Humor, Life, Rambles


I have this theory that I only look truly hot in my bathroom mirror.

And if proven to be true, this theory is quite unfair to the other (seven billion minus one, I can’t even begin to do that math) people on this Earth because (seven billion minus one) people cannot fit into my bathroom all at the same time to witness me looking hot. And even if we scheduled out a time to get roughly six people into my bathroom to witness me looking hot, it would take a billion (is that right?) trips to show everyone how hot I looked.

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How much “more info” could I possibly want?

Adding in the time required for each person to adequately drink in my beauty, and I’m looking at 32 years—at least—of being in a bathroom with six other strangers, and that’s just if each group gets a one-second viewing, which is unlikely and—frankly—unfair to them. But by even doubling the viewing time—64 years—or tripling it—96 years—it still seems impossible to do.

So the moral of the story is that you’ll have to just take my word for it that I’m hot.

End of post.

Just kidding. Could you imagine? That was basically a math class.

Side bar, I was lying on my front lawn with my laptop—to be artsy, obviously—and I had to give up because I was getting uncomfortably moist. Which got me thinking, is that redundant? Is there a way to be “comfortably moist?” It doesn’t seem like it.

I’ve been wearing a lot of short bathing suits and watching a lot of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, which obviously has led me to thinking about my ass a lot. I’m long and lean—with a 10/10 face, in my bathroom mirror—so while my butt is cute and perky, it doesn’t pack a punch.

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So today—Sunday, today, not Monday, today, when you’ll be reading this—I did squats and lunges. I put on “The Night Is Still Young” for some Nicki Minaj inspiration. And while doing that, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—the mirrors at my Planet Fitness gym might be a solid second for how hot I look—and saw my profile. And my little tush wasn’t Kardashian-esque but it was cute in profile.

I was listening to Ross Mathews’ podcast Straight Talk With Ross

Minute—minute as in “very small” and not as in “a measurement of 60 seconds”—side bar, I never know when to italicize and when to put things in quotes. Like, if it’s apart of a greater piece of work, you put in quotes, I think, but what is a podcast? Very unclear.

—and one of his cohosts was giving advice to a caller. She was nervous about bringing a guy back to her house because it wasn’t all Pinterested out and she was worried he wouldn’t be (P)interested in her if her house was subpar. And the cohost said that most people don’t notice the décor if the ambience and the host are warm and inviting.

“He’s not going to notice your throw pillows,” she—the cohost—said. “He’s going to notice you.”

And so, in a roundabout—“rounded butt” more like it—way, my ass is like a throw pillow. It’s nice that it’s there, but it’s not crucial to the party. But then, also, in a later episode, Ross said that he has roughly forty throw pillows in his house and he rotates and swaps them out, so maybe throw pillows are important? I’m getting very mixed signals here. What does that mean about my butt?

I’ve been reading a lot of BuzzFeed articles about how to “dress for your curvy body,” and while that sounds odd, because I’m not a voluptuous woman, I’ve discovered a ton of curvy women role models who totally embrace their body. Add that in to Ross Mathews, who is the poster child (man?) for loving your body, and that’s really what I want to get into. Loving my body. Living for it. Thinking that it slays. Because body confidence is sexy and refreshing and wholly too uncommon.

I have a small but perky butt. I have long eyelashes. I have good hair. I have nice lips. I have shoulders that have potential, a little tummy poof. But I have killer thighs and calves. That can be enough for now. I still slay. I’m still making people gag on my eleganza, live for me, die for me.

P.S. I saw this commercial for a medicine that combats foot fungas and it had an anthropomorphized foot playing tennis. This is not Don Draper’s dream.


There are no words. This is pedi-ful. Get it? Like “pitiful” but “pedi” because of foot.


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