Firstly, let me apologize for my two-month hiatus from writing, I was in rehab sorting through some personal issues. Just kidding. But wouldn’t that make me so much more mysterious? I wish I had a legitimate excuse for you, like an unexpected pregnancy or a sudden bipolar disorder diagnosis, but in my defense it was Awards season and hating Anne Hathaway isn’t something I can do half-heartedly.
Moving forward, lately I’ve noticed a lot of people telling me how much I’m going to love something. Oh, you’ll love these bacon-wrapped brussel sprouts. Oh, you’re going to love this YouTube video. Oh you’ll just love…No! Do you know what I love? Wheat Thins and sleeping.
I find the assertion that I’ll love something more annoying than people using hashtags in texts or people responding “too short” when I ask how their weekend was. Both unforgivable grievances.
When someone tells me how much I’m going to love something, I find it presumptuous and in most cases I win because I know myself better. It reminds me of the time everyone told me I would love Avatar and then I hated it and got motion sick.
When that Navi Avatar chick starts crying hysterically towards the end of the movie I actually made a mental hit list of all the people I wanted to kill for recommending that I see that god forsaken film.It was honestly the ugliest cry I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot of ugly crying because I’m a loyal Bachelor fan and was in a sorority once.
Here are other things I hate that everyone loves:
Swedish House Mafia: I’m supposed to lose my shit when I hear Swedish House Mafia is playing (er spinning?) or whatever it is they do up there with their DJ gear. I’m apparently supposed to shell out $100 and fist pump my little heart out until my ecstasy wears off or I sweat myself into the emergency room. House music and DJs and “sick drops” and Dubstep give me mild anxiety and make me feel like I’m getting tazered in the spine. I want to love this music and I even pretended to for a while when I was 18. I went to two raves with my ex-boyfriend, Hard Haunted and TAO (Together as One, for you non-ravers). I put glitter on my face and wore one of those slutty metallic American Apparel leotards. That’s commitment because those leotards aren’t cheap and I was freezing my ass off the entire night.
Juice Cleanses: I don’t know if anybody actually loves these juice cleanses or if they just lie to themselves to make starving seem less unbearable. I get the appeal, Coachella is basically tomorrow and solid foods are for the weak but what is the point of juicing when I could be really hungry and bitchy for free? I could actually be saving money and putting those dollars towards something more tangible and effective, like lipo.
The Santa Monica Stairs: If you don’t live in LA you may not share my pain with this one but basically there is a set of stairs off of 7th street in Santa Monica that people regard as some sort of national treasure. When I finally did the damn stairs it was the worst workout of my life and I’m not even being hyperbolic. Seriously, the worst workout of my life and I’ve had some terrible workouts. I briefly did Rhythmic Gymnastics and had a Russian coach named Ivanka who believed pain was weakness and yes, the stairs were worse than her. For starters, the stairs are old as shit and my elevated heart rate only comes from my rational fear of missing a stair and tumbling to my death in front of a pack of overly-fit and overzealous star-fuckers hoping to see Kanye West and his trainer. I was told I would love these stairs but I ended up feeling like Tai in Clueless when she was forced to do Buns of Steel with Cher. I bet Cher told her she would love it too. Lies.
Pilates: Ever since Miley Cyrus was photographed leaving her Pilates class braless it’s like people can’t get enough of it. People constantly tell me how much I would love Pilates, how I should come to their studio, and how it will transform my body to look like a ballerina, which everyone knows is my life goal. Between SoulCycle, Bar Method, Bikram, Hot 8, Crossfit, P90x, Zumba, YAS, and stripping I don’t even know which trendy overpriced exercise class I’m supposed to be attending. Is it so povo of me to just go running and do a few sit-ups? I don’t own enough Lululemon to go to all of your Pilates classes.
The Grove: Prepare yourself for this one kids because this is going to come as a shock: What if I told you the Grove was just a mall? I know, I know. Take a second. Collect yourself. You think this is ludicrous, “Kara, The Grove is outdoors, it has its own Farmer’s Market and Rick Caruso owns it damn it!” No, you’ve been duped. The Grove has a Banana Republic and a very large Abercrombie & Fitch. It’s just a mall. I know you feel like I just told you there was no Santa but you’re going to be fine. Don’t ask me to meet you there for lunch and we cool.
Christian Louboutins: I’m very confused about why and how these shoes are still popular; it must be the appeal of appearing rich while still looking like a well-paid escort, a fine balance. These shoes cost more than my rent yet bitchez are obsessed! Ooh look the bottom is red! Maybe people will think I’m a celebrity! Louboutin shoes are like Herve Leger dresses, tired. In fact if you wear them both together you’ll be the hottest thing 2008 has ever seen. I’d be lying if I said painting the soles of my heels with red OPI hasn’t crossed my mind one or eight times, therefore I’m not hating on you if you own Louboutins, in fact let’s be friends, you’re probably richer than me.
Skinny Jeans: Skinny jeans have been cool for almost a decade now so I think it’s safe to say we’ve had our thrill. Can we all be over this already? We exist in a nation with an obesity epidemic and a skinny jean trend which is not a cute look. Do you know who skinny jeans look good on? Skinny people. Kate Bosworth and fourteen-year old skateboarders. Can we collectively revert back to the good old boot cut days or, my personal favorite, the high-waisted flare? I once read an article that consumers buy skinny jeans just because they liked the name of the style, i.e. they subconsciously liked being associated with “skinny”. How dare they exploit me like that! I vote we stick it to the man, burn our skinny jeans, and reemerge wearing the hip-friendly flare cut. We can act like we’re living in the glory days of Studio 54 sans the cocaine.
Sometimes I can’t distinguish whether I actually dislike something or if I just like being that person who hates what everyone loves. I find myself telling people I hate things that are loved by the masses, like dogs and avocado, just to see their astounded and defensive reactions. I have a part two to this list with things like Blake Lively, pregnant women, expensive cheeseburgers, Lululemon, Irish pubs, Harry Potter, mini cupcakes, Pottery Barn and small children but we’ll save that for another time. Cheers!
On most days of the week I can do a pretty convincing impression of an adult, in which I complain about the economy or how much my neck hurts. My neck really does hurt but I do this mainly to rationalize my excessive drinking on the weekends. You deserve it! You’re so busy and stressed.
At times I start to believe my own lies but I’m brought back to reality when I see my bank statements, which I never know whether to laugh or cry at. I usually settle for somewhere in between and do an unattractive laugh/cry, a full-body sob while laughing. Similar to something you would witness in a mental ward.
It’s a sad and scary day when you realize you’re solely responsible for yourself and it’s no longer socially acceptable to gaze up at your parents and suck the teet of their bank accounts. Like you once could when you were a needy and dependent child. Aka college.
I feel like the female non-Brad Pitt version of Benjamin Button who started out well-off and is financially regressing backwards. I peaked at twelve and I’ll probably be homeless by thirty. Like most things, I enjoy the idea of being financially independent but not necessarily the reality.
Pretending to have your shit together may have its perks but people also expect you to be financially responsible, which is absolutely terrible.
Some days I wake up excited to go to work but other days I just wish I were married to a professional athlete. I know I’m not supposed to say that because it’s not the 1700s and my completion of college meant signing an understood agreement that I would, at the very least, pretend to be self-sufficient but sometimes I can’t help but be retroactive.
I’m all for equality but I wish we could pick and choose. Like demand equal pay but expect to never pay for drinks. Susan B. Anthony would shit her androgynous feminist trousers if she heard me say that but those are the thoughts that enter my entry-level mind when I realize my budget no longer includes luxuries like produce, heating, or antibiotics.
Nose-diving into poorness hurts even more if you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth and overpriced braces on your teeth. I was such a damn expensive child that if I were my parents I would’ve accidentally left me at a mall or sold me into slavery just to avoid the financial burden that came with raising me.
Both depressing and liberating, I’ve acknowledged that when I have kids they probably won’t have the luxury of being raised how I was. On Christmas morning I’ll be forced to watch them excitedly tear open newspaper-wrapped gifts from CVS while I wallow in self-guilt.
I’ll attempt to remedy the situation with useless statements: “What’s that Timmy?! Santa brought you a new toothbrush?!” “Let’s all remember the reason for the season! The birth of Jesus Christ!”. They will hate me.
Because that’s a scary thought, both having kids and shopping at CVS, I like to calm my fears by thinking about alternative methods of income to prepare for hypothetical financial ruin/test the boundaries of my integrity.
- Sell my eggs
- Call Larry H. Parker. Sue someone.
- Make a club about Babysitting & write a best-selling book series about said club
- Become a stripper. Strip. Grovel. Repeat.
- Sell an organ
- Sit near the 405 freeway in a wheel chair with a sign and a sad look on my face.
- Be a Red Bull girl
- Have the baby of an NFL player
- Participate in multiple focus groups
- Marry a celebrity. Divorce celebrity. Write best-selling tell-all about celebrity.
- Sort through old photos & blackmail whomever looks successful in their Facebook profile pictures.
- Illegally buy alcohol for teenagers. Charge hefty service fee.
- Cook/sell meth with the expert help of my high school science teacher who happens to be dying of cancer. Which means it’s not morally corrupt.
- Sell my impressive and expertly preserved Beanie Baby collection.
I’m open to other suggestions so don’t be shy friends. If all else fails I could always look for a kind, preferably not-bald, Daddy Warbucks to
adopt marry me. Although, I’m not sure who would be up for that challenge because my own father dumped me as a financial burden just last year.
Until then, I will continue masquerading as an adult and deal with the glamour of being financially independent, all while enjoying a nutritious and affordable bowl of oatmeal for dinner. Cheers!
The holidays are officially dead and gone and sadly Santa did not bring me the eating disorder I requested this year for Christmas. As a result, I’ve been brutally forced back into the gym with all the other people who ate their way through the holidays and now hate themselves.
January makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon and eat an entire cake, Bruce Bogtrotter style, just so I can rebel against the suggestion that because it’s a new year I should be inclined to improve myself in some way. The absurdity of this month makes me want to spiral into a month of despair, depression, weight gain, and job loss.
I’ll acquire a Xanax prescription, watch more television, and imbibe large amounts of high fructose corn syrup. I have an unexplainable urge to start smoking and form unhealthy relationships with myself and others just to juxtapose all the overzealous resolutioners vowing to be hungrier and less drunk versions of themselves. You’re welcome for restoring balance and order in this world.
The gym has been particularly unbearable this month and I’ve had to endure a new heard of hopefuls smugly wearing “This is my year” grins and sweating all over my precious treadmill. Their overwhelming and constant presence angers me and takes up valuable mirror space in my Zumba class.
They make me want to punch Jessica Simpson right in her pregnant uterus. Despite J. Simp’s inability to lose any weight, per her Weight Watcher’s contract, I do give the girl some credit for throwing in the towel and just getting pregnant again. Fucking smart. This has always been my secret back up plan if, God forbid, I can’t lose the baby weight. I’ll lie and say this was my plan all along rather than admit my chubby failure. J.Simp is clearly much smarter than her toothy grin and tacky shoe line have allowed me to believe.
I know I am supposed to feel a surge of renewal with the welcoming of 2013 but January’s more like an annoying cheerleader that refuses to stop chanting. Not like a slutty hot cheerleader who wanders into locker rooms in low budget films, just an obnoxious one that everybody would be happy to see eat shit and who genuinely loves pep rallies.
The only results of this month are juice cleanses and failure and I personally can’t accept it. In my younger and more naïve days, I would make a list of resolutions in failed attempts to improve myself in some capacity.
- Do charity
- Stop eating
- Be nice to people
- Wear sunscreen
- Don’t make out with strangers
I am already bored. Once you accept the fact that everything you love in life will eventually kill you or get you pregnant, failing resolutions becomes a much easier pill to swallow. January is very clearly the worst month of the year and if you disagree it’s only because you happened to be born in January.
While I personally disagree with the implications of this month, buying into the “new you” ideal is, at the very least, helpful to the economy. I recently visited my local GNC to restock on my Biotin pills, which are supposed to make my hair extra shiny and long but thus far have not yielded any notable results or compliments.
The Indian man behind the counter informed me that GNC does about eighty percent of their sales during January, which launched my somewhat extremist rant about the insanity of America’s consumerist culture. I concluded this by angrily telling him that I wanted to move to India, which I now regret after re-watching Slumdog Millionaire.
Despite all efforts of women’s magazines and well-placed Hydroxycut ads, I cannot subscribe to this idea. We’ve been tricked into believing that December is the evil fatter troll cousin of January and therefore we must repent for our guilt and overindulgence by making drastic and extreme promises to ourselves. What is so wrong about overspending, overeating, and overdrinking? Absolutely nothing, Christina Aguilera does it every day and she’s doing just fine.
I thoroughly enjoy being a greedy glutton throughout the whole holiday season and if it weren’t for this terrible month I would feel no guilt in continuing my ways.
Let’s all agree that January is the yellow Starburst of months, a bran muffin in a sea of Sprinkles cupcakes, and overall the most painful to endure. Until further noted, all bad habits shall continue if not worsen just for the sake of drama. Cheers! Enjoy your kale.
1. Nasty Gal is really cool. They sell stuff that looks vintage but isn’t and vintage stuff that’s more expensive than new stuff. The Internet, fashion blogs to be precise, taught me that there is nothing more uncool than looking like you tried. This site makes it really easy to look unique but kind of like everybody else. Like you tried just enough to get dressed but then forgot to wear pants on a whim. Nasty Gal makes it simple to look homeless and hip…but only if you are like super skinny. If you ate dinner last night, those high-waisted leather shorts are not for you.
2. Thought Catalog is meaningful and my twenties are powerful and nostalgic. I should run through the sprinklers, revel in my youth, tell my boyfriend I love him over orange juice, take risks, dive in! Thank you Thought Catalog for your moody and poignant pieces! I was so close to letting my life waste away but I’ve learned to care again. Now I can feel the rain on my skin and no one else can feel that for me.
3. There are only four shows on television. Homeland, Breaking Bad, Dexter and Girls. That’s it. Oh and Claire Danes is an ugly crier. I’ve never seen Homeland (it seems like it requires a lengthy attention span) but like I said, these are things I’ve learned from the Internet. Even if other shows did exist it’s not like they were worth posting a status about, which means they never existed. No status? Never happened.
4. The Lakers got a new coach. Do I follow sports? No. Do I care about the Lakers? No. Do I care about who coaches the Lakers? Absolutely not. But the Internet is magical place and through the power of Facebook osmosis I’ve learned that Mike Brown got fired due to sucking and the Lakers got a new coach, Mike D’Antoni. I wish I didn’t know this just like I wish I didn’t know where I was conceived but guess what, life isn’t fair.
5. If it was in Clueless, Mean Girls, or Bridesmaids it’s funny. No room for debate. I also learned some new phrases and simultaneously began hating them. “That awkward moment when…” I stopped liking you. “Nom nom nom” go die. “ “That’s aggressive” No. It is not. “Sorry about it” sorry I know you. The internet taught me a wealth of new phrases like YOLO and foodie and I learned it doesn’t take a lot for me to hate people.
6. This year I learned that people fucking love cats. People also really like cat videos, cat memes, cat blogs, cat pin boards, instagraming their cats, cats in funny positions, hairless cats, cat fan pages, images of cats destroying things, cats in hipster glasses, cats pretending to be drunk, Cats the musical, and Grumpy Cat. I also learned that girls like to say “meow” to one another in an attempt to be cute or conjure up images of cute cats? Still confused about that one.
7. Miley Cyrus DOES NOT work for Disney anymore. I learned this through an impressive and perseverant No Bra Campaign and a haircut that said, “Look, I’m risky!” She was all like “I’m a gunna Carpe the fuck outta this Diem ya’ll! I’m not Hannah Montana!” This we learned.
8. Buzzfeed is the only website that exists in order to waste time at work. Also, if something isn’t presented in list form, forget it, nobody is interested. In fact, I’m not even sure I can process information that isn’t in list form anymore. Let’s continue this list.
9. Cupcakes and cashmere are not just arbitrary objects. The Internet has taught me that it’s easy to get lost in a world of curated blissful domesticity. But be careful because one second you’re taking on a little DIY project and the next you’re begging for a Prozac prescription. The Internet has provided me with a wealth of expectations to repeatedly fall short of. You can plan your wedding, bake shit, go wine tasting, throw a dinner party for 12, and then build some shelves! You can tend to your garden and then make personalized handcrafted stationary to RSVP to a life you won’t ever have. It’s scary but I’m glad I failed early.
10. People really like reminiscing about childhood. The Internet taught me that I’m inclined to like anything that reminds me of my youth and the more obscure the better. You were into American Girl too? You collected Sanrio shit and liked Lisa Frank stickers? You didn’t want to be Scary Spice either? Stop the press! Did we all just arrive at life holding hands and watching Doug together in between using our Skip Its and eating Gushers? Yes. The Internet proved to me that some things are non-negotiable. We can all agree that Stacey from The Babysitters Club was the prettiest and singlehandedly made diabetes cool again and that the covers of Goosebumps were awesome enough to buy but never read.
11. Everything I’ve ever done somebody else has already done and made a gif about. My unique experiences have been cheapened by the fact that there is a #whatshouldwecallme for literally everything. I don’t even need to live anymore I can just post gifs on people’s walls and they can understand my simulated experience through various clips of Honey Boo Boo’s mom buying toilet paper.
12. Brussel Sprouts are the new Kale, is the new quinoa, is the new gluten allergy, is the new vegan, is the new socially acceptable anorexia. I also learned that Juice Cleanses are the shit. Twitter and various blogs have taught me that anything you can eat you can juice and then just drink. Much cooler.
13. Pinterest sells me ideas of who I want to be. Do I like that dress or do I just like the model wearing the dress holding a cigarette in a black and white photo sitting on the lawn outside of the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Dom and a vintage motorcycle while it rains lightly and a hot guy in a suit looks on? I mean I just don’t know anymore. The lines have been blurred. Basically everything I want to wear only looks good on a hangar or an eating disorder. This I learned.
14. Tiesto, Electric Daisy Carnival, Afrojack, Skrillex, Nero, EC Twins, DeadMau5 and any song that has (feat.) or remix attached to it is cool. Techno isn’t my jam, or electro for that matter, (that’s what the kids are calling it these days) and not because I think I’m too cool. I’m easily prone to anxiety and I don’t enjoy music that makes me feel like my insides are being tasered. I don’t like feeling like I’m getting hit by a car every time the base drops. I’m old and crotchety and people at raves with weird small backpacks and arm candy scare me.
15. Instagram elected the president. Seriously, why would I vote if I couldn’t Lo-fi my “I voted” sticker? If nobody knows that I voted, did it ever really happen? Does my vote actually get counted if I don’t post a status about it? Probably not. The Internet made voting cool just like Jay Z made Obama cool. Fact.
Today is a very special day for sexually frustrated teenage boys, sorority girls who hate their bodies, and gay men everywhere. The Victoria’s Secret Fashion show airs tonight on CBS and like you, I am giddy with anticipation to see Bruno Mars perform. For some unexplainable reason, Vicky S still calls it a “fashion show” despite all evidence that nobody gives a shit about the fashion.
This special event may be just the thing I need to spark the eating disorder I asked for for Christmas. Even though the show was filmed November 7th, it takes close to a month to edit so it can appear like a live show. I quite enjoy the added off-camera voices shouting “Miranda, go!” “Heidi, go!”. It adds to the drama and gets me all worked up that something could go wrong. Adriana could get glitter in her eye or Alessandra could lose a hair extension and I worry myself sick with all of the possibilities!
I calm myself down by remembering that it’s not a live show and that if anything did go wrong, an accidental nip slip or for the love of Christ a bad angle, it has been thankfully edited out. I just wish Vicky S would honor my request of airing the show on Thanksgiving. It’s like, America is suffering from an obesity epidemic, you should do your part and show us some damn skinny models on a day when our nation is shouting “YOLO” before dipping their faces in gravy.
I guess the show probably increases suicide rates, so at the very least, we are working collaboratively on population control.
Every time this show rolls around, I take a second to reflect on the incredible way Victoria’s Secret has managed to leverage itself from a catalogue that sells underwear to a mega-brand that boasts its own three-hour commercial on a major network. That’s like Kim Kardashian starting out as that girl who got peed on by Ray J in a poorly lit sex tape and now you can buy her perfume at Macy’s. These are lessons on perseverance kids, take notes. Dreams can come true.
I will admit that I don’t particularly love Victoria’s Secret’s products *gasp* I know this doesn’t makes sense because I’m a blonde 24-year-old ex-cheerleader ex-sorority girl, which is their entire demographic, but I have a difficult time buying yoga pants that say “University of Pink” on the ass or lace neon thongs that say “Ho Ho Ho” in crystals.
I’m not loving their tote bags or collection of various body sprays which remind me of my obsessive Bath & Body Works phase in 7th grade. God, how I loved Plumeria and Warm Vanilla Sugar with a fiery passion. The surest way to make friends was to whip out that scented hand sanitizer in the middle of social studies. Instant popularity.
But the VS Show is clearly not about the products so I won’t waste your time opining about how Love Spell and Very Sexy smell like baby prostitute. Instead let’s focus on the higher species at hand, the models. Inevitably the Internet will get their digital panties in a wad about how skinny the VS models have gotten.
People will argue that these women are supposed to be “curvy” and represent “healthy” images of women. People will cry for the earlier catalogue days of pre-ANTM Tyra and a curvy Stephanie Seymour. If you don’t know who Stephanie Seymour is, you clearly didn’t grow up in 90s and were never exposed to the vintage Victoria’s Secret days, which I grew up studying. Thank you Mom.
Yes, people will bitch about seeing hip bones sharp enough to open cans and clavicles that could be used as latters but get over it because that is what we love. Vicky S knows their models are hot enough to sell fire in hell and this is the truth my friends otherwise why else would anybody buy all that Pink shit.
So let’s get gritty with it. The most curves you will see in this entire show will be on Alessandra, because she just shot out a baby, and Barbara Palvin, because she is still somewhat of a newcomer and hasn’t succumbed to the model lifestyle yet.
Cara Delevingne will get a lot of play even though most of us are already sick of her from Pinterest and that Burberry campaign from a while back. Blah blah blah everyone knows she is besties with Azealia Banks and has been deemed the token cool girl because she has enviable eyebrows.
Karlie will get some love, but not as much as last year when VS wasted a 15-minute segment pretending she was recently discovered. Adriana, Doutzen, and Alessandra are all basically the godfathers of the VS game at this point. Erin probably won’t get that much facetime because Leo isn’t dating her anymore.
Behati might get some special attention because she’s F-ing Adam Levine and he is a big deal to anybody who watches The Voice or The X factor or whatever show he gets paid to show up for. Lilly will look hot, obvi, but the fact that she married a Kings of Leon member rather than a Mumford last year takes away from her cool points.
Rihanna will perform and we will all cheer as the models take their final strut and dance around the stage like besties with a shared love of underwear. We will all go home, throw up our dinners, and that will be the end. Happy holidays! You’re welcome.
Let me first apologize for the two-week hiatus I’ve selfishly indulged in. Before you assume I’m a lazy quitter, which is only partially false, you should know that I was busy partaking in gluttonous food binges followed by necessary self-hatred sessions. This requires time and energy and thus writing is difficult with a fork permanently in hand. My apologies.
I’d known Thanksgiving was coming and had feared getting all Augustus Gloop up on that turkey like years past. Sadly, this Thanksgiving was no different. In the ongoing war of me versus the bread rolls, I learned that I am the weaker.
I even mentally prepped to not eat myself into a coma this year by spending many an hour looking at thinspiring Pinterest photos and reading underground anorexia blogs written by 14-year-old girls. Although my efforts were proven fruitless, I did obtain some priceless wisdom from one such blog:
Top 5 reasons not to eat today:
1. You will be fat if you eat today
2. Hunger and craving are only feelings
3. Thin is graceful, fat is clumsy
4. Everything you want to be is merely buried under a layer of fat.
5. You’ve come too far to take orders from a cookie.
Preach! Damn straight I have come too far to take orders from a cookie. However, this sage advice was lost on me after a glass or eight of champagne and the smell of oven-roasted turkey.
During the Holiday season, which started whenever Starbucks brought out those damn cups, it’s important to remember that it’s a marathon not a sprint. You can’t sacrifice what you want most for what you want in the moment. That goes for both calories and condoms.
With that being said, let it be known that I love the holidays. The best part is the buried family drama that is bound to be unearthed. In my experience, the right amount of liquor, hardened resentment, and high levels of emotion can produce the kind of entertainment that can’t be bought.
This year my 10-year-old cousin started sobbing at the dinner table after an exchange of words that ended in her being called a lesbian. She made the fatal mistake of announcing whom she believed would accidentally become pregnant first among us.
Luckily, I was spared the label of town bicycle, but sadly my 23-year-old cousin Kacy was not. Kacy was clearly offended by her appointed whore status and hence the detailed rebuttal: “You’re a lesbian and will end up marrying a woman named Alice!”. I am not sure how these two correlate nor am I sure who Alice is or what she represents.
Watching my 10-year-old cousin dramatically sob at the thought of her predetermined fate and potential partner Alice somehow filled me with glee. While labeling a child’s sexual orientation might be a little harsh and possibly detrimental, she needs to learn that you don’t play with fire without getting burned. Everyone knows that throwing out the accidental pregnancy card during Thanksgiving is a risky move.
Although my preventative overeating measures may have failed this year, for which I blame the 14-year-old anorexic blogging community, it is moments like these that make the holidays truly magical. The holidays are like watching bad improv, which is almost always bad, and being unable to fully hate everyone because some gave birth to you or claim blood relation. The splendid moments of this holiday season, with just enough booze to to call children homosexuals, somehow make life worth living. Cheers!
Now that I’ve personally mourned the presidential loss of Roseanne Barr, spending a few solid hours sobbing like a teenage girl whose pregnancy test came out positive, I think it’s safe for me to let go of the political career I’ve been harvesting over the past few months. It’s weird when things end. Especially when you’ve become emotionally invested and fought the good fight.
Now that it’s all over, there is a small chance my news feed might be restored to its original purpose: supplying me with half-naked Halloween party albums to judge. I couldn’t even get through a quarter of my old sorority’s pics without being bombarded by political commentary. How can I decipher if you’re a slutty mouse or a slutty bunny when I’m being sideswiped with your statuses about Prop 37?
It’s my right to know what your costume is and exactly how much weight you’ve gained since college. Deny me my basic freedoms and you’re playing with fire. I watched as my news feed morphed into a Youtube comments page, cluttered with “I’m leaving the country!” statuses, which got me all excited that our government had finally crafted a savvy population-control initiative.
As of today, these people appear to have NOT left the country as promised but I’ll give them a few more days because I know packing and passport stuff can take a while.
What has this election taught me? Firstly, I discovered that if it wasn’t for Instagram and those little “I voted” stickers, nobody would have voted. Secondly, I found out that everybody was secretly studying government and politics in their free time, slaving away researching and reading at night while I was sound asleep. How else could everyone have suddenly become so knowledgeable?
I felt duped. Everyone had well-informed opinions to share on Facebook about parties, candidates, reform initiatives, propositions, and various social programs and I only had Demi Lovato’s new eyebrows to comment on? I felt so uncool.
I felt exactly how I did my senior year of high school when I discovered that all of my friends had secretly been taking SAT prep classes for years. For four years I thought we were on the same page and you’ve secretly been bubbling in practice scantrons this whole time? That is so Asian competitive of you. I thought we were friends but all this time you were just plotting to get into a better college than me.
That terrible feeling came rushing back this year when I discovered my “Facebook friends” weren’t friends at all but expert politicos sifting through Bills and campaign initiatives. Leaving me not one spare Huffington Post article to smartly link to my own statuses.
If I wanted to talk real politics I would guzzle red wine and wear pearls in my bedroom, patiently waiting for my unsuspecting roommates to walk in the door so I could launch into a wild-eyed argument about stem cell research. That is politics. Re-tweeting “#2TermZ” is not. Take a cue from Taylor Swift okay, that girl knows her shit.
Real politics are made through red lipstick, ascots, and dating Kennedys not plebeian statuses about our failing executive branch. It’s over now and all I’m left with is a destroyed Roseanne DVD collection and inferiority issues about my knowledge on politics. One day I was an unassuming innocent writer, ranting about unemployment and the pungent smell of the gym, and the next I’m a failed political activist with trust issues. Next you are going to tell me you all secretly back up your hard drives and have savings accounts. I don’t like it one bit. I’m leaving the country. Cheers!
I hate you.
I could stop here but I think my therapist would agree that it’s not healthy to internalize my anger. I don’t have a therapist because that shit is expensive but if I did, she would welcome my cathartic gym-hatred. Possibly labeling this a break through or at the very least commending my progress.
I hate the way the gym thickly smells of sweat and desperation. Thick enough to cut with a butter knife and impossible to ignore, bombarding my nostrils with the collective and distinct smell of defeat and trying.
Your chipper affirmations on the wall about heart health and body fat percentages annoy me. Your “you can do anything” attitude is repulsive.
I hate how I pay to hate you.
I hate that you are always there, omnipresent like God, waiting with open arms for me to come and repent the sins of my weekend. I hate the Billboard top 40 hits you play in the background, just audible enough for me to hear but quiet enough to silently curse.
I dislike the sweaty handprints on your mirrors, the way you make me overly aware of my triceps, and your unflattering florescent lighting.
I hate the way you attract shiny men who grunt like King Kong and look like the Hulk. Flexing and panting like narcissistic linebackers preparing for war, counting down the minutes before they can run home to blend a protein shake. Literally run home.
I hate that you make me estimate the exact shoulder to leg ratio of their bodies. And guess what they’re lacking in life that pushes them to build that much muscle. You make me wonder what color their truck is and exactly how raised it is.
I hate that you give me an unfounded superiority complex based on my treadmill speed in comparison to the person next to me. I hate that you make me feel like a hamster on a wheel to nowhere.
I hate that I see the same people every time I’m there and that I’ve named you all in my head. Asian Sprinter Woman. Avoid Eye Contact Hairy Chest Man. Perfect Pilates Ass Lady. Sweaty Clown Bag. Hungry Sorority Girl. Naked Locker Room Tits.
I hate that I always happen to walk in the locker room right as Naked Locker Room Tits is enthusiastically blow-drying her hair. Naked.
I hate that you make me question my morality every time January and the first two weeks of February rolls around because I take a weird sick pleasure in watching people fatter than I try to workout. I don’t hate you because you’re fat; you’re fat because I hate you.
I know this pent up hatred is unhealthy for my mental state and my imaginary therapist would suggest I cut all ties to sources of anger in my life. I am too vain for that. My consistent love/hate relationship with the gym has been in tact for 12 years. Yes, half of my life. What kind of twisted 6th grader demands a gym pass to 24 Hour Fitness for their 12th birthday? A vain one, that’s who.
As much as I hate you Gym, I know this relationship will continue if not with varying breaks for trendy yoga studios, aerobic pole dancing classes and whichever Groupon and Living Social deal I so choose to purchase in my attempts to replace you forever.
I know I need you because exercise causes endorphins and endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t. Cheers!
My post-grad life has plagued me with many intangible ideas of adultness—most of which I don’t support, yet am repeatedly confronted by. Similar to homeless people. I can’t pinpoint where I constructed this idea of adultness, it was most likely sold to me in a Pottery Barn catalog, but it’s achingly prosaic and colorless and therefore I protest it in all forms. A female Peter Pan minus the ginger overtones.
What I’m describing are nagging pangs of shoulds, like I should own hand towels; I should not drink a fourth vodka soda; I should use the term 401k non-ironically. I should have nice bottles of wine in the event people stop by or I have a slam-car-door/start-to-cry-day. Occasionally known as my period.
My DVR should include more than I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant and The Real Housewives of New Jersey: The Reunion: Part 3. I should recycle. My wardrobe should involve more than just the likes of Forever 21 sweatshops. My bed should be made and include decorative “I have my shit together” throw pillows.
These shoulds are there like an itchy tag in a comfortable sweater, annoying enough to notice but small enough to completely ignore. According to good ol’ Merriam-Webster, not entirely sure if that’s a hyphenated last name or two separate individuals who bonded over their infinite love of definitions, but “adult” is defined as “fully developed and mature”, which thankfully clarifies absolutely nothing.
I was fully developed by 8th grade and will most likely never be fully mature. Sometimes I have fleeting inclinations of this adultness and disguise my Us Weekly in a NY Times when I wander the office for my third cup of coffee. It shows people how adult I am. Like what do you know about Syria? Try me.
I’ve concluded, however, that an adult is not a real thing. It’s just a conception, varying interpretations of how you want to define fully developed and mature. Part of me wants to jump into adultdom head first: monogram things, make centerpieces, use excel for my bills, buy art, date someone in a suit and use decorative serving platters for the delicious things I totally know how to bake.
The other part of me wants to shit all over this conception of adultness and start a revolution of irresponsibility that only ends in Costa Rica or the hospital. I know I am slowly becoming an adult, if not begrudgingly and at a glacial pace, only because I recently re-watched Annie and for the first time I sympathized with Ms. Hannigan. You too would hate your life and guzzle vodka if you were in charge of 200 singing orphans.
Post-grad pre-mortgage life is an interesting gray period of time that’s like driving with your headlights on. You can’t see the end of the road but you can see far enough in front of you to keep going in the right direction.
Although there is mounting pressure to be an adult, don’t make false agreements with yourself. Don’t be who you think you should be. You’ll end up working in a bank, dating a person you hate, & pre-maturely plotting your losing battle with alcoholism. And we don’t need that. Cheers!
The reality of my first job out of college is this: I’m not terribly important. Pause for shock. Accepting that my entry-level existence is about as memorable and necessary as Justin Guarini is incredibly taxing on my ego. I’ve always assumed that feeling underappreciated and interchangeable was for unhappy valium-popping housewives not overzealous type-A recent graduates such as myself.
If the reverberating mantra in your head is, “I can’t believe I went to college for this” than you know my pain. Or work in fashion. I may be a byproduct of living in the “age of entitlement” blah blah blah we are all selfish and narcissistic and Facebook and Twitter prove this. We get it New York Times, slow your roll. Having a generation filled with millions of Veruca Salts who all want it NOW is hardly an epidemic or a novel concept. You are boring me with myself.
Professors and sociologists need to come up with some more exciting facts about the “me generation” other than that we are all obsessed with ourselves. Duh. I thought we all collectively agreed to just blame this on our parents for giving us fourth place trophies and stroking our egos at a young age.
What some scientists may classify as entitlement, I see as ambition or being uncomfortable with resting at the bottom. I’ve always envisioned being a real power bitch, most likely wearing a vintage cream Yves Saint Laurent suit with black coffee in hand and a lot of responsibility on my back.
Obviously, I’m really skinny from being so stressed from being so important. It’s a vicious cycle but I manage it with grace and red lipstick. I have an impossibly packed schedule, which my very attractive gay assistant manages in between giving me compliments and foot rubs. Every idea I pitch is the best idea you’ve ever heard and people laugh for a little too long when I tell jokes.
Clearly, I’ve had a lot of time to curate this detailed image of success but what kind of self-obsessed generation member would I be without thinking about myself all the time? Although this future-vision of myself currently only exists in my head, I’m a firm believer in attracting what you want in life via positive thinking.
Some of you may call this The Secret but in reality it’s just a healthy coping mechanism for accepting that you aren’t rich or important yet. It’s more effective than crying over your diploma and complaining to your parents about your perpetual poordom.
It’s not my damn fault that every graduation speaker, like ever, told us to “go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined”. Thank you Thoreau, you non-tax paying gypsy, I am living the life I imagined albeit the much poorer & drunker life I imagined.
Not being the boss career woman of my dreams sucks but at the very least I reckon your twenties are all about planting seeds, not reaping harvest. And I don’t mean planting the seeds of babies and marriage you little youth-wasters. You all know how I feel about locking it up too early.
With all of this being said, I’m learning to accept that “entry level” usually means possessing the skillset of a ten year old minus the perks of actually being a ten year old. Remember kids, it’s nice to be important but it’s more important to be nice! A nice person said that. Cheers!
During my fleeting youth, Halloween was a time when I could gleefully stuff my face with as much sugar as my grubby hands could possibly steal from participating neighbors. I would consume copious amount of candy until I went into pre-diabetic shock and my parents were forced to violently rip my pillowcase from me. Similar to me and wine bottles now.
The word calorie was not even in my vocabulary and Halloween was simply about dressing up and hustling, which technically it still is. Somewhere between 8th grade and college, Halloween stopped being about how much candy you could keep in and around your mouth and all about how slutty and hot you could look. Stop for a collective pause to reflect on how much this sucks.
What kind of evil world do we live in when a holiday that used to be about celebrating self-inflicted sugar comas is now about self-starvation and parading around in creative lingerie? The evilest of worlds.
Halloween for women is all about being a hooker in cat ears and if you think that’s easy you’re either drunk or a male. I’m hardly Susan B. Anthony over here but Halloween is not easy, it’s about looking easy. And that’s not easy.
If you think you have any other option, you simply don’t. I know this because I recently visited my local Spirit Halloween store. For $50 you can be a slutty nurse, pirate, cop, racecar driver or whatever else your slutty little heart desires.
I personally view this as a war on women. The world is trying to convince me that dressing up as hooker-versions of real-life occupations is fun! No world! Eating 14 Snickers is fun, this sucks.
I was fine subscribing to this madness in college because your professors basically give you time off to hit the gym and get spray tans so you can be as skinny and hot as possible for Halloween.
Your sorority kitchen is locked and bolted and your friends rally around you for competitive non-eating support. It was a fine system that yielded impressive results but now the jig is up and there isn’t enough adderol to keep this train moving.
So what are my options? Spirit Halloween has led me to believe I can either dress like a ho or not dress up. That is all. Not dressing up means you won’t be getting attention and I would sooner crawl into a hole and die than not get attention.
So now I’m at war with myself. My feminist-intelligent-pragmatic side is battling my slutty-attention-starved-alcoholic side. Yet again.
I’ll probably end up settling for a costume somewhere in the middle. Something that says “I’m respectable but let’s makeout”. If all else fails I’ll just go as a character from Girls or a pregnant Jessica Simpson. Cheers & Happy Friday!
A few months ago I acquired a bad habit of lying while drinking. For the record, the lying is the bad habit and the drinking shall continue. I’m not sure how this mysterious habit formulated because in the sober light of day I wouldn’t even classify myself as a pathological liar or even a part time liar.
I’m usually honest to a flaw, answering yes when friends ask, “Does this make me look fat?”. When I was eight I told my Aunt that her chest looked like a piece of salami. I’m not sure if that is an example of my honesty or an example of why it’s important to wear sunscreen.
Back to the lying…how can I somehow blame this on the economy? After a cocktail or 8, I’m suddenly a pro-surfer from Australia, a back-up dancer on hiatus from a Madonna tour or an heiress to the Tabasco fortune. What is frightening is how quick and assertive I am when crafting these stories, leaving whatever poor friend is with me no choice but to nod in agreement and wonder when I became crazy.
It’s like liqueur gives me access to the most creative parts of my brain and allows me to tell innocent strangers detailed accounts of a past that never occurred. My drunk self even likes to spout out unimpressive lies. That I grew up in Kentucky and I’m finishing my third year at Santa Monica City College, which strangely enough, is a very enticing lie for boys in LA to hear.
I think it’s a mixture of the assumed naiveté and sweetness that comes with the idea of Kentucky and the assumed unintelligence that comes with the stigma of a community college. People think you are less jaded and combative if you say you are from a state that conjures up images of horse races and homemade apple pie.
In my defense, lying while drinking isn’t entirely my fault, I’ve been genetically predisposed to it. My drunk sister crashed an upscale Jewish wedding at The Plaza in NYC and concocted a flawless and flippant lie that she went to college with “Sarah’s cousin”.
Sadly, there was a real Sarah at this wedding and sadly my sister did not go to college with her cousin. My sister and her aggressive use of the open bar were asked asked to leave.
If that isn’t proof that my drunken lies are a byproduct of a faulty gene pool then I don’t know what is. Am I a victim? Absolutely. An obvious casualty of circumstance. If these latent lies are harboring within me, who am I to stop my own freak flag from flying? Who am I to cast shadows by standing in my own sunlight?
Recently, I’ve made a concerted effort to silence all fictional personalities and converse in mostly real versions of myself because making up stories scares people, although I personally find it to be an underappreciated talent or lost art.
I’m unsure if this hard-dying habit formed out of boredom with myself or boredom with others. It may be a defense mechanism in order to ensure I don’t have to form any real connections with people or it might be some deep-seeded desire to pursue acting.
Though my strange affair with curating extravagant personalities is on a brief hiatus, a lot has been learned from this time in my life. Some of my findings:
1. You can get away with doing and saying almost anything if you have an Australian accent.
2. Do not panic when someone you know from college unexpectedly shows up at the bar and completely derails your carefully crafted lie. Stay calm and stay Australian.
3. People are exponentially nicer to you if you claim to be from any state that starts with the letter K or has the words North or South in front of it.
4. If you are going to claim to dance for Madonna, have a good reason for why she is still on tour and you aren’t.
5. If further questioned, imply that they are in fact blacked out. It’s called reverse psychology.
6. The more you drink the more details you will inevitably craft. Some details may be stolen from Disney movies. Ignore this.
7. Refrain from expecting your friends to participate. They don’t know your fake past like you do.
8. Accept all drinks that people buy for the more-interesting version of you.
9. Don’t start to really like the person you are lying to. It’s too late. You are already crazy.
10. Always know where the bathrooms, nearest exits, and emergency fire escapes are in the rare case that the fake-version of you gets trapped into answering the name of the elementary school you once attended in Sydney.
Remember kids, I am not advocating this kind of lifestyle. I am simply giving you pointers for when you inevitably have an early-twenties brush with insanity. At best you will be the most interesting person at the party and at worst you will earn a rep for being an utter loon, consider either of those titles equally flattering. Cheers!