke in the drink holder, condensation dripping and pooling around the loose change we need for the highway. It is warm and I keep drinking it. I am lazily flipping through country station, trying to find something I can listen to or laugh at—“This one! This one is absurd. I like it. I like it.” My hums come out captive, croaky, furtive, then strong. My hand whips out the window, feeling the dirt kicked up by tires and the sun and I wave (not on my own accord but the wind!) at every Volvo and car and motorcycle that goes by. Kid presses his face to the window. I think briefly about pressing back, but lean more into the seat instead. My back hurts, my shirt is sticking slightly to the seat. I contemplate buying cigarettes and roll my neck around in an attempt to loosen it. I sing a song I don’t know I knew. “Take a left!” An impromptu exit, paved by the gods with neon signs and flickering lights. We stop into a tiny dive for some tacos, warm and soft in a place that smells like tortilla and hisses steam. The salsa drips down the corner of my mouth, hits the wooden bench (rife with splinters, I’m sure), and onto the dirt. I drink a beer, cold. Back in the car, we watch the sky turn purple-pink, our bodies hoping for showers and beds and blankets. I flip to something like Patsy Cline. I kiss him on the cheek as he drives, lean all the way over with my seatbelt still on. It will be a long night and a long drive. Later, the stars begin to race us home.
Pretty is the kind of thing that lies: it shifts from one moment to the next, with a little lipstick, with a different opinion. It starts off strong in the early morning hours, with just the right light, then falls back down with the kind of hair like bedhead and the spit around the corners of your mouth. You see yourself in a mirror as you are passing by, and you catch yourself unaware, at a different angle. Am I that beautiful? You see a picture two days later. No, I’m not that beautiful.
In the pit of your gut, you know that you are. You know you are supposed to feel ugly and sometimes you do with an unholy fire made of your rotten bones. But when it is you and your body alone, hair pulled up, you see it. You see your neck and you like its curve. It is your most shameful secret.
When I was young, when you were young, somebody told us the symmetry of your face matters. You have heard this. The more symmetrical the more beautiful, and this stuck with you. You and this idea were like gangbusters, and you carried it around in your pocket as proof positive that there was something wrong with you. Eyes too far apart. Nose too long. I hate it, I hate it! Everybody thinks I’m ugly is the lie that sprang from one comment alone. It was the focus and the bullseye. Suddenly, it became all important. Look bad? Feel bad. There is no in between if you wake up and decide to carry the hatred of your face with you everywhere. Beautiful girls carried some sort of golden orb around them, except they don’t think they are beautiful and neither do you. Beautiful girls don’t universally exist—they float and hop from girl to nose to breast to eye and they are you and they are everybody else.
It’s not all that matters, the beauty. It matters least.
There is so much more depth to the ocean than its surface, and if you don’t know that you drown and you are also a fool. There is so much more to you than the lipstick, then the contempt you feel for the way you carry it, for your downward lips. I am so tired of telling you that you are your brain and your laugh and your nerves and your smell and your smarts and your wits and your blood.
I write this because, oh boy, am I tired. I am tired of hearing my cries, your cries, that somehow being pretty is all there is. The only answer. The only solution. I am tired of hearing that your bright eyes during a good day and your smile during your birthday and your hair getting tangled up in a hug aren’t beautiful. I am tired of the lack of symmetry: you against thousands of opinions, against a thousand of your own demons. Remember the moments you feel beautiful. Hold them like a knife you hide from view—let it be not a secret, but your most dangerous truth.
You are not just your face. You should feel beautiful against the world who is expecting you not to. Still:
I’m worried that I might not wake up tomorrow. I worry that I can die, will die, am dying. I worry that my alarm won’t go off, that I left the oven on, that the door is unlocked, that the sound I hear is somebody coming inside to hurt me. I worry that in the morning I won’t know what to wear, that my hair won’t look good, that it will rain and I won’t have an umbrella, that it will be cold and I won’t have a jacket, that I will take a jacket and it will be a nuisance to carry around.
I’m worried somebody is following me home, that my family is sick, my love will leave me, that I’m getting fat, that I’m getting a cold, that my hair might fall out, that I have psoriasis, that I am living undiagnosed with something awful, that my credit card won’t work when the cashier swipes it through, that I will spill on myself. I’m worried the person next to me on the train is talking about me, that my friend thinks what I’m saying is stupid, that I am wasting my youth, that I drink too much, that I will never achieve my ambitions, that I will never travel, that I will die traveling. I’m worried because I leave the house less, I’m worried this means I have to leave the house more. I’m worried because I don’t know what it all means and I don’t know where I left my favorite necklace so I have to get up and look for it. I’m worried that I worry you.
I’m MORE than worried.
I worry about small things—like weather and if this food will give me a stomachache or if I don’t use the bathroom I’ll have to go on the ride home and I won’t be able to. I worry about big things—if the train stops in the tunnel will it blow up, who will hurt me, when will I be hurt. I worry about things I can’t control—why things I love will eventually die, why I will die, if I will die unsatisfied, if the meaning of all these things doesn’t matter because I will die. Did I leave the oven on? Do you think I sound stupid? Are you afraid too?
I’m trying an open forum for the first time here on The Frenemy. Why ?
I can’t stop thinking about sandwiches. Technically, it’s nothing new for me (current mood: grilled ham and cheese on cranberry-walnut bread) but I’m talking specifically about this story.
So this girl starts a blog because her boyfriend, who seems to be a real human and not a chimpanzee or a goblin prince, jokes (?) she’s “300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring” and she takes it as the honest gospel. “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED,” she thinks, and starts a blog about it—crisp photos and little quips about fighting and diets and vacations and MTV—all the while making many a grilled cheese and panini to foccacia her way towards a rightful place on the wedding throne. Her boyfriend doesn’t seem to be FORCING her to do this, like many significant others don’t seem to try to force or even stop many of the stupid blogs that exist on the internet. She doesn’t seem to feel all that pressured to get married, even. It seems to me she created a crafty blog with a weirdo point and book-deal-wheels-spinning, and the whole thing gives me a massive headache.
Why people are angry:
1) Sandwiches have a sordid history of horrible punchlines and Spencer’s Gifts t-shirts. “Make me a sandwich” is another way of saying “I’m a shockingly unoriginal human being who isn’t quite ready to mature into adulthood/2013 now pour me a Miller Lite! It’s 5’oclock somewhere!” *smashes beer can on head as he abandons his children and stares at boobs*
2) The boyfriend calls her “Babes” (this is specifically infuriating to me, as I think everybody is entitled to call their significant other mind-blowingly stupid shit behind closed doors, but put it on the internet and you look like a doofus)
3)The guy seems like a jerkoid. Like, I get it’s a joke that he wakes up and says stuff like “you haven’t made me a sandwich yet?” but it’s a stupid and antiquated one.
4) Women doing anything specifically for the goal of “getting married” is a touchy subject that most independent humans are wont to avoid.
But is it REALLY that bad? Right now, people are pummeling this girl on the internet, and I’m not sure it’s entirely fair. For one thing, she’s not going all Real Housewife Melissa Gorga and barfing up horrible advice for money. She’s not promoting marriage or sandwich-making. She’s simply one girl who wants to get married and wants to make sammies for her boyfriend and take pictures of the sammies and eat them and maybe get some fans for it.
As a feminist, I spend plenty of time trying to pick apart the media and my decisions and other people’s decisions to make sure there’s no hidden misogynistic meaning behind it all. But I think there’s always going to be a thin line of “making sure there’s no hidden misogynistic meaning behind it all” and “letting a woman make her own decisions about her life.” Lots of women want to get married. Lots of women want to cook for those they love. I am one of those “lots of women.” I am also a feminist. As a human, I wouldn’t start a blog about 300 sandwiches to get me to marriage. As a feminist, I think we sometimes need to be more lenient to those who don’t subscribe to our exact beliefs. She’s an NYC career woman who blogs about her thoughts. She’s not a cavewoman. She’s not helpless. She’s putting up with a lot of criticism.
I don’t even truly know how I feel about all this. If my best friend REALLY wanted me to make her 300 sandwiches—and then she’d take me on vacation—I’d think about doing it. Would that make me it any different if there was a different agenda? What might bother me the most is how willing we all are to skewer this woman. I think we’ve labeled her as one of the “wrong thinkers” because of some of her lifestyle choices don’t make sense to us. Her biggest problem? She wants to get married really badly to a guy who we think isn’t funnycolumnist. She might not be the headliner for a feminist movement, but I don’t think she needs to be burned at the steak sandwich, either (Carrie Bradshaw pun points!)
I’m really torn about this, which is why I’m coming to you. EDIT: Ahh, the old pub stunt. That makes the most sense to me—nowadays people are always about starting blogs with schticks. Like, isn’t there a binders full of women coffeetable book?
1. Candles that smell like: People jumping into leaves, pie, sweaters covered in pie, cinnamon leaves, babies in Halloween costumes, tea-stained pie sweaters, air swirling with leaves that land on your sweaters (Cost-the amount it costs to eat for a week)
2. Sweaters: long sweaters, sweaters that give you a skin disease because they itch so much but look cute, sweaters that make you look like you have no hands, striped sweaters that make your boobs look like circus tents, sweaters that cover your entire body in a false sheath of coziness (Cost- double the amount I spent last year even though I already have about 80 sweaters in the bottom of my closet)
3. THE latte we all know what LATTE I am talking about it’s the one everybody craps their pants about and tastes FINE (Cost-6 dollars a day just to text my friends I’m drinking a latte that tastes like potpourri)
4. Apple Products: NOT the stupid iphone I’m talking about the fruit. So fucking go ahead and put an apple in it. I don’t care how you do it JUST DO IT, BATH AND BODY WORKS(Cost-averages to about 4 dollars a day of my hard-earned money to smell like a fruit)
5. Pumpkin Products: Similar idea. Pumpkin soap, pumpkin toilet paper, pumpkin lotions, pumpkin tampons, pumpkin enemas, pumpkin bread, pumpkin nail polish, pumpkin children, pumpkin shampoo (Cost-I probably own enough pumpkin products to be able to afford a reasonably-sized condo in Boca)
6. Boots. God, I need boots. Like, a new pair of boots. And maybe a brown pair too because that will go with more of my more adult outfits. And I want a pair of combat boots but I can’t wear those to work so I have to get, like, the little ones with the cute heels. I think they are called shooties. I need a bunch of shooties and some combat boots and maybe those adorbs loafers (Cost—40000 dollars if I manage to go to a Target, double that if I don’t)
7. Halloween Costume I don’t want to wear because I feel like I’m getting older but I am not totally ready to accept that fact yet, so (Cost—5 bucks for some fake blood or some weirdo eyelashes)
8. Nail Polish in dark mauve like every fucking year that’s the “COLOR” to get and it is always the same except when it’s a grayish black (Cost—I don’t effing know some nail polish is like a dollar and others is like 10 and they all will suck)
9. Where are all my socks to go with the boots? I have to buy more socks. I lost all my socks. Somebody stole all my socks! (Cost—whatever the price is as long as I don’t have to clean my room)
10. I need to watch Hocus Pocus. I don’t care if I need to get cable, buy it for 3 bucks at the store or climb down your chimney and steal yo Netflix. I need to watch it 30 times, and I need to sing along with Bette Midler during “I Put A Spell On You” (Cost—many nights out with friends because I stay home and watch it for the billionth time)
11. Tights. I want to go on a real honest rant about tights in this space here. Tights are very expensive for how they function ie THEY WEAR OUT AFTER ONE TIME ON THE BODY. How IS IT that I shell out like, ten bucks minimum or 16 at Topshop for a piece of crap that tears in half the moment my toe moves? They should be free. They should be in a big garbage bin like “take this piece of crap, it’s brand new but in tights world that means “practically ruined.” We are a nation of technology. Shouldn’t there be some space material by now that prevents this? If I spent my money on a liberal arts college I WILL spend my money on that.(Cost—all of my cash and my sanity)
12. An infinity scarf doesn’t cost infinity dollars, but at Urban Outfitters it’s like 30 which is basically the same thing. (Cost—at least 2 Tumblr followers for this stupid joke)
13. Ingredients for baked goods. I am planning on making an apple pie a day for the month of October, maybe stuffed inside a gingerbread or pumpkin cookie. Perhaps an apple tower. I love fall. I want to eat everything in the fall. I need to take a picture of pastries for my Instagram. I need to gram this. Apple Cheesecake with a graham cracker crust. I need to buy pants in hunter green and maroon. I LOVE FALL!!! *Jumps into pile of leaves, gets eaten by rats and dies because it’s New York City*
"Throwback SATURDAY" to a time when I could drink whiskey with reckless abandon and not have to complete deadlines (just a couple of weeks ago).
Working on a big-ole-project I gotta keep zippo about but it’s strapped me to my shitty Mac that should have broken two years ago. It is SO BAD when my old apartment got robbed the thief left it even though it was left out on my bed. External keyboard? You betcha.
Hopefully I will have updates soon because I am very excited but until then, do me a favor and have a great Saturday night. When you’re out listening to Ke$ha or some shit just picture me in my billion-year-old sweatshirt, wearing MAC lipstick and watching Fatal Attraction in order to be inspired by a bad bitch.
Leave me a message if you feel lonely. I know ma girls can rock a Netflix night in like no other, and I might start procrastinating and answering questions tonight—especially if I start dipping into the Cabin Fever Maple Whiskey.
It is crazy to me that perfectly healthy, beautiful women are told to change their bodies because some dude who reads The Swimsuit Issue doesn’t want to fuck them (but still feels like they have the right to)
Enough of this “I miss the ’90s!!” nostalgia bullshit. You were eight: you had two friends and almost no long-term memory. College was full of vomit and Red Bull and making out with smellies and too many gummy bears and all nighters. Now we’re adults and sure, we’ve got to pay bills. Cry into your whiskey like an adult, because there are plenty of things that I can do now that I sucked at five years ago. And they improve my life immensely:
Sleek cat-eye liner. I can do that shit in my sleep or while I eat men alive.
Plucking my thick Brooke Shields eyebrows with precision
Making dinner. You got pasta? You got a fucking vegetable? You got olive oil? YOU GOT THIS.
Not doing laundry and still being able to put together some mad cute outfits
Making 20 dollars last an entire week
Cleaning my bathroom ie like doing it every once and a while. That shit is dank and in college the world of Avatar took place in my showerhead, I think.
Sleeping in. I may not do it as much but I cherish every moment of sleeping in like it’s fucking Stuart Little and I am responsible for keeping the only mouse baby in the world alive.
Drinking rum without yakking everywhere
Getting drunk on a Tuesday and still being able to function the next day
Taking control of and liking my body. Like, boo fucking hoo my thighs exist: how about I just put them in some tight-ass jeans and sashay around anyway
Looking for a partner that resembles more of a “somebody who respects you and you can mutually grow with” and less of a “Shawn Hunter fantasy”
Choosing the correct television show to waste an entire day on
Reading more books
Spending a long weekend with my parents and really appreciating their central air and proximity to Target
Being able to buy the nicer body wash or whiskey or LBD because I earn money and can decide what to do with it
Keeping up with the friends who matter and disposing of “the basic bitches”
Rihanna is SO much better now!
Letting stupid comments roll off my shoulder and developing a tough but malleable skin that loves Pumpkin Spice Lattes and hugs but doesn’t take no shit
Allowing positivity to define me instead of the usual cynical mantras
Recognizing I will always like the Internet and singing in my mirror and watching Mulan and that’s not fucking childish it is who I AM
Realizing feminist isn’t a curse world and this doesn’t have to be a man’s world if me and my friends have a say about it *rolls up sleeves*
Caring about OTHER people’s interests and listening and not just waiting to speak: ie recognizing nobody wants to hear a detailed play by play of a nightmare you had yesterday
Knowing the difference between “leather jacket and spike accessories to create a cool edgy look” and “looking like the recently deceased”
Cooling it with the “we HAVE to go out tonight” crap
Knowing when is the right time to: cry, get sucked down a Youtube rabbit hole, ask for help
As I stated before, August 23rd is my 25th birthday.
Wanna give me a gift?
Send me a photo of you saying hi in the reply section below! A drink or food thing in your hand is optional but encouraged. I love you guys a lot, and nothing would make my day more than seeing your faces wishing ME ME ME all about ME a happy birthday.
So go ahead and send me those sexy selfies! I’m going to check them at 12am cuz I stayed in tonight watching Netflix and painting my nails seafoam colors. Also whatever, let’s not turn over a new leaf, I’m an old dog!
I really enjoy my stretch marks and I think you should, too.
I have them right on my hip area, and they look like weirdo spiderwebs or veins or tattoos and you can see them better when I tan. They feel raised when you lightly run your fingers over them. They are born from the resilience of my body: pull me and I do not break. People say they look ugly but I say hey, what do you know, dude? They may not be on magazine covers, but who are you to tell me my flesh needs approval? They’re the closest things I have to scars. Well, I have a scar on my chin and one on my knee but I’m about to jump into a metaphor here, so excuse me: they are brushstrokes, they are the lines of my memories, they are my palm’s imprint on my hips.
Scars come from a place of pain and then they blossom into pages of your history—ink that does not fade, roots; they are your roots. But like all things that become scars, they heal and fade and always, always remain. I remember the way I was. I remind myself of who I choose to be now. And now, I choose to love them because they are a part of me. Lots of women I respect and admire have them. Lots of women have their scars in a web around their hips. We are a temple to the spiders in the closet, of the dark corners we choose to build homes out of.
This was an ode to stretch marks. I let them remain as I reminder. And I will invite them in.
I'm starting high school this week, and was wondering if you have any tips for freshmen?
Ah. High School. The start of tough skin. Now this is advice for your whole life, really, but I learned most of it when I was 16.
Hold your ground. Let a song change your life. Eat breakfast. Paint your nails blue. Let a book change your perspective. Sometimes you just got to get in a car, ride into the sunset, and stick your hand out the window. Let a kiss feel like an explosion. Cry. Apologize. Cry again. Put yourself out there. Sleep in on Sundays. Eat at diners with friends as much as possible. Wallow just a bit and then stop. Don’t drink and drive. Be a kid when you can. Keep your socks in pairs. Learn how to do laundry. Learn a little bit of another language. Don’t let your parents catch you drink out of milk cartons. Do your homework. Prom dresses will always look the same. Never spread rumors. Be creative with metaphors. Don’t call somebody fat or a slut or gay as a way to insult. Buy cheap jewelry. Hair grows back. Get a job. Try speaking in public. Eat dinner with your family sometimes. Call your grandmother. Watch tons of movies with tons of popcorns. Have a bunch of crushes. Get let down and learn from it. Don’t let anybody tell you who you are. Learn history. Doodle. Make friends with somebody who doesn’t have many. Don’t be a bully. You’re not ugly. Admit your mistakes. Write down important information, such as your locker combination. Write shitty poetry. Feel as much as you can. Wash your gym clothes frequently. Take pictures. Eat ice cream.
1. Need to burn your house down? Try making a fucking panini with your iron YEAH that’s gonna work it all seemed so simple and now everybody in my dorm is covered in Kraft singles and is also dead
2. Wanna make a grilled cheese? Stop making it with an iron or with a curling iron and make it with a fucking pan that is a LIFEHACK enough
3. Need to eat a pile of slop in a mug? Microwave a bunch of shit in a mug and there you go voila some dog crap in a mug that was supposed to be an omelette
4. Want to lose two hours of your life and cover your floor in nail polish? Yeah go ahead with your gigantic hubris and attempt to do cool nail art with Scotch tape. Let’s see how that turns out for you, you delusional egomaniac.
4. Need to cover your entire house in paint and decorate it with the sound of your screams just because you wanted a “cool” “DIY garbage can?” Oh you need a cool DIY garbage can, you fucking loser?
5. You: “Oh, my closet is so messy and huge” 1st of all check your rich privilege and 2nd of all go ahead and take some shower curtain rods and some hangers and smash one of your walls in and then you can have a second closet for all your precious Wet Seal camis and all your precious “THRIFTED” Betsey Johnson purses. So easy to hold onto high school memories, isn’t it? It’s easy to feel like your life is spiraling out of control, isn’t it?
6. Got a wine stain? Dying of cholera? Need to take off your mascara? It’s pretty simple: Take some vinegar and shove it up your ass, because you don’t have vinegar in your house and so you’ll just go out and BUY SOME and then you should just buy the PRODUCT THEY ALREADY MANUFACTURE SPECIFICALLY TO FIX YOUR PROBLEM.
7. Sick of losing things? Take literally everything you own and stick a magnet on it and then buy a 30 foot fridge and stick it on there and you wasted your whole weekend on this whole project to do this? “Oh what did you do this weekend?” “Oh I put magnets on my bathroom wall to easily store my bobby pins” “So you do know our time on Earth is limited, right?”
8. Just pour chalkboard paint fucking everywhere and write over it all and tie all things you have with ribbons you cutesy gingham psycho
9. Messy pile of wires? Chew your way through them and then you’ll electrocuted, never to worry about a thing again.
10. Need to open a bottle of wine without a bottle opener? Just get a string, the will of man, pull the sword out of the stone, smash it on the ground, lick the shards of glass, and get the FUCK OUT OF DREAMLAND. Look yourself in the eye, man. You’re never gonna open it, man!
11. WHAT EVEN THE FUCK, BUZZFEED.
11. Just buy gosh damn key covers they are 10 CENTS EACH
7:23: Get home. Rip off skirt immediately, place hair in messy top bun, and of course it looks good because nobody will ever see it.
7:26: Open pantry. “What will I make for dinner?” Contemplate over handfuls of apple chips, the new snack in a line of constant “guess I’ll have to buy this one because it has 30% less fat than potato chips.”
7:35: Decide to order food on Seamless. It’s a treat. “I saved so much money because I am not buying drinks.” Imagine a cute little scene—sitting on the couch, eating Pad Thai with Tofu out of the container. So cozy. So vintage.
7:56: Don’t want Pad Thai. Have been on Seamless for an hour. Don’t really want pizza or Mexican. Don’t know what other kind of food somebody can order. Think of the cream cheese in my fridge. Will make cream cheese + something.
8:35 Delves into Spotify. What kind of music does one listen to? Cruise Lana Del Ray but no go. Macklemore it is. It’s okay. A little catchy, actually. Contemplate making a funny tweet like “who wants to go see RIPD with me? Wanna catch it before Oscar Season.” Don’t.
8:58: Laboriously make an egg. Big deal, making an egg. Making an egg and some vegetables. Jesus Christ, aren’t we all growing up. Yolk on chin is noted.
9:14: Eat egg with siracha. Catch up on the Internet. Jezebel, popular blog about 40 days of dating, huff post article about Miley twerking, Facebook status about getting engaged, brunch menu. Still waters on a Friday.
9:26: Pee with the door open.
9:37: Drink Number One. Whiskey, Coke, Birth Control. I call it the “Joke I Can’t Quite Land.”
9:59: Not drunk but totally acting out what a photoshoot might be like if the photographer played Kanye West the whole time. Sing Cups.
10:05 Not drunk but photos because I am a powerful, beautiful wolf
10:36: Drink #2. Literally take the garbage out so I can feel better about this whole thing.
10:38: Tweeze three eyebrow hairs for good measure.
10:42: Contemplate watching Titanic on Netflix. Decide to watch it like, 3 hours from now so I can go to bed super late and get up at 2pm tomorrow (this whole thing is subconscious). That movie only pleases me until you have to put the second VHS tape in. Then I kind of don’t want to watch it anymore.
10:47: Admire my tummy in the mirror. If only a photographer followed me around like Beyonce, I would really inspire a lot of people. Check Instagram. Speaking of Beyonce, ever since I followed Rihanna on Instagram I’ve gone on it less.
10:59. Eat chocolate while scratching my butt in the midst of a blog post. Wonder if I’ll have the strength to paint my nails tonight. Decide to start reading a book. Lay on my bed like it is an island. Like I am the beached whale on the island. I’m so tired, but I bet I’ll never fall asleep, said me and an entire generation.
1. If we refer to them as cat calls, why not hiss back or perhaps mark your territory by pissing on the personage of those doing the calling?
2. If somebody asks you if you’re “on your period,” because you are expressing an emotion, ask them if they wanna see. Because it seems to me they want to see. Proceed to chase them around while chucking half-masticated Entemann’s coffee cake, covered in nacho cheese sauce and your own Bravo-induced tears. Throw used or unused tampons and pads at them. Punch them and say “It’s YOUR time of the month now.” Assume they know “time of month” in this case means “broken nose.” This works extra well because of the blood, you know, like menstrual blood. Don’t put me away, judge! I’m an emotional wreck!
3. Need the perfect bikini body? Ever seen the movie Troy with Brad Pitt? An homage to perhaps the greatest film in recent history, gather all your girlfriends in a 50 foot woman with Kim Kardashian proportions. Slap a large monokini on her. Walk casually into a beach and then break out of it with your normal, already fantastic bikini bodies. Hand everybody a baby bottle and go “Is the baby afraid of a teensy eensy bit of fat? Does baby need a bottle?” and then have a great time at the beach. This idea will feature a verse by Flo.Rida.
4. When somebody makes a particularly good observation, like how all women are (emotional, needy, etc). Nod in fervent agreement. Look them in the eye and maniacally smile for no less than eight hundred seconds. Grab them by the shoulders and begin to shake them, remarking that “nobody has ever phrased a sentence either more beautifully or more accurately.” Hug them close to you, almost as if you’ll never let go. Promise you will become their agent and get them many TED talks. Send them an e-mail affirmation EVERY DAY of their extreme knowledge and genius. Marvel in the joy of creation: one person has the ability to make a correct and honest assumption about an entire group of people. What a true gift! Hold a Daniel Tosh.0 themed parade in their honor.
5. Asking for it? Ladies, Gentlemans, and Others: I have your official list of “THINGS THAT I AM ASKING FOR WHEN SOMEBODY SAYS I WAS ASKING FOR IT” Please note them in your diaries, as there will be a test on this. We are asking for: 40 thousand dollars in an unmarked bag, a parade of pugs in top hats, your Netflix password, to be left alone and to walk home in peace, another Iphone charger, where my remote control is, no interest on our credit cards, a reasonably priced sandwich shop located close to home, book recommendations, TO BE LEFT ALONE, the perfect maxi dress for our height, liberty and justice for all, the final season of Breaking Bad on DVD, a new laptop, stamps free of charge. That’s it. That’s all we’re asking for. The phrase is now null and void for usage in any other way, and you can’t act on that assumption unless you provide us with one of those things. Thanks for understanding!
BONUS: “Are you a feminist?” *Beats chest* “Some people just want to watch the world burn.” Then do it! Burn down the WHOLE WORLD!
When I think of the woman I want to be, I think of a cleaner floor. I think of a woman who doesn’t say “I’m sorry” when somebody bumps into her. I think of things on hangers.
Right now, there’s a lot of things on my floor, but then when I think of the girl I was five years ago: I can admit my faults and I can eat a huge unhealthy meal without feeling like barfing and collapsing on the ground, I don’t think that every bad day is the end of my world, I don’t blame myself for everything, I can weigh myself without hyperventilating, I can give love in a healthy real way, I can be alone with my anxiety and I can tame it, I can feel shitty about myself without it being a real step backwards. There’s a lesson: feeling real shitty doesn’t mean you’re relapsing into old behaviors. It means you’re a human.
I certainly know my faults. I complain a lot, I procrastinate, I cut food with the cutlery drawer open, I’m lazy. But I embrace the things I am, the things I can be, and the things I can try to be. I’m not a one-person hate parade anymore, with most of the hate directed towards myself. That’s the only way you can improve: when you don’t throw yourself on the ground and go “I’ll never be better.”
Most importantly, over the years I’ve stopped defining what a woman is: I can be a feminist and watch The Kardashians, I can love makeup and leather, I can get my period and lift heavy shit. I’ve stopped letting other people tell me what a woman is. I only need to define myself.
But the definition of who I WANT to be? That’s gonna take some real work. It’s going to take some real work to feel like all the things I am becoming: a writer, a New Yorker, more empathetic, more energetic, happier, fuller, complete. I need some time, is what I’m saying.
But I’m certainly woman enough to admit I’m not there. Yet.
Note: I posted on my Facebook page that if I got to 500 Instagram followers by midnight, I would pick a wedgie on my way to work tomorrow (cuz you know, social media and the incessant need to gain followers is kinda stupid blah blah and I’m not gonna give you like, a bag of swag I have NO MONEY). STILL, it’s kind of working and I think the bloodlust and power is summoning me again so if I reach that number by midnight I will post something gross or me doing my impression of Alanis Morissette
oh god i’m just like the rest of the stupid bloggers aren’t i
I just finished your book and I loved it. One thing I noticed while reading is that you like gin. I love a good G&T as well. What is your favorite gin?
My favorite gin is: one had with a good friend, in a dirty dirty martini with 97 olives, sitting on a porch with cucumbers in the glass, NOT in shot form, Hendricks if you’re fancy, swirled with lemonade, consumed while watching something on the television that is old or familiar, had in the middle of wintertime, squeezed with lime, sipped on a big couch while watching Bravo, poured in a fancy cup or smuggled in a water bottle on the way to a party where I look good in a dress
What's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you that you DON'T regret?
A little over a year ago, I went to a friend’s birthday party and imbibed in way too many libations of the alcoholic nature. I believe they were vodka sodas, as I once went through a very short-lived vodka soda phase. I was like “oh, they’re the lowest calorie drink!” And everybody was like “but it’s still a drink and it’s killing you” and nachos were like “Nachos! Eat us! You’re not fooling anybody.”
Now usually when I drink too much the following happens: I go home and I forget to take off my makeup and I eat all the chips in my house and I wake up at 1pm with a pounding headache and a need for Eggs Benedict.
THIS time, a lot of my friends left the party and I decided to sit down and kind of grumpily frown while everybody danced. This dude sat down next to me and in our brief conversation, I did the following:
Wildly gesticulated. Took his drink from his hands and drank some of it. Said that “like, I know that a lot of people think they are funny but I am FUNNY. Girls are FUNNY TOO, okay? And I am a funny GIRL.” I danced. I spilled. It was kind of a spectacle. I’d be embarrassed about it, as sometimes I get supremely embarrassed by any social behavior I partake in and run it through my head like a gerbil in a gerbil wheel. HOWEVER.
13 months later, I do not regret that night at all, as it was the unknown start to something a lot more wonderful than I could have imagined.
Of course, my drink now is whiskey gingers. They just make me quiet.
You know the drill, people. Go to my ass (ASK) box and fill it up with personal, philisophical, silly questions for me to answer. Why? I have no idea. I just really like doing these sorts of things. And on some level, it makes me feel endless power.
Being biracial is kind of like standing on a rooftop—you can see both sides of the street but you’re not on the sidewalk, you see.
My mother never tried mayo until she met my dad. I’ve got the rice and bean shit in my blood. I think the word “puta” as a subway insult. BUT! My dad reads the WSJ. The sun burns my nose and like most Irish people, I love whiskey and would rather keep my emotions on the inside. I have walked a line for much of my life—a history of a long-finger-nailed Santerian great-uncle, a decidedly American upbringing that includes tuna melts, a temper and a tantrum that placed me between Puerto Rican and European with no real pinpoint on the map. I wished there was a word, a song, a place that made total sense to me. My ancestors? They varied from real fuckin’ privileged to real fuckin’ not. A lot of things I feel are contradictory and not on the same page.
Still: my mother met my father when she was in high school. He had this long blonde hair and my mother kind of looked like Rosario Dawson and her platanos were stellar. She had no interest in him until he got his motorcycle radio ripped out in her Washington Heights hood so many times, just to risk fixing her mother’s fridge. They looked something like love when they made me; a mixed effort of their blood, their humor, and their desire to make a world between the two of them. They’ve been married for like, a million years, but that’s not really the point. I appreciate them regardless, for foregoing a lot of stuff to make something really weird. Platanos are pretty good with mayo, if you can believe it.
What I think is this- you can make something really truly confusing out of anything, but the beauty in everything comes from being on the roof on that damn horizon and seeing the whole world from there. My skin will tan and my nose will be red, but okay. My veins have already dictated some of these choices for me.
I hope you love your history in all its weirdness, because it’s your history in all its weirdness.
Whenever I get stressed out, I do that horrible thing where I start focusing inward on all the things I can control about myself in order to alleviate the external stress I feel. That sounded a little much, so let me simplify: whenever I get stressed out, I start to think I need to lose weight.
Currently, I’m moving. I HATE moving more than anything, even though I am moving to a super-cool big place with a chalkboard wall. Even though I have a CLOSET in my room for the first time in three years. And a full-sized bed. On that moving note: if you need to buy a twin bed your fave blogger has had since she was 8 and has recently spilled Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade on while showing “Orange is The New Black” to her BF…I AM YOUR GIRL. 50 bucks and two tacos is the going rate. Sorry I said fave blogger. Helen Harto isn’t selling her bed.
Moving happens to stress me out. Lately I’ve been super bugged out by that weird bulge of fat that comes out when you’re wearing a bra…you know, like, UNDER the bra? It makes me have weird roll-y things and so I put on a racerback tank top and I literally want to Hulk Rip the Racerback Tank Top. It’s stupid. It’s all very stupid. I know for a scientific fact that I am the same weight I was when I bought these turquoise shorts in the beginning of the summer. But I kind of want to rip my stomach off and feed it to a skinny goat.
I happen to be super frustrated with the fact that I still go to this place. I suspect I will always go to this place, and I will always kind of groan at my arms, and I will always Hulk Smash when I am stressed and I have never, ever reached my goal weight I set for myself when I was 16 and sick. Usually, I don’t give a shit about that goal. But sometimes, I just remember it used to be there.
BUT! The best part about being older and smarter and not so willing to get sucked down a black hole, is the way you can handle these things. For one, it is. TOO. HOT. FOR. THIS. SHIT. I am too sweaty and too hot and too smart and too past all this to feel bad for days. I have too much to do. I don’t have time to measure yogurt, and I don’t have time to insult myself. This Racerback Won’t Wear Itself So I Can Go Out And Get A Beer And Have A Fucking Weekend. SO! I will get some cardio this weekend by lugging a million sweaters and a mattress up a million stairs. I will buy some light beer. I will wear the hot shit out of my hot strapless dress. And, for the sanity of myself, I will stop checking my body in the mirror and save that for a time where I’m not so ready to pounce on myself.
Guaranteed: the next time I look in the mirror, I will feel good. I just don’t have another option.
Anyway. Just a Friday note and a reminder that I’m not perfect. Just a note that I’ve gotten to a place where I’m cool with that
Here is a Photoshopped picture of me and Robert Pattinson my bffl Amanda made in college for me.
But that’s not the point of this post. This post is a plug to buy my fuckin’ book, cuz I know some of you have not bought my fuckin’ book. That is okay, actually. I follow a lot of blogs and I wouldn’t buy their books either. Not because I don’t like them. It’s just that whenever I think of a book to buy, I kind of blank out and start to Google “books I want to buy” and that never helps.
My book is nothing like Twilight. It contains Pitbull references and Liam Neeson quotes and Bill Pullman from Independence Day and includes my resume. Twilight is more about taking advantage of impressionable teenagers.
I’m sorry this is so long already. Buy my book using the links on the side of the blerg (blog). And buy my girl Kat’s book. This would all help me out. I’m moving next week and I’m still actually kinda paying off all my college Lit loans and I’m more “not Scrooge McDuck” than “Scrooge McDuck” if you know what I mean.
THE STRUGGLE IS REAL. I CAN BUY CHEESE BUT NOT AT WHOLE FOODS.
Sometimes, mostly 8:30am and on the subway I just want to give up on the city. Today this guy was leaning all the way on the pole, which is a thing you just don’t do and people were like “move” and then we all just stood there, arms cramped and bags from [LuluLemon, Old Navy, Kenneth Cole] were shoved into my spine. I rolled my eyes and inadvertently got a Kindle straight to the ribcage. Everybody was sweaty and everybody looked dead or on their Blackberrys or thinking of the account, the ACCOUNT, the meetings, the MEETINGS. “Oh my God,” I thought as this guy was probably going to spill hot coffee on my flats but he didn’t. “Oh my GOD,” I thought as I morosely made my way up the stairs next to a troupe of girls who really knew how to make an accent belt work for business attire. Get me out of here. Get me to like, 10:30am coffee in a glass mug, and porches, and gingham tops that smell like lavender, and long drives. Get me some space! Get me some sanity! Get me leather journal writing and who the fuck knows, croissants said the real French way but not in that obnoxious tone people take with it. Get me high-thread-count and my feet in the water. Get me out of this dusty city with 80 bucks in my savings account. Get me out of garbage and the way I cling onto my air conditioner and the extra happy hour beer just cuz I have to. Get my hair looking nice, just nice for ONE minute when I leave the house.
There are times I think this just feels so stupid and I will never, ever get out of it, I will never get out and into a place that always coasts on happy.
I’m not sure who lives the life I want. I’m not sure who is satisfied with their life now. I am very satisfied with some things: the new soap I have just bought, the people, that man I love and get my hair all over, my parent’s dog, and I just got a new bed. I am dissatisfied with others. I hate getting up early to climb a long, steep hill. All I want is a vacation that lasts forever (not death!).
What I do know, however, is that there is no real vacation, and that humans are always not ready and unwilling and completely capable of change. There will never be a pause between life and new life. There is no wishes waiting to fall upon us. There is only mo’ problems and mo’ barriers and mo’ push and a life you can grant yourself. There will only be a gradual shift, led by yourself and the refusal to let a shit-poor attitude get in the way of it all. As much as I can be a princess without no crown, a true believer that things would be easier IF, the only real thing we have is change. It’s delusional to imagine myself in a bathtub in the countryside, drinking wildflower tea for the ninth day in a row. I never finish my tea. Raccoons would pee all over my house because I am bad at taking out my garbage. I like taking hot showers because I’m a human being who doesn’t have 8 hours to draw a bath. Truth: the life I fantasize about isn’t even the one I want. The one I want is the one I’m already trying for, but I get lazy and sit and nap and refuse to make those little changes to help me get there.
The one I want is attainable and a long ways away. This is frustrating sometimes, it is frustrating sometimes to still feel frustrated when you already have a bunch of things you want. Some day: I want a clean room. I want to make my own work hours. I want to one day be able to take a long vacation I can afford. I want to nurse this career I’ve started and kill it. I want to one day own a tailored jacket. I would like to eat at restaurants that serve fresh pasta. I want to buy a set of nice wine glasses without stems. Now: I ALREADY have some things. I forget those, too. The life I want is the one I’m climbing towards, collecting bits of things along the way, and it is constantly and always easy to forget it. Until? Until I make a bit of change.
Wash my bedsheets. Write more. Leap off the mountain. Get a haircut. Change the attitude.
So, then. It’s 8:30am on the subway and I want to give up on the city. I still hate the guy next to me who is smashing his backpack into my hip. I’m still deathly afraid of getting my feet trampled on in sandals.
But also? I am getting somewhere. And I refuse to be the kind of person who gives up on the kind of life I think I’d be able to get.
Even when the path is paved with the scent of garbage.
2. Decide you are done with the gross crumbs of food left on the plate but if the waiter does not take them away you find that your plate is mysteriously empty cuz u are using your finger as a fork
3. Use your pockets to scratch your crotch in public
4. I’ve had my period for six months straight as an excuse for both attitude and food consumption
5. Take clothes out of your hamper and wear them
6. Lay in hot sweat rather than getting up to turn on the fan or air conditioner
7. Truly believe that two extra minutes of sleep in the morning does something even though you stayed up 45 minutes later than your designated go-to-bed time
8. Smell your armpit upwards of 8 times a day but always forget to carry deodorant
9. Keep empty mint containers and subway cards in your purse like a TRICK
10. Pray that somebody bumps into you today or is rude so you can go NUTS it is SO ON
11. Stick your fingers in your mouth, like, ALL the time for an adult
12. Get really excited when you need to purchase a large amount of things at the drugstore
13. Either text somebody back immediately or like, never ever ever ever ever ever
14. Find nothing to watch on TV but you still watch it for 4 hours
15. Worry about your brain because you constantly forget everything
16. Try to force yourself not to read the endings of books or movies because you just REALLY need to know what happens or else you’ll explode and die
17. Speak to dogs on the street freely
18. Believe you are both a pile of sewage AND Beyonce
19. Make Internet Comments and Amazing Rants In Your Head That Never Leave The Light Of Day
20. Stare openly at people putting on their makeup in the subway
21. Think drinking out of containers in your fridge is a rebellion even though you are independent
22. Find that you are unable to listen to the end of this one song because you just start it over
23. Need to drop everything and find a mirror so you can POPPPPPPPP THIS even though you know it will ruin your face
24. Find that no matter how hard you try to save money your life is a Venus Fly trap and your funds are flies and shampoo and bracelets that turn your fingers green and 5 dollar grocery items and socks you can’t find and gin and tonics
25. Come on, let’s just say it, you pick your nose
Let them write in the annals of history that at 10:45 on a Saturday, a young woman drank diet root beer and vodka at her parents house and smuggled the cheese sauce for later consumption. Let them know she caved and finally got Instagram, thus truly transforming her into the “most generational.” TELL YOUR CHILDREN IT ALL HAPPENED DURING YET ANOTHER VIEWING OF BEHIND THE CANDELABRA.
Follow me @TheFrenemy
And on the first day, He said “let there be selfies and food.”
“This appealed to me in the same way the whole “everybody was jumping off a bridge” thing appealed to me when I was a kid. WHY was everybody jumping off a bridge? Was the world ending? Was it a small bridge and would it just be fun? Do I want to live in a world where all my friends and family were dead? I had always secretly thought, Yes, I would jump of a bridge if everybody I knew was doing it.”—
-From Don’t Worry, It Gets Worse MY BOOK, in the chapter regarding online dating. I online dated but I didn’t do it for very long in fact I only went on ONE DATE and mostly talk about how creepy the match.com commercials are. So read it. But alas! Two thoughts:
1. There should be separate pooping only bathrooms for us to join in brotherhood and do that stuff together in peace.
2. On another note, today is a huge day for humans, and while I know there is so much more work to be done (women, LGBTQ emphasis on the T, people of color, and pretty much everybody but Bill O’Reilly need more rights), it still feels good. Why? One the one hand, it sucks that a somebody had to strap on her Senate-Floor-Nike-Kicks and talk for ten bajillion hours about how a woman should be able to have rights over her own body. But on the other hand, get it through your head we are ready to talk for ten bajillion hours to make you listen. We will be heard way past the point of our sore throats, we will light this whole place up till the light is seen. It is exciting to see powerful shakes to the core of something in desperate need of shaking. It is exciting to see a stand and a fight. On the one hand, I can’t believe DOMA just got overturned. On the other hand, there is today. And then there is yesterday. And the fact that those two are different? That’s some seriously beautiful stuff.
Now THAT kind of change is the bridge I hope a lot of people will soon jump off of. We’re already swimming, mind you. We’re just waiting for the rest of you, but we know we’ve got to keep shouting to let you know the water’s okay.
Happy Anniversary to my #1: soup bringer, t-shirt lender, excessive water drinker, pillow substitute, carrot protester, Along Came Polly lover, anxiety soother, imitator of Michael-Douglas-In-Behind-The-Candelabra, source of love and heart swell, sand hater, backyard bbqer. My boo, the best whistler in town.
I am so glad I insisted on a “burger, not Thai Food date.” I am so glad you called. I am so glad that there is brighter light than I had previously imagined. I am so glad I was alone for a long time. I am so glad that “not being alone” doesn’t have to trump wait, patience, self-growth, and damn lucky stars. I am so glad I waited for you.
One year and many more MT, who has left me feeling anything but.
When a dress you really like has one of those stupid thick elastic bands underneath the boobs and your body immediately looks like dogshit in the dress.
Also: Surprise! The dress is actually a romper
Why Facebook keeps putting dieting ads and engagement rings as ‘suggested posts’ for me NO THANKS
You’d think that with 2 jillion movie and television options on Netflix, I would find something I want to watch in under 6 hours
How to keep nail polish from chipping—it’s not like my job is to run my hands in a sander or dip my hands into acid, which is what you’d think if you saw my nails
I do not JUDGE you, but I do not understand people who say things like “I like getting up early” “I don’t really watch television” “No, just one drink for me” and “no more pizza, thank you” because if there was unlimited pizza I would eat it till I was dead.
Why I cannot just waltz into any McDonald’s and get an Egg McMuffin at 11pm like I’ve wanted to do ALL MY LIFE
Every innocent sandal that feels like it will be comfortable and then rips my skin off with its gladiator teeth halfway through my walk
T-shirts with long messages on them worn outside of the house with say, pants.
Why I cannot remember where I have put my phone but I still remember the lyrics of Mulan’s “I’ll Make A Man Out Of You” after 15 years
Like, I get it, the ’90s were great but jesus slow your load a bit on that
Music that portrays clubs as fun and exciting and don’t mention the words “sweat” “profusely” or “Ed Hardy”
The older generation for their unwavering belief that chain e-mails are hilarious, informative, and should be sent out 40 times a day
Why I mostly always dread getting in the shower but when I get in I find it to be one of the top moments of my existence
A successful messy bun
The person that decides to GO THERE and makes an insane racist comment or sexist comment on a Youtube video about cats or something
I’m going to Aruba next week with my borgfriend, a man who I love but also really wanted to see “After Earth” in theaters. Now, I’m not telling you this to a)encourage you to rob me (all I own is dirty underwear and an original copy of The Declaration of Independence) or b) brag about my amazing life. I do not have an amazing life. I have gas and a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I am telling you this because I have been preparing for this trip for approximately 86 months and I feel I have some tips to impart to the masses so you can get ready for a vacation, too. It’s summer! Go get the hell out of here, go slug around in your friends dad’s beach house for fuck’s sake, stop being on the Internet and reading my moronic bullshit and sad reactions The Red Wedding. So. Here are those tips:
Wearing a bathing suit should not be scary. You would not rather eat cat food than find a bathing suit. You have a stretch mark or two or three but nobody gets arrested for that shit. That shit is okay. I like your thighs. Take care of your feet. You do not have to transform into Lana Del Ray because it is summertime. You do not have to have the flattest stomach. Dance sexy in your bedroom wearing your bathing suit. People are not looking at you as much as they think you are. You will not shape yourself to a lingerie ad. Bikini season is not what it’s called. Other people (even the ones with the bodies you want) are worried about how they look, too. You are an educated young person who knows better and will teach confidence and poise and being a motherfucking boss to those who will soon be ready to release their bossness, too. You will do that in your cute bathing suit. You look nice in your bathing suit. Your body is not your value. You are having fun at the beach. Fuck that noise. You do not have to wear coral lipstick and find a big floppy hat if you don’t want to. You will not waste your time with this self-pity nonsense. You have to wear sunscreen. You are beautiful and you are nice except in the morning. Being beautiful is not the most important thing. Tummies are fine. Get melted ice cream on your tummy. You are having fun AT THE BEACH. Have a good fucking summer. Wearing a bathing suit should not be scary.