Humor, Rambles


Over the last week, I have made several questionable decisions. Here are a few of those decisions:

  • I finally had to Google “spoopy” today, like a forty-year-old. After two weeks of seeing it on Tumblr and reading it on my friend’s—Shelby—Twitter, I was like, “Okay, I need to know.”
  • I cut my bangs with scissors in the bathroom sink.
  • I bought a large jar of chocolate icing and proceeded to eat it. Just the icing.
  • I dropped some butternut squash on the kitchen floor while I was cutting it, and for multiple milliseconds, I was like, “Oh that’s fine,” but then someone walked in while it was on the floor, so I had to pick it up and throw it out.

I also waited until two days before it was due to start reading a 500-page novel for my English class, but that’s not so much a questionable decision as it is a manifestation of my crippling laziness.

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Okay, I’ll level with you guys. My last post—“You’re Bad At Picking People”—was—wait, lemme just do all the shameless self-promotion while I’m at it (Twitter: @thedanosaurus, Instagram: @thedanosaurus, Tumblr: Follow me—kinda emotional and it got a lot more traffic than the regular, non-emotionally psychotic posts do, and it was weird because I wrote that post in twenty minutes and published without really thinking about. I used “You” as the primary subject, but—spoiler alert—it was about me.

And whenever I post emotionally charged articles—i.e. every other week—I always feel like I need to do a cheerful post to even it out and make me not seem like a sobbing, quivering mess. I’m not a quivering mess.

Like I feel like I have to walk on eggshells a little, but I’m a goddamn bull in a china shop, so that doesn’t really work. Also, no one can walk on eggshells without breaking them. Is that what the saying is supposed to mean? That everyone attempts to tread lightly but they end up fucking everything up? And also, why are there eggshells all over this floor? Whose chickens are cracking their eggs all over the floor? Or is this a “peeling the hard-boiled egg” situation? This idiom is idiotic. And what’s it all meta-for anyway? AYOO.


I apologize. But didn’t I neatly distract you from the emotional hurricane I was in last week? How slick! How sly!

Side bar: I had to google “walking on eggshells” to figure out what that thing is called when it’s like a saying, but also a meaning? I thought it was colloquialism but it’s not. It’s an idiom.

What if I literally spent this entire blog just putzing around and not writing about my life or anything? Haha wouldn’t that be so spoopy. That’s not how you use that word. But that’s how I use that word. I tried to capitalize “I” to give it inflection but it doesn’t really have the same effect. I suppose I could’ve italicized it. I think that’s a good idea. Meh. Not that effective.


I’m trying to do that thing where when I disagree with people on things, I don’t immediately try to sock them in the face. I’m trying to be able to “agree to disagree,” which is not as much fun as hitting people in the nose, but earns me less strikes on my personal record. Like, the other day, someone—let’s call them Wrong—said that Taylor Swift did not have a good singing voice.

I gripped my knuckles, and dug my fingernails into my palms. “She. Is. Talented,” I hissed through clenched teeth, enamel flaking off with the force of my jaws clamped together.

Like, I don’t understand how people can’t think Taylor Swift has a good singing voice. I’m not asking you to love her. I’m not asking you to hold her hand while she gives birth. I’m not even asking you to pick her up from the airport. I’m just asking you to admit that—objectively, you fuck—the woman who is a megamillionaire due to her singing has a good singing voice. Is that so hard—you abominable nosepicker—? Isn’t it plausible—even for your tiny, idiot brain to comprehend, you poopyface—that the woman who has built an empire might not have “tricked people” with voodoo but might ACTUALLY POSSESS TALENT? IS THAT SO IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE?

Side bar: *takes deep breaths*

But yeah, anyway, I’m really trying to be more mature. I only threatened to punch someone in the face once today. Well, I guess twice, since I just wrote about wanting to punch someone in the face a few lines above this. Your Honor, I’m not a threat.

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I’m thinking of doing something ~fun~ and ~crazy~ and ~ambitious~ for the Christmas season on my blog this year, to celebrate the end of The Wunderkindof’s—follow me on Twitter—first year online. But I’m not going to write it out because if it doesn’t pan out—i.e. if I get lazy and/or eat more icing—I don’t want evidence of my shame living on the Internet forever. Speaking of shame living on the Internet forever, I was thinking about AIM today and wishing I could read archives of old AIM conversations I had in the “good ole days” before I came out of the closet and discovered a decent acne cream.


Spoiler alert: it’s not this.


I’m being Bob Belcher for Halloween. I figured since I’m not going to a gay club for Halloween—a.k.a. Gay Christmas—I wouldn’t need to dress sexy. So for my costume, I’m wearing gray sweatpants and ugly man clogs. I love it. But since I’m going “out” on a “pub crawl” on “Friday,” I need to come up with another costume, and I want to be something both sexy and grotesque. Maybe a sexy standardized test? Slutty office supplies?

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Okay, so bye? Maybe I’ll do a bonus post detailing my Hallowieners experience and if I score some boy-on-boy hand-holding? Unlikely, but not impossible.

(What’s that?)

Sorry hold on.

(Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Okay.)

I’m getting confirmation from our source on the ground that it is, indeed, impossible that I will get boy-on-boy hand-holding this Halloween season. Back to you, Rick.

I'm nothing if not a law scholar.

I’m nothing if not a law scholar.



Life, Rambles


You have a crush on someone. You fantasize about the way they say your name, the way it lingers on their lips and the curve of their tongue. You think of silly ways to bump into them. You count the moments you spend together. Every word is a story; every pause is a space to drop your coat and bask in them.

You create a version of them that is so complete and full that it’s impossible to realize that it’s not them until you are confronted with two people with mirrored faces.

And then small reasons crop up. They’re too good-looking. They’re too good. They’re too nosy. They eat in a weird way. You stop yourself from leaping. You retreat. You pick people that you don’t have to leap for.

You pick people that come with instruction manuals and lists of reasons why they can’t love you. They’re tens and you’re sevens, and you’re bad at math. It’s a fraction that won’t balance. It’s them too smart and you too dumb. It’s them too goody and you too damaged. It’s them fractious and you whole. It’s a litany. It’s a memoir of reasons and buts and if only and when and then you’re alone in your room and you’re breathing a sigh of relief for having avoided the chasm and that deep descent.

You pick people who have reasons baked into them, so that when it falls apart and they can’t commit and you can’t leap, you are able to validate what you felt all along. You are not enough. You are not good enough at math to bridge that gap. Sevens are prime; they cannot fit with anything. They are the lowest. Tens are whole and bendy and bouncy. Sevens are prickly. Sevens are unlovable. Sevens are sharp.

You pick people that are mountains, and you try to scale them in flip-flops. You set yourself up to fail, and when you’re lying at the bottom of the mountain nursing the bloody smiley scrapes on your arms, you bask in the pain. You bask in the safe comfort of knowing that you are fractious. That you are a bomb with no pin.

I have no answer. I don’t know why we—me—pick people that come with bibles of reasons. Holy, unanswerable, unmovable reasons. I don’t know why we are programmed to self-destruct. I’m sure if I had a few hours on a couch in the click of a therapist, I could figure it out. I don’t know why we crave dysfunction, pain, negative validation. I don’t know why we—me—crave the inverse, crave the dark, crave the fall. But I know that there is something satisfying in the fall. In the pain. It is finite. It is common. It is known. It ends and it begins in cycle, but it ends. For a while.

You need to pick people who don’t come with reasons. Who are void of self-destruction manuals. Pick people that are grossly ready for you. Pick people who are unassuming and prime numbers. Pick tens who are grounded. Fuck math. Math never got you anywhere. Leap into primes and fractions and fuck everything and everyone that tells you that some things will never add up.

But you need to stop trying to scale mountains in flip-flops. Because you’re better than the fall. You’re better than blood and scrapes. You need to believe that. Because until you do, you’ll be stuck picking defective relationships. You’ll be stuck in a cycle of negative validation, swirling until you’re too fucked up to function.

Pick people that smile at you slipping. Pick people that make you feel comfortable enough to eat in front of. Pick people who don’t make you collect words in your mouth like marbles. Pick people that make the words fall out onto sun-warmed stone. Be sun-warmed stone. Be soft. Be mutable. Be fluid. Pick yourself up. Pick yourself flowers. Pick yourself.

Stop picking pain over pleasure. Stop picking the finite of your own fucked-up-ness. Stop stopping yourself. Leap. Fly. Fall. But do it for someone who has the capacity to leap too. I don’t know how to see that person. I’m fucked up. But I can hope that one day I won’t see the reasons not and start seeing the green lights. I can hope that one day we can figure it out and not wish for the fall and the pain.

That’s the hope.

Humor, Life


I’m sure there’s some deep, psychologically scarring reason for this, but I completely bro out whenever I talk to Straight Guys. And I’m not talking straight guys. I’m talking “Loves Golf, Will Date A Blonde But Marry A Brunette, Lunches At The Club and Knows What A 401(k) Is” capital Straight Guys.

Side bar: I had to look up how to write 401(k). Apparently it is not 401K. Who knew?

Case in point, whenever I see the Straight Guys on my floor, I immediately bark, “Sup, bro?” and my internal monologue is just, What am I doing? Why am I fist-bumping him right now? What’s happening? And it just spirals from there.


Last night, I went out to the local university’s bar because I thought there was going to be a cute boy there but there wasn’t, and instead it was just me and people and Jenny and Jenny’s new friend who is the cooler, gayer version of me, right now to the fact that we wear the same model and brand of glasses. Anyway, we were all dancing and 2.0—the Cooler Gay Guy—was doing that dance where it’s like a sexy librarian, all smooth hips but classy and restrained.


And I tried to copy him a little because I actually can’t dance, so I just imitate whoever I’m dancing near, but my moves are generally so malformed that the two dances don’t even resemble each other.

The Sexy Librarian isn’t working so I switch to an Ole Faithful.

“Watch me do the Sad Stripper!” I scream at Jenny and 2.0, and begin to dance provocatively, all while screwing my face into a baby bawl. As my face violently sobs, my booty drops it low and picks it back up again. And again. And again.

Big finale!

Keeping my legs in a triangle, an Eiffel Tower if you will—

Side bar: Not the sex act.

—I bend into an acute angle, my face roughly level with my ankles, and all of a sudden I slip in a puddle of beer and my right foot rockets away from the rest of my body. My legs go so far apart that they’re not even separated, they’re divorced, and I topple forwards, landing hard on the ground.


“Was that part of the dance?” Jenny asks.

“Um, no, that wasn’t,” I confirm.

My toe rapidly swelling inside my Vans, I decide that this night has been long enough and I decide to trek back home.

As I reflect over the night, while limping slightly and powerwalking to Kanye West’s “POWER,” I think that I maybe should’ve been nicer to 2.0. I wasn’t outright rude, I was just a little frosty, and asserted my dominance like a dog peeing on a lawn. In this case, Jenny is the lawn, and I am peeing on her. I’m sticking with this metaphor.


He’s just a little too similar to me, but in the worst ways. Like, I bet he never falls down the stairs while Tweeting. Or has back sweat that could solve California’s drought. Or pulls clothes out of the hamper and gives them a whore’s bath—spritz them with cologne—and wear them out to Da Club. It’s like what I imagine having an older brother to be like. I only have sisters, and I’m the favorite out of the three of us.

I’m sure that if I actually knew him, I would like him, but I’m immature and he’s a poopyface so I think I’ll pass. Also I look better in the glasses. I’m kidding. Actually I’m not sure.


I really don’t know how to interact with other people in social settings. It’s weird, because sometimes I completely nail it like a carpenter or a nail technician and everyone loves me and other times it’s like the Hindenburg had a social media account and no social cues.

See, that was offensive. To blimps. I’m not winning anything today.



P.S. I’ve been reading a lot of “fashion” blogs recently and they’re very ~professional~ and don’t curse nearly as much as I do and that’s very ~unprofessional~ of me so can I do anything right? Or will I be forever destined to be the Sad Stripper at dances?



It starts slowly. A trip taken by yourself. Paying for that cute bomber jacket with money that you earned at your job. And then it gets bigger. You start cooking for yourself. You buy plane tickets by yourself. You can remember things that happened five years ago.

Suddenly, you’re standing in front of a stovetop in Venice, stirring spaghetti and making sure it’s the perfect amount of al dente because that’s important to you, and realizing that this might be a moment that you tell your kids, or your cat, about in twenty years. When you were a twenty-year-old with wild hair, bare feet against cold linoleum in a rented apartment that you think is quaint but will probably realize later looks a little bit like a very upscale prison, cooking pasta and burning the pancetta.

And you realize that five years ago, you were fifteen, and you were just as cognizant as you are now. Because five years before that, you were ten and you couldn’t cross the road without getting hit by a goddamn car.

And you realize that your friends are seniors and juniors in college, and they’re all getting “jobs” and you have an internship where no one tells you when not to have your phone or when to take your lunch break. And that’s scary.


Because you’re still a kid. You still eat ice cream out of the carton and leap-frog across the white stripes of the crosswalk. You still can’t decide how exactly planes stay up in the air because how the goddamn fuck does a giant metal soda can with wings fly in the sky and why aren’t we calling that magic? You still haven’t registered to vote, but you’ve registered for the draft. You can drive a car, but you can never remember if milk cartons are recycled or just thrown out.

You realize that the daydreams of yesterday are the reality of tomorrow and suddenly you’ll have to start thinking about what it is you might do with your life, and that makes you really want to watch Netflix in bed forever.


I went to the first day of my internship today. For the first hour, I didn’t even touch my phone. I was afraid to. I thought that someone would tell me to stop. Then I began tentatively checking an email. And then I realized that no one really cares what I’m doing unless I’m doing my job and doing it well. And then I realized that I’m doing a job.

I went to the supermarket after work. I made a grocery list. I daydreamed about what I was going to cook with my kale. Peppers. I’m going to cook peppers with my kale.

I like getting older because I looked tragic in high school and I’m finally starting to look cute—maybe next year I’ll hit a second puberty and pull some sort of Duckling-Swan thing (unlikely)—but today was the first day where I was like, “Wait, I’m living a real, human person life, and that’s gross.” So I’m in a little bit of a upward spiral. It’s upward because technically this is a good thing, but it’s a spiral because I have a weak stomach and a propensity towards motion sickness on amusement park rides.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that just because someone graduates college or has a job or pays “bills” doesn’t mean that they’re an adult. Because I don’t know if I want to be an adult. Adults can’t throw temper tantrums because that’s just called anger issues. Adults can’t lie around all day and eat Maltesers because they have to earn money. So I want to be an adult but also a kid and also a teen, but not a tween because that was a gross time for me. Truly, truly, a gross time.


Age doesn’t make you an adult. Responsibility makes you an adult. So I plan on avoiding that like the plague. Which I also avoid.

Inspirational, Life


Being gay is really hard because how do you be gay? And by you I mean me. I don’t think it’s a well-kept secret that I am high-key intimidated by other gay guys because I feel like they’re so much better at being gay than me. But what does that even mean?


I never kissed a boy until I was 18. I never went on a date until college. I have never had a real, adult, full-fledged relationship.

I came out when I was fifteen to my parents, but didn’t tell my friends until sixteen, and the wider world until eighteen. When I was in high school, I was fighting against the Puritanical rigors of high school at a Catholic all boys institution. When I got to college, I was suddenly in this world where I wasn’t fighting for recognition. No one really cared. I was like, “I’M GAY WORLD,” and everyone was like, “Yeah okay, can you keep it down? It’s quiet hours,” and I was like, “Oh okay sorry, so sorry.”


So here’s how you be gay.

1). You stop caring. You stop trying to compare yourself to other gay guys, other straight guys; just other people. You stop counting the dates you’ve been on or haven’t been on. You stop worrying about the “gay voice.”

When someone told me that they didn’t clock me as gay because I didn’t sound gay, I was almost reverse offended. When I was younger, my voice was outrageous and explosive and expressive. It entered the room before I did. That “gay voice” that I hated so much as a kid, forced me to be who I am today.

2). Ask out whoever you goddamn want. This is really hard, because I am a serial psycho when it comes to asking people out. I wait and wonder and wilt until the last second before asking someone out. I almost get a perverse pleasure out of people saying no, because deep down it fulfills the dark feelings I have of not being good enough. It validates me and strangles me. So stop worrying about getting rejected. Stop thinking that you’re not cute enough or thin enough or muscular enough or clever enough or funny enough.


3). Educate yourself. Being gay is a gift because you are awakened to the struggles of other oppressed people. Being gay is also a gift because sometimes you’re able to “pass” as straight. It’s a privilege that other people of our community, trans men and women and gender non-conforming people, don’t always have. So recognize your privilege, and educate yourself to the struggle of others. Our eyes are opened to the wider world, but we need to do something about it.

4). Have fun. People always wonder why I don’t like scary movies. I like comedies because life is enough of a drag. Be light. Take joy in the small things. Take joy in the victories. Utilize self-care. Love yourself. Have a blast.

5). Don’t worry about fulfilling expectations. I oscillate a lot between feeling like I need to be super outgoing and be making out with boys and going on dates and trying to buck stereotypes and just be the opposite of what everyone thinks gay guys should be. I am gay, but sexuality should not be your first and foremost. Create your life as a fully fleshed out person, not with the expectations of other people in mind. I am a late-bloomer; I am emotionally unprepared sometimes for deep relationships. And that’s not a bad thing. I am exercising self-care and putting my needs before my desire to please others.

Being gay is hard because there’s no rulebook. There is no “norm.” Be gentle with yourself. Run your hands gently over your scars. We’re all scarred.


But you have a choice on how you deal with your scars and your past and your future. So don’t be afraid to fuck up and fall on your face and be goofy and be sexy and be confident. Because that’s the whole point of being twenty and young and vivacious.

Life, Rambles


So technically it’s past midnight here in the UK, which means I’ll be posting this on a Tuesday technically but the majority of my audience is American so really I didn’t miss anything and you’re welcome.

Today was a bit of an odd day. I woke up at eleven, wrote an exam paper, ate chicken nuggets and then watched Halloweentown. I also changed the background on my laptop. And along the way, I discovered myself.

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Just kidding, but I did realize these things.

1). Halloweentown has a number of alarming plot holes that I didn’t realize as a twelve-year-old.

2). I wish I were a kid again and not overanalyze old Halloween movies.

3). I am incapable of being cute in front of cute boys.

4). I can’t wall-twerk. But I guess I could figured that out on my own.

Okay, end of blog.

Just kidding, I’m going to explain. First, why did Agatha not put the sorcery orb thing into the pumpkin first? Also why if Marnie didn’t become a witch, does that mean that she would live only to like 80 years old, unlike her grandmother who is like 1000? How old is Marnie’s mom? Is Sophie possessed by the devil? Why is it a goddamn bus that takes the people from Earth to Halloweentown? Are there other Halloweentowns? Is it a full world? WHY DID THEY REPLACE MARNIE WITH SARA PAXTON? NEVER FORGET.

As a twenty-year-old watching Halloweentown on a Monday night while eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton with a large tablespoon, I guess I wasn’t as mesmerized as its target audience: twelve-year-olds. But I wish I was as easily entertained as I once was. I want to relive Halloweentown and not immediately think, “Hallowieners.”

I was writing my exam paper in the school library, so after writing 1000 words, I decided to reward myself with some tea. While I was leaving, my new friend—hmm—Jess told me that there was free pizza in the lounge. I shoved her out of my way and stormed up the stairs.

One hand holding my tea, I unhinged my jaw and stuffed two slices of pizza into my mouth. I decided to go back to the library, so I walked slowly down the stairs and ate my pizza. However, I wasn’t done when I got back to the library, so I hovered outside for a second gnawing on my food before eating enough of the pizza to kind of hide it behind my phone. I have the iPhone 6.

Once past the librarians, I stuff the pizza back into my mouth, one hand holding tea and the other hand holding my phone. Just as I cram the pizza into my fat slob mouth, I walk past a really cute boy. Let’s call him Patagonia. He is very white.

“Hi,” Patagonia does that almost silent hi.

I grunt around the pizza in my mouth a word that was supposed to be “Hi” but really ended up sounding like “Gugghsh” like a seal gulping down a fish at the aquarium.

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Like, there are days when I shower and shave and pick out an outfit and comb my hair—okay, that part is a lie, I don’t comb my hair—and wash my face. I never see cuties on days like that. No, it’s days when I haven’t showered for 36 hours or shaved in four days, and am wearing a Beyonce lyric sweatshirt and a beanie and have pizza sticking out of my mouth that I run into anyone remotely hot.

Lastly, I twerked against the wall to the Halloweentown ending credits. I’m not proud, but I’m also not not proud. It took me SO long to figure out how to get you guys the video, so hopefully the link below works! And werks! And twerks! And I’ll stop now.

[Twerking to Halloweentown]

Finally, like Norman Rockwell always used to say, “I really want a hot dog right now.”

Lol this post isn’t great. But who cares. It’s free content, fuckers.


Humor, Life


Do you ever have one of those bad days where it’s not really a “bad day” bad day, like you don’t have a plunging depression, and you don’t get knocked over in the supermarket, and you don’t rip your pants in front of that really cute boy with the half-moon smile? You just feel generally grumpy and want to trip someone.

Yeah, me neither.

JUST KIDDING, I’M DEFLECTING. I’m having one of those days now.

I’ve had “bad day” bad days, and today is not that. I’m in a mood that’s teetering over disgruntled and into “bah humbug” sans Christmas and three ghosts.

Last night I went to a bar—the bar of the college associated with Fictitious University’s study abroad satellite campus—with Jenny and Sebastien—are you happy? Now you know your name. Knowing you, though, there’s a good chance you might hate it—and friends of Jenny’s. It was really fun. It was also full of freshers—UK first years—and we largely spent our nights hovering around British people and whisper-arguing about how best to break into their conversations so as to make British friends.


One of Jenny’s friends and I decided that we would use the “Do you have a lighter?” ploy to hijack the conversation of a group of three boys and a girl. We decided that that was a good ratio of peens-to-vajeens because it was obvious that the girl was just friends with the guys and it was not a Mormon Situation.

“Do you guys have a light?” Ainslie asks, holding a cigarette between her fingers.

The tallest boy—hook nose, but in a cute way, and a beanie covering sandy blonde hair—shakes his head. “No.”

“Wait,” I say, shouldering Ainslie aside. “Are you guys British or American?”

“American,” Hook says.

“FUCK,” I say. “Bye,” and half-jokingly begin to walk away. Obviously the joke is hilarious and everyone laughs and we begin to chat.

They’re all from Malibu—which is…no comment—and they’re all blonde and laugh at me when I do the “cool brah” hand thing where I stick my thumb and pinky out like a dickhead and shake it like a maraca.

Eventually, we get onto the topic of travel, and one of the boys—who is cute with glasses and is the definition of “Did I meet you before, or are you just a generic white boy?”—says they’re going to Sweden. Stockholm.

“Oh, you’ll have to listen to “Stockholm Syndrome” by—”

“By One Direction,” he finishes my sentence. How fucking cute. “I love them. I just went to their concert.”

“ME TOO,” I flirt-yell. “The Wednesday one.” He went to the Monday one. I’m planning a summer wedding. The groomsmaids will wear champagne.

Side bar: Once my older sister told me that she would refuse to be in my wedding party if the genders on both sides of the wedding party were not balanced. We both know that’s false, because Margot will grab at any chance to stand in front of other people in a fancy dress.

Long gay story short, he’s not gay. We found this out when Jenny said, loudly, “I don’t even like One Direction that much, I just want to have sex with Harry Styles. Which one do you want to have sex with?” and Stockholm just answered, “Um. None of them? I just like their music?”


  2. I don’t want to paint with a broad brush, but no straight males should ever like One Direction because then you should be gay and in love with me.

So other than the feeble attempt at romance with Stockholm, I didn’t meet any cute boys who like boys. I just talked to “straight” people about “England” and “nuclear weapons” and “cricket.” I have a wide breadth of conversation topics. I can discuss nuclear weapons almost as easily as I can discuss the pros and cons of Khloé Kardashian being classified as the “hottest Kardashian” while Kim is pregnant. Also I binge-read multiple articles about what Kim will be naming her son. Some sources are saying Easton but that hurts me, so I’m gonna veto that one. My vote is still on Ocean. Or Second Coming of Christ West.


And I hate being that person who’s like “Oh I didn’t meet any guys tonight, so the world is a black, swirling void and nothing matters,” because I hate that person but I just want to meet a cute boy. Or I want to pet a cute dog. These are simple requests. I’m a very reasonable person. I’m like the most low-key celebrity ever.

So after a night of eating ramen, drinking beer at the university bar, and finishing off with my very first Burger King, I woke up today feeling about as good as roadkill. I didn’t shower before class, so as usual I was sweaty and uncute.

After going to the gym, showering, singing to “Shake It Off” and eating stir fry—and watching Miranda—I feel a little less grumpy and a little less frumpy. And now I’m sitting on the floor and my butt hurts but I’m talking with my friends. Charlie and Millie. Idk if you’re gonna like those names but I chose them already. Deal with it, kittens.




The other day I was in Tesco Express (it’s like 7-Eleven but with more food and less homeless people outside) and I saw a bag of Maltesers. They’re like Whoppers—a.k.a. malted milk balls—but Maltesers is the British version. Anyway, I grabbed the bag, and after it was in my clawed grip, I saw the smaller, more traditional box version.

I look at the box. I look at the bag in my hand. I look at the box. I keep the bag.

Later on, after I have ripped open the bag with the grace of a lioness tearing into a deer carcass, I noticed writing along the tear. Mouth full of Maltesers, I put the two flaps back together and read the words:

More to share!

And hey, Maltesers, let’s stop with the fucking Judgment Train. We both know that the people buying your hefty size of Maltesers are not going to “share.”

Ripped apart like my dreams.

Ripped apart like my dreams.

I resent the implication that by buying the larger size, I will be sharing. I will not be shamed into gifting away my candy. There’s a reason I bought the big bag of Maltesers, and that’s because it was easier to hold them in the hand that wasn’t holding onto two chocolate cheesecake slices and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. You’re lucky I’m not pouring those Maltesers into a bowl and drowning them in milk. Actually, wait that sounds pretty good. I might do that.


*Returns with a handful of mini Babybel cheeses*

I didn’t do the Maltesers in milk thing because A) I have class and B) I didn’t feel like opening up my milk. So I just ate two mini Babybel cheeses. I am mildly paranoid that one of my floormates will steal a cheese, which is a weird thing to be paranoid about except that I used to steal my sister’s mini Babybel cheeses when she wasn’t home ALL THE TIME. I think I ate more of them than she did. Sorry, not sorry.

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Back to the Maltesers. This bag is not a goddamn cornucopia. This is not a Horn of Plenty. You won’t find this slightly larger than average bag on my Pilgrim table. So I feel justified in not sharing these malted milk balls. Additionally, sharing malted milk balls seems very Norman Rockwell, very Good Ole American. Like you and your high school sweetheart share a bag of Maltesers before you go off to World War One and she goes into some secretary work and suddenly it’s 2015 and you’re dead (?) and nothing matters and everything is darkness.

That’s what the idea of Maltesers makes me think of. So really, me not sharing my Maltesers is my way of keeping a little less nihilism in the world. Because, trust and believe, if I wanted to, I could REALLY GO THERE.

So besides veering dangerously towards diabetes, not much has been going on in my life. I went to Brixton this weekend—slay queen—and wrote 3000 words of a paper in two days only to find out that the due date is not this Tuesday, but NEXT TUESDAY. My eyes were bleeding at the end of the second day.

There are cute boys that I have my eye on—just one, because I’m cross-eyed (I’m not, cute boys, I just said that for comedy’s sake, 😉 so don’t worry)—but I’m really bad at flirting and it just ends up with me talking about snake penises. They have two.

I really want a pop queen album to look forward to. Last year around this time, I was preparing my body for 1989, and it’s been a very long time since I was excited for a pop album. I mean, Adele is supposedly coming out with a new album, but I’ve been burned by her before, so I’m not gonna believe that until it’s in my claw. Again, cute boys, I do not have a claw. It’s for comedy. I am single. I am available.

I just looked it up and apparently Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato have albums coming out in the next month-ish. I stand by my previous statement awaiting the album of a true pop queen.

I have nothing else to say. Maybe I’ll do, like, a personal essay for my Thursday post. I’m just not very interesting. That being said, hire me!

Life, Rambles


Wednesday, September 30th.

“I smell like a gym locker,” I scream over One Direction.

Jenny laughs and motions that she is, too, afflicted with this condition. We’re perched like birds in the upper echelons of the O2, a stadium that is currently filled with five thousand screaming girls, two thousand screaming women, one hundred adult men, and me and Jenny clutching each other whenever Liam, Niall or Harry pop up on the big screen.

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From our nosebleed seats, One Direction looks like a cluster of beautiful, tiny Polly Pocket dolls, but their visages blown up onto the two massive screens on either side of the stage cause us to go into literal fits of passion.

The mix of screaming and deep, chesty gasps is making the oxygen thin in the stadium, and the temperate is rising, making me steam like a lobster in my—very attractive—Zara, olive green bomber jacket that I had bought two hours previous.

As I hoarsely screech out the words to “Through the Dark,” I can’t believe that I’m actually here because who the fuck would’ve thought that I would buy tickets to a One Direction concert?

Answer: probably everyone. Except for…me.

It was a very spur of the moment, “I’m in London once why am I not going to seize this great experience by the balls” decision to purchase the ticket and even more of a spur of the moment decision to buy a $60 jacket to go along with my outfit. But I looked FUCKING AMAZING so really I think the decisions proved to be good.

We are easily older than everyone else in our area—barring moms—by at least four years, and while that fact would’ve made me feel embarrassed in a normal situation, apparently this One Direction concert veers into the fantastical because not only did we not give a flying fuck, we also danced like maniacs and screamed a multitude of sins towards the boys that were not appropriate for our surroundings but are perfectly appropriate to discuss right now:


Can you guess which one is mine? Does it even matter? Both are cries for help.

And also if you’ve ever read 1D fan fiction, you know that me screaming, “Liam, murder my vagina!” is definitively not the worst thing that these kids have ever heard. Oops, I gave away which one was mine. Now the mystique is gone.

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Also I wanted to name this post “Murder My Vagina, Liam Payne,” but I feel like that would be a “negative” in the vast Internet presence I am trying to cultivate.

One Direction is so good that it hurts and I took, like, a 100-second Snapchat story, which I cannot confirm because of the Snapchat update making the actual number-count obsolete. Once again, the new Snapchat update is getting in the way of legitimate journalism.

I felt more like a local navigating the tube after the concert, switching between different Underground lines. Nothing makes you feel like more of a goddamn badass than making a successful transfer. Coupled with my sleek, chic outfit and glasses, I felt like I looked like a local. Until I open my mouth and my American accent comes squawking out, I can—almost—pass.

Afterwards, Jenny and I went to a bar and danced with other people in our study abroad program until I finally went home at around 2 am, having gone on a muthafucking BUS and not getting stabbed. I don’t even use buses at home. I don’t even know if I know how to use the buses at home. I am truly a Londoner and will not accept any claims to the contrary. Or any clams.

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All in all, One Direction was a total win and I’m so glad I got to go and I even spent essentially the entire day with Jenny—well, like fourteen hours—and I didn’t want to stab her by the end or anything! Which is…progress? It means I’m a maturing human?




I have a fundamental problem with those t-shirts that say, “Feed me and tell me I’m pretty.” Not because I have a fundamental problem with those two things. I love food and I’m extremely insecure. I just have a problem with you needing me to tell you that. Fuck, if I have to buy a shirt in order for you to satisfy my voracious appetite for food and self-esteem boosters, then we have bigger issues.

I need to make a shirt that says, “If you haven’t told me I’m pretty by now, it’s already too late because—” and then one of those boxing gloves attached to the springs comes popping out of my shirt and clocks you right in the kisser.


I just tried to find the Honey Boo Boo quote about being pretty and quickly fell into a black hole of Honey Boo Boo gifs. I also found out that Mama June and Pumpkin (the older middle one) have both come out as bisexual. I am really happy because I loved that show while it was on. I wrote about it a couple of times on my old blog—which was a trainwreck (in a good way).

I think we should tell each other that they’re pretty more often. Like, how hard would it be to go up to our friends and tell them that? Not hard. Now, I’m not saying just validate someone’s appearance, but I don’t think we can ignore the confidence boost it gives. And sometimes it’s just nice to tell someone that their niceness glows inside-out.


I feel like this is a topic I write/think about a lot, and sometimes even I can’t handle the sappiness. So let’s take the sappy out of this. Love the fuck out of yourself, you assholes. I’m sorry if that’s a little abrupt, but I’m simultaneously writing this and watching The Real Housewives of New York City and it’s the episode where EVERYONE HAS DRAMA WITH EVERYONE so I’m a little bit heated. A little hot and bothered.

I feel like Honey Boo Boo and the Housewives give me the same level of satisfaction in the fact and it’s very relieving to see/hear that other people who are equally as fucked up/dysfunctional/rude as me can be successful enough to have a television show.


I really think that for my emotional wellbeing, I need year-round seasons of the New York, Beverly Hills, and Orange County Real Housewives. Like, that would really be great.

This post has no real meaning. And the best part is that I wrote this like three weeks in advance. I’m just very emotionally drained. I might write something else. But whatever. Yolo. Now I’m just writing random things to get the word count to 500. It’s so close you guys.


ALSO LuAnn de Lesseps has had three songs released, and all of them are milestones in her and my life. Also I hate LuAnn de Lesseps.

This post has really done nothing except waste five-ten minutes of your life, depending on how slow you read. But if it’s taking you ten minutes to read this, then I think we need to buy you some “Hooked On Phonics.” Text me. I’ll hook you up.