^This is a great example of why real writers don’t think of funny clickable titles before actually writing their articles. But I’m not a real writer, so FUCK ‘EM.
I just erased about 200 words of a blog post about millennials, and I really don’t know what I was thinking. I was writing about the housing market, you guys. The housing market; not a doughnut market or a flea market—now that’s a flea-sized market, not a flea-market, with like couches or anything—which are normally my areas of expertise, but the real housing market. And I scared myself.
Side bar, did anyone else know that “millennials” have that extra, sneaky, secret “n” in it? I’ve been spelling it “millenials” forever.
But in the wake of having no previous essays about my life and not having anything excruciatingly embarrassing happen to me since my last post, I’m going to go a la The Bloggess and do a life-y, non-essay post. “The second mention of the Bloggess in two posts?” you ask, “Are you trying to get her attention?”
“YES” is the correct answer.
Oh wait, something embarrassing did happen to me. Well, mildly embarrassing. Someone commented on my nipples. I have weird nipples. Not weird in appearance or spirit, but weird in that I feel like they’ve generated more conversation about themselves than the average nipple accrues in its lifetime.
I was shirtless and about to go into the pool at work when someone commented on the hairs around my nipples. Yes, I have hairs around my nipples. Apparently, my body—which is about as hairless and unmasculine as a Sphynx cat—grows sparse hairs on my chest, around those nips and below my belly button. I don’t have sexy chest hair. and the guy was like, “Why don’t you trim them?” and I was like “Um, I do trim them, I just left a little on because I have very pale nipples and I don’t want to appear nipple-less.”
The other time is when boys on the track team would point out that my nipples were visible through the liquid-like texture of those running, sports-material shirts. Like I said, these bad boys have started a lot of conversation.
Anyway, I feel like it should be a general rule that A) No one talks about my nipples ever again and B) We all stop talking about each other’s bodies. Because, honey, I know my nipples better than anyone in this world. I don’t need you to tell me about my nipples.
I’m going to stop typing out the word “nipples” because even I’m getting creeped out now.
THERE’S NO SEGUE FROM THAT STORY
I just watched the awkward interview of Cara Delevingne with Good Day, Sacramento and I want to punch those anchors in the head. They were so rude and very “adults being condescending to a teenager whom they think is beneath them” and I would’ve been the same way. They called her “Carla.” Like journalism 101 is knowing the name of the person you’re interviewing.
And then The View ladies bashed her too. The young people—Raven Symone, my queen—was defending her and the old people—WHOOPI—were being so rude. Whoopi Goldberg said Cara wasn’t a famous actress. But who at this point hasn’t heard of fucking world supermodel Cara Delevingne? Also, Raven you look amazing! That hair! Those eyebrows! That berry lip!
I feel like the older generations are constantly looking down our generation. Like, they caused the housing crisis and have fought numerous wars, but suddenly we’re the fuckups for Tweeting while walking?
You go, Cara, and you go, Raven.
What else is annoying me?
Oh, why can’t I look hot—temperature—and hot—appearance—at the same time? Today it was a high of 97 degrees, and I was a greasy pizza mess. Note, I did not have pizza, that was just the state of my appearance. But I was near one of my coworkers—keeping this vague because some of them read this (Hi, guys!)—and the sweat was making his hair flawless and natural and he looked gorgeous. Why am I a Totino’s pizza roll and he is a Parisian croissant?
Side bar, when did Raven go on The View? Is Barbara Walters still alive? Where is Elisabeth Hasslebeck? Who is the lady in the middle complaining about being “hangry?”
OMG FUCKING SIDEST OF SIDE BARS: I hate it when people say “hangry.” It is, without a doubt, one of my top ten least favorite words. The only thing I can think of that tops the list is the name “Madison.” Just not a fan; no hate, though, Madisons of the world.
I figured out how to tie in the unrelated title. Everyone I’ve complained about—Whoopi, the nipple-obsessed co-worker, the Good Day Sacramento anchors—are being total fatheads. Yes, I’ve validated it.
Lorde knows I could kvetch for hours—typed that as “hors” and immediately thought that “kvetch for hors d’oeurves” would be a great catchphrase. Also has anyone else ever seen the words “hors d’oeurves” written out and said in their heads, “Whores devour?” Or is that just me? It’s fine if it’s just me.
OMFG did I just find a new signoff?