So if you remember a few weeks ago, I said that I had something in the works for December. You don’t? Oh. Um. Okay. I hadn’t planned for that. *Shuffles through index cards* Okay, um scratch that. I HAVE SOMETHING IN THE WORKS FOR DECEMBER! And it’s finally come to fruition! Yes, fruition!


For the 25 days up to Christmas, you’ll be getting 25 posts! Starting tomorrow, Tuesday, December 1st, you can expect 25 Days of Holidannys™! I know that you’re so excited/don’t really care!

Inspired by the iconic 25 Days of Christmas, a la ABC Family, this blog series will blow you away but also be slightly underwhelming, just like ABC Family! I’m really excited to start, but also I am deathly afraid of failure and have a crippling fear concerning carpal tunnel syndrome. So pray for me!

Since I am terrible at “having a life” and “writing from the heart,” I’ve decided to organize Holidannys into a category for each day of the week.


Monday will be Miscellaneous Mondays! This essentially means that they’re my days to go cray-z and also they were going to be “Memories Mondays” but that’s lame and I changed it last minute!

Tuesday will be How-To Tuesdays! People—me—are always asking me—my reflection—for advice, so these will be a series of “how-to’s” in order to become as adult and mature as me. Also know that I wanted to call this Titties Tuesdays, but I don’t know what I would’ve written about, so let that put my advice into perspective and lower your expectations.

Wednesday will be WTF Wednesdays! Even though I’ve worked through my anger issues through intensive therapy, I still get a little cross! So every Wednesday, expect a rant from moi.

Thursday will be Thoughtful Thursdays! I try to be uplifting and pensive and hopeful, so this day will be dedicated to my more inspirational ramblings. You’re welcome and I’m sorry in advance.


Friday will be Fashion Fridays! I’m a fashion icon, so obviously this category is desperately desired by me. Some of them will be tales of my greatest fashion mishaps, but some might be actual fashion tips or my fashion desires, inspirations and pet peeves of the moment.

Saturday will be Seasonal Saturdays! Since this is the holiday season, I figured I had to make an entire day about getting into the holiday spirit and be all Christmas-y/Hanukkah-y/Kwanzaa-y/Winter Solstice-y.

Sunday will be Celebrity Sundays! Yes, I know that’s not alliterative. But I think you’ll like this. To wrap up each week and prep your body for the next one, I’ll be offering you a comprehensive list of all the celebrity drama/gossip that’s been going on in the last week. I’ll give you my expert commentary—as I am a pop culture journalism editorialist/icon—and we can dissect the celebrity news together! Expect a lot about the Kardashians. And maybe, maybe, maybe, we’ll get a Kardashian-West Illuminati baby—I mean, a regular Kardashian-West baby—during Holidannys! Pray to whatever gods you worship and sacrifice whoever you need to sacrifice to make sure that that happens!


So that’s each week laid out for you! Lain? Lay? Whatever, that’s the week.

But seriously, I hope that you guys are excited, because I know that I am. I wanted to end the first year of my blog—can you believe it’s only a year old? Actually, it’s 11 months old, but who’s counting—on a bang, and I really wanted to challenge myself. Writing twice a week can be challenging, but it can also be a little stagnant. I really want to reinvigorate The Wunderkindof with all the fresh pizazz and panache that it’s capable of. I hope that you’re going to come along this slay-ride—guess, I know how I wrote it—and end the first year of the premier “angsty, teenager-written editorialized blog for antisocial pop culture freaks and my Facebook friends in the Greater North Atlantic Area” blog!

I’ve got to skedaddle, because I’ve got a lot of writing to do! Just kidding, I’m gonna go watch more Sex and the City and eat ice cream out of the pint with a spoon. But after that, I’ll start writing.

Thanks, you hoe-hoe-hoes!


Happy Holidannys To All!

Life, Rambles


This will be short because it’s a holiday and everyone’s in a food-coma by now anyway. For me, this is technically Black Friday (after midnight) but actually Black Friday now starts at, like, 3 pm on Thursday, so Lorde knows!


I did a Friendsgiving with my flatmates and it was super cute! I was a little bit disconnected because of stressors about travel that are a little anxiety-inducing, but our Friendsgiving was actually super nice and profesh. We had a rotisserie chicken because even the idea of cooking a full turkey makes my heart hurt. We had delicious sides and good wine and good laughs (courtesy of me).

And I made everyone go around the table and say a) What they’re thankful for and b) What they’re looking forward to in the coming year. I know that the latter is definitely more of a New Year’s Eve thing, but I decided to forge ahead like the pioneer I am.

And being allergic to authenticity, I said that I was thankful for my friends, my family, and the E! Network for bringing me the Kardashians. Which is true.


But I’m also thankful for a lot more. I’m thankful for my parents who love and support me even though I’m the midnight sheep of the family (it’s a deeper shade of black). I’m thankful for my sisters because they’re as psychotic and emotionally manipulative as I am, which reaffirms my belief that I’m not a complete serial killer in the making. I’m thankful for skinny jeans. I’m thankful for my role models who—from writing to being a good human to comedy—make me strive to be better.

I’m thankful for my mental health. I discussed a lot with my boss and coworker today, and I realized how far I’ve come in the last year. Mental clarity isn’t something I take lightly, and I’m in a good enough place now to realize that I have such a good life. and it’s beautiful and painful and chaotic, but it’s immensely gratifying and satisfying. So I’m thankful for the last year, which has shown me the vigor of life.

I’m thankful for my blog, for allowing me to exorcise all my crazy, all my love, all my hurt, all my funny, and let it exist on the digital ether forever.


I’m thankful for boys with cute butts. I’m thankful for queer icons like Laverne Cox and Janet Mock and Caitlyn Jenner and Ross Mathews and countless others who inspire me to be my best every day and educate others. I’m thankful for WiFi. I’m thankful for the chance to live in London. I’m thankful for having a beautifully bonkers friend group and collegiate home-away-from-home waiting for me when I get back from London. I’m thankful for my dog, who reminds me that I’m just human garbage and he owns me.


And I’m thankful for you. Oops, no, not you. Behind you? The guy with the scruff? You’re so cute! Are you single? What’s your inheritance like? No older brothers? Nice. Only child?! Even better. Cool. I’m Danny. Let’s talk. You’re cute. Haha you’re funny. Omg stop!


Oops, got off track. And I’m thankful for you, reader. For coming back post and post and indulging in my crazy, but I don’t know/can’t decide/don’t want to know if it’s because you identify with me, you think I’m The Voice of Our Generation, or it’s one of those “Can’t look away from this trainwreck” situations where you’re afraid something really juicy is gonna happen and you don’t want to miss it.

Regardless, I’m thankful for your loyalty, your pageviews, and your (ahem) promotion of my blog, my Twitter, and my Instagram! Follow @thedanosaurus across all social media!


Thank you Oprah for giving me this life. Thank you Khloé Kardashian for creating the earth in seven days. Thank you Nick Jonas for your butt. Thank you, the Dalai Lama. I haven’t met you, but you seem chic.

Peace, love, and turkey meat!*

*But not the dark meat. Because who eats the dark meat?




tumblr_inline_mgjksxNh4I1rvw81kDo you ever have one of those days where your head is in a fog and you can’t seem to step above it? That’s me. I woke up with a clogged, runny nose and a cottony head. I decided to wear a cute gray, distressed sweatshirt and jeans to work because I wanted to be as close to pajamas as possible, but I put a button-down underneath the sweater to take it to workplace appropriate. No one noticed. No one cared.

The first thing I think of when I have a head cold is a story a teacher told me in high school. He had a penchant for tangents, and this particular one was about as tangential as you could get. He told us about—decades earlier—when his wife was pregnant and had a head cold, they went to this Eastern European holistic doctor. The doctor swirled a Q-tip in cocaine—I might be remembering this wrong—and swished it around the wife’s nostrils. Then, he took a metal rod, shoved it up her nostril, and cracked it against the top of her nose. I guess the mucus collects there in a head cold, and that got rid of it. I have literally no idea if this story happened, or if I’m even telling this story correctly.


Side bar: this teacher had a hot son who went to school with us. That’s not really necessary, but I wanted you all to know.

So armed with that tertiary knowledge, I…I didn’t really change any of my habits. I didn’t snort cocaine or shove things up my nose except vast amounts of toilet paper because I’m too poor for Kleenex. And I popped a decongestant, a painkiller, and a mucus thinner in a Holy Trinity Hail Mary in order to knock this bitch out of my system.


I’ve been ill more times in the span of three months in England then I’ve been in two years in America. I’m not saying that England is making me ill. I’m just saying England is slowly killing me by mucus overload.


I bought Adele’s new album. First, I was disappointed that it wasn’t on Spotify. Second, I decided I would download it illegally. Then I decided to support my R&B pop goddess and I bought the album. Rather, I bought the album with my mom’s credit card. But still, I supported the artist. And 25 will be my theme-music for the fake television show in my head for approximately the next week. All I need is an Adele Christmas album to really make 2015 end in a win. We could call it Jingle Adeles or We Wish You Adele-y Christmas.


I watched The Way We Were because I’ve been watching Sex and the City and the season two finale ends in essentially an homage to The Way We Were. And I really enjoyed it, and not just in a “I have to enjoy this because it’s a cinematic classic” way, like the way I liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Omg, Breakfast at Tiffany’s stans, you better not come for me. But The Way We Were was great because a) Barbra Streisand’s nails are fabulous and her acting is superb, b) Robert Redford is a total babe, and c) it doesn’t end in necessarily the contrived “boy and girl end up together happily ever after” way. It ends beautifully and more realistically, and it also allows for a female lead to not have her ending dependent on happiness with a male lead.


Alright, I think I’m gonna go make tea and watch more Sex and the City. I don’t even really enjoy it that much. I don’t know why I can’t stop watching it. What’s happening? Is this Stockholm syndrome? Am I okay? Send help if I don’t Tweet within 12 hours.




Love & Romance


Has the art of dating been lost? Have we evolved past dating with the inundation of social media hookup apps? First, second and third base have WiFi signals. Everything is digital and nothing hurts.

I was talking to my coworker Amanda and we were dishing about bad dates. Awkward encounters, awkward kisses, awkward last moments. For both of us, we have experiences with going on dates with people who we had texted previously. Hers was Tinder; mine was Grindr.


For me, he was goofily cute over text. Shy, clever, flirtatious. In person, he was a fumbling robot. He made bad jokes and couldn’t meet my eye. Not in an endearing, “He finds me too beautiful to look at” way. It was more like a “I’d rather be anywhere but here” way. All of the quirks I had enjoyed over text I realized were carefully edited versions of a truly awkward person.

For her—from what I remember. Frankly I’m not the best at listening—it was flint and steel and no spark. He fell flat.

We’ve grown accustomed to dating online. We’ve become used to existing online, and the days of “Hey darling, wanna go steady?” have morphed into Netflix and Chill and no strings attached and casual hangouts that have as much romantic confusion as Michael Jackson’s Neverland. Too far? That’s how serious I am.

I’m bad at romance. I’m uncomfortably aware of how I’m trying to be suave and sexy and effortless. I make a much better friend than date, and I’m kind of a shitty friend sometimes. I’m unable to see real romance staring me in the face, and the romance that I do attempt is fodder for blogs where I do that thing where I laugh so that I don’t cry.

Me @ myself

Me @ myself

But I like the idea of old-fashioned, gin & tonic romance. Straight-up. Simple. A little brisk and a little jolting but undeniable. I asked someone out on a date once. I mean, I’ve done it multiple times. But I actually said the word “date.”

“Would you want to go to dinner sometime?” I asked.

“Yeah!” He said, and I knew that this could be a casual friend dinner. I could escape with my dignity and my class.

“As—as a date,” I added, and I saw his eyes shift kaleidoscopically as the dinner took on a different color and texture. And instantly it had lines and numbers and a set of crayons to choose from to shade in the suddenly defined shape.

And I liked it. I liked the un-ambiguity. The Date. Not a hangout. Not a casual friend thing. A date. Four letters. Solid. Romantic. Unmoving.

We ended up at an upscale casual restaurant and wore variations on the same outfit and we argued about Miley Cyrus and he never returned my text for another date. But even though that didn’t end up—well, let’s get real, it was a flop—it was a date. A finite one, but a date nonetheless.


“Would you like to go out?” I asked another boy. He looked at me with a measured gaze. We had been around this carousel before.

“In what way?”

“In a romantic context,” I answered. He said no, it wasn’t me it was him. But I knew that he wanted me to finally say it. To define it in a way that I hadn’t had the courage to before. To name it.


I think we’re all scared shitless of rejection so we don’t define it. Plausible deniability. If it’s not a date, then it can’t end badly. Hangouts don’t end badly. They just end. But dates—there’s a definite ending. It’s like a choose-your-own-adventure book where if you skip to page 110, you get a second date, and if you skip to page 135, you get a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and spend two hours overanalyzing that joke you accidentally made about the Hindenburg.

So we hide behind vagueness and romantic smoke-and-mirrors. Dodge. Deflect. Retreat. Live to fight another battle. Ask out another person to an ambiguous, amorphous “thing” that they’ll wonder what it is and you’ll wonder what it is.

But the problem with vagueness is that it leads to vagaries—sudden, unexpected changes (look it up). You didn’t set parameters, so you don’t have expectations. You don’t know how you want this to end. So you don’t invest. You retreat. You live to text another day.

But in the end, you’ve actually lost. You’ve lost the tingling electricity that goes with making a complete ass out of yourself by walking up to that cutie. You’ve lost the impetus. You’ve lost that chance at human connections and fallibilities. You’ve given all that up for safety and security and Facebook-stalking.


And I’m saying “you” but we all know I mean “we.” I mean “I.” They said setting boundaries is good for raising children, and for raising dogs. And hell, kids and puppies seem happy enough. Who are we to judge? Set some boundaries. Define. Flip to the page in the dictionary and point to it and say, “Yes, that’s what I want us to be. Friday night. Dinner.”

I’m bad at coloring. But I think I’d like to have those lines to know when I’m shading outside of them.



I really don’t know how to write a blog post without addressing the tragedies in Paris. I don’t think it would be right to ramble about boys or mishaps or other minutiae when our world exists in a state of mourning.

I don’t generally like to write about things like this, because I feel like I’m never educated enough, or it would be disrespectful, or just general fear of offending someone. But I think that with things like this, or the bombings in Beirut, or the tensions in Missouri.

The world is a hurtful, fucked-up place. And it’s painful. And it’s chaotic. And it’s cruel. And I don’t know if I can say anything that will be new or revolutionary. Actually, I know I can’t. But I can say that I have never experienced that fear that so many people went through in Paris. Or Beirut. Or Syria. Or Missouri.

All I can do right now is offer up prayers and sorrow and breathe in their pain and try to shoulder some of it. And that might not be a comfort. That might be pointless. But I think to roll over, to claim this as inevitable, to pretend it’s like a tsunami or an earthquake—a natural phenomenon—destroys what we are trying to accomplish. Maybe there will always be people with evil intentions who want to hurt. Who want to smash. Destruction is easy. It is vicious and indulgent and venomous.

But they are not immortal. They are not forces of nature. We can fight back. And we can say that this is not the story. We can say that they do not determine how we end. We stand strong. We mourn and we hold each other but we stay resilient. It’s so dumb-sounding when I write it out but I can’t not say it and I can’t think of anything else. Because these tragedies can drown us if we let it. They can distinguish our faith in the common good of humanity.

We can see humanity as inherently evil. As doomed to implode. To dissolve into entropy. To accept this as the natural order.

Fuck that. Fight. Scream. Yell. Tell those who would tear us down—terrorists, racists, transphobes, misogynists—those who would divide and destroy and vanquish to go fuck themselves. There are a thousand ways to respond to stimuli. They responded with violence. And anger. We can choose a different way. We can choose resilience, strength, iron spines and gritted teeth. We can choose to stand back up. We can honor our dead, protect our living, cry and wail until the grief becomes infinitesimally more manageable.

I do not know what those people went through. In Paris. In Beirut. In Syria. In Lebanon. In Missouri. Across the world. And to claim that I do is vastly inappropriate. But I want to hurt with you, to mourn with you, to honor you. I want to fight for you. I want to give us the freedom to control our own stories. Our own endings.

The world is a hurtful, fucked-up place. It is painful. It is chaotic. But to accept that as fact doesn’t work. It ends with people like ISIS winning. It ends with us at each other’s throats. The world doesn’t have to be a hurtful, fucked-up place. Evil isn’t a tsunami. It isn’t a natural phenomenon. It is a mutation. And it can be fought against. It is not the final word. It is not the closing of the book. We can let it not be. I don’t know if this was right or smart or coherent. Because sometimes our responses aren’t. But I’m sorry, to Paris, to Beirut, to Missouri. I’m sorry and I hurt for you, and I’ll fight for you. We will tell your stories. Your bravery and your love and your fight won’t drown. They won’t dissolve into entropy. They will multiple and expand as infinitely as the universe. They will expand upon matter.

Humor, Life


I made a Christmas playlist on Tuesday and I’ve been listening to it. Before you pick up those stones, ask yourself this: are you about to stone me because I committed a holiday faux-pas, or because you’re jealous that you didn’t do this yourself?

*gets hit in the head with a large stone* I deserve that.

But let me explain. Linda, Linda, listen. Listen. Amiright? Who got that reference? Google it, people. It’s pop history.


In case you live under a rock—girl, you deserve better than that—I’m living in London at the moment. I shop for groceries here, I poop here, I take the tube, I get lost in Hyde Park. And here in England—omg, name drop—they don’t have Thanksgiving. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS?

No faux-pas. No arbitrary rule about waiting until after Thanksgiving. Once Halloween goes back into its dark hole, it’s open season, goddamnit. And since I’m missing Thanksgiving in America this year—frankly, I could afford to skip those calories—I’ve decided to embrace the British and start listening to holiday music.

And I’ve never felt so alive. I realized that the act of waiting until after Thanksgiving is completely idiotic. That leaves hardly a month for listening to Christmas music, which is—according to multiple sources that I can’t divulge for privacy reasons, not because they don’t exist—one of the greatest genres. I don’t want just a month of Christmas music. I want more. I guess I’m a typical American in that sense. Ironic that it took me living like a Brit to find that out.


Is that irony? I’m not sure what ironic means. I guess that’s pretty ironic. Did I get it that time?


I’m not the kind of person who typically gets into the holidays. I guess I just usually feel like holidays are kind of a letdown. But I really need to stop hate-scrolling on the Instagrams of people who get into the holiday spirit, and I realize that most of those people are making an active attempt to be festive and get into the spirit. So I’ve decided that this year, I’m going to be all festive and shit.


I also have been feeling anxious lately, and this Christmas music playlist is making me feel better. I know you’re asking yourself, “Is he mentioning the mental illness thing as a way of making it harder to give him shit for listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving?” And to that I say, “No comment” and pop a Zoloft.

I haven’t been feeling anxious for any particular reason, except every reason, but that’s just the name of the game with depression/anxiety. You can have no reason to be feeling this way, and your illness is like LOL YOU WILL FEEL IT.


I’ve been stressed about this study abroad almost being over. I’ve been stressed about worrying if I’m not traveling enough. I’m stressed about classes for next year. I’m stressed about boys. I’m stressed about being a tad homesick. Not in like a “crying” homesick way. Just like in a, “I would really like a Dunkin Donuts medium caramel iced coffee (with a Turbo shot and no milk) and also to not have to do math whenever I’m paying for something, and also to have actual money again,” homesick way. So I guess, when I write it out, there might be a reason for the anxiety.

Whatever. Idk. Whatever.



So because I’m like a total slut for Christmas music now, I’m going to divulge my playlist:

My Christmas 2015 Playlist, aka “YAS GAWD NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL CHRISTMAS”

  • One part Kelly Clarkson’s Wrapped In Red
  • One part Frank Sinatra’s The Classic Christmas
  • One part Michael Bublé’s Christmas
  • One part Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”

Stir thoroughly, adding in dashes of drag queen Christmas singles, The Weather Girls’ “Dear Santa—Bring Me A Man,” and Kylie Minogue’s very sexy “Santa Baby.”

  • Add Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” to taste. Serve immediately.


Caveat: Once it’s November 13th, I will be adding the RuPaul’s Drag Race alumnae’s holiday album Christmas Queens. This will change the pH balance of the mix, because it’s about to get real basic. Okrrrrr?!

Side bar: Are they “alumnae” (the feminine plural Latinate ending) or are they “alumni” (the masculine plural ending)? Or maybe “alumna” (the gender neutral plural Latin ending)? So many questions.


All in all, I’m trying to be a festive little snow baby. Even though it probably won’t snow while I’m in England. And it probably won’t snow when I’m back in New York for Christmas. It’ll probably dump four feet when it’s February and I’m pissed about Valentine’s Day. But being a snow baby is independent from the weather. Being a snow baby is purely a mental game. It’s all about in here *taps the side of head*. All in here.


Alright, kiddos. I’m gonna go and start making a list of every holiday movie I’m going to watch. *Dodges another huge rock to the face* Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll roast a turkey! Fuck. You people are insatiable.



Previous Experience: My life

Sex: *giggles* Yes please

Recommendations: For myself? Less whining on the Internet


I’ve been watching Sex and the City since writing about it, and I’ve watched 1.5 seasons in the past two days, because I’ve been sick—that’s a half-truth—and it’s very addicting. But having watched it for the past 48 hours, I’ve picked up on a couple of things.

  • It’s basically porn? Like this was a cultural phenomenon and it’s weird to think of the fact that like, people my mom’s age probably watched this? Idk? Weird?
  • Everyone used to say I was a “Miranda” because we both have red hair and I don’t want to be any of them? But if I did, I would want to be the dog that Charlotte has for an episode. Or Candace Bushnell—she’s probably made so much money off this show.

But what I find the most fascinating is the concept of “single.” Each of the women is single. She talks about single. She whines about being single. She wines about being single. She goes on dates. She gets set up. It falls apart. And she starts again. But for most of the episodes, the ladies—pronounced “ladeez” like a car salesman—self-identify as single.


But it’s not a phase. It’s not an adjective. It’s a noun. A “single.” A. Single. Girlfriend.

When did singularity become a job? You put your entire life into it. You cultivate its singlehood. You name it. You raise it. And even if people flit in and out of your life, it’s like a tortoise. It doesn’t die. It might have a few different varieties based on location. But that tortoise is still a tortoise. And you’re still a single.

And I’m only twenty. And I can imagine that the single vs. married thing will only grow stronger. Because I already know marrieds. They’re not married, but they’re “marrieds.” They’re “we’s” instead of “he’s” and “she’s” and they sit on the same side of the booth in the dining hall. Let me tell you something. The only people who sit on the same side of the booth as someone, leaving the other side as blank as the Arctic, are serial killers, conjoined twins, and serial monogamists.

6357759369785696562026510320_Single Empowerment Liz

The “marrieds” pick up boyfriends the way you pick up haircuts, but your haircuts last longer. They’re either as easily pairable as peanut butter—think jelly, bananas, marshmallow fluff, chocolate—or as peculiar as dodo birds and mate completely for life with someone as odd as them.

For me, “single” was always the default, but I never sought it out as a noun. Now, I can start to see the power. Single (adj.) is a state of being, one that can be transitionary, but relies on outside forces to move it. “Single” (noun) is a position, like CEO, that is taken upon yourself. There’s a power in it. Being a single versus being single. In English class, they tell us never to use passive verbs. They strip the sentence of power. Maybe adjectivizing the state of your romantic life has the same effect. Noun that shit.


Side bar: How this became a lesson in grammar is beyond me, but let’s go with it? 

Singles are too eclectic to be peanut butter, but not eccentric enough to be dodo birds. They’re Jenga—able to be played alone, can be played with partners, and accustomed to toppling down in a spectacular mess. Singles are a little spiky, not particularly adept at fitting into puzzle pieces. They’ve “I’s” and “you’s” and “she’s” and “he’s” and “it’s”.

Singles are diagonal-sitters. Not side-sitters—because we’ve established the cons of that already. Not across-sitters—because we don’t want to close off our possibilities. Diagonal-sitters—close to be intimate, angled to be open. I can imagine that as we age, the lines become more drawn. The marrieds start popping out Pottery Barn registrations, and our most consistent relationships will be with our hands or our therapists.

635777017333623090-1313168618_Liz Lemon giphy

I find myself fascinated with couplets. I think it’s cool and beautiful and someday I think I’d like to be a part of one. But I also can’t spend a full day with someone without trying to emotionally manipulate them into leaving me alone. And I have yet to go on a date without some less of self-sabotage. If we’re discussing grammar, it’s the equivalent of mixing up “apart” and “a part.” I’ve got the letters right, but that space is fucking me every time. Alpha-privative. The noun versus adjective comprehension gap.

I think I could be fine with being Miranda. She buys a kick-ass apartment in the second season. And we could probably use the same color palette, but I’ve got to get her to stop wearing yellow. It doesn’t suit us.

Humor, Life


Disclaimer: This post is alternatively titled “Sad and the Pity,” for mostly jokes but also truths. Also don’t sue me, Sex and the City, for copyright infringement!

Okay, now onto the Bradshawisms!

I collapsed onto my bed, kicking my socked feet up and releasing a loud, Neanderthalic groan. My shoulders hurt. My back hurts. My legs hurt. My heart hurts. And my bank account hurts. I was an intern. I had been lugging a messenger bag around all day, from the office to the hotel where the event I was covering was being held, then back to the office, then back to the hotel, then home.

I was coiled tight from a massive headache and the fear that if I kept carrying a messenger bag, I would end up with shoulders like Caroline Stanbury—she put an Instagram up the other day of her and her shoulders were very lopsided and while I’m not bodyshaming anyone, that’s just not on my to-do list.

And so, as I nearly climaxed in relief with my body in one long horizontal line, I had to wonder: how did adults do this all day, every day?

Side bar: I actually don’t know what else Carrie Bradshaw does other than say “I had to wonder” because I haven’t really seen the show that much and I’m using her name in the title as clickbait! Tricked ya! Keep reading! Where are you going? Mom?

Side side bar: I also ripped off Friends with “The One Where x,y,z.” CLICKBAIT.



In college, I’ve done a lot of different jobs. I’ve been a radio deejay, a blogger, a fashion journalist, a columnist, (briefly) an editor (before I fucked that up, oops, sorry guys lol), and a copywriter for an ad team (for a project that we then won, because—probably—of me). And for the more interesting things I’ve done, the stuff I actually enjoyed, I had to wonder: “Do jobs like this actually exist in the amorphous ether of the ‘Real World’*?”

*Not to be confused with The Real World.

I was sitting in a small Persian green-eats restaurant—which Jenny tells me is not a thing that is real even though I was sitting in it Jenny—with my co-intern—Amanda (?)—and we were discussing jobs. And I said something—deeply profound—that went along the lines of: “I always used to hope that the college jobs I write for would have real-life counterparts.” Because if they don’t, why the fuck am I writing a 1000-word article called, “Jeans Or Khakis?” and interviewing people in the dining hall?


Meanwhile, across town, my friends are in their own internships. Some are living it up in their fields—moi—some are doing jobs they like in fields they don’t—Sebastien—some are doing jobs that they thought would be glamorous but aren’t and that makes me really happy—some random hot guy in one of my classes—and some are making IKEA runs in return for work that might someday lead to a real job—Charlie—and all of us are operating under this notion that jobs are unicorns. People in the Middle Ages believed they were real, but now everyone is telling you your dreams are dead and that you’ll never make a career as a writer and you might as well marry rich—um, I meant to write that everyone is telling you that unicorns aren’t real. Sorry. Got off track.

It’s interesting because I know what I want to do, it’s just I don’t know how. Or I read articles like “I’m a Homeless Writer” or “Give Up On Your Dreams, Danny” or “101 Ways To Be A Successful Writer” and 100 of them are “exploit your mental illness” and one of them is “World War II books.”

I feel like Carrie Bradshaw asks a lot of rhetorical questions and makes a lot of generically vague, moderately uplifting/poignant sentences (depending on the episode). So I’m gonna do that here.

So what did I want to do? I wanted to write, I wanted to write until my fingers were stiffer than the heel of a Manolo Blahnik and my creative voice was stronger than a Cosmo*. I wanted to be everyone’s agony aunt, except instead of asking me for advice, people learnt from my mistakes. I wanted to make people laugh and not cry and cry if they need to and laugh while crying. I wanted to be the someone that I could’ve used when I was twelve.

*Not to be confused with the “cosmos,” the popular outer space phenomenon.

But how does one do that? How does one take that leap of faith? The answer, I wondered, might be deceptively simple. Jump. Write everything. Write anything. Throw caution to the wind.

Because, like men, there is a great job out there for me. It might not be perfect—I might have wake up early to get there on time. It might be a little annoying sometimes. It might not tolerate my unabashed stanning for the Kardashian-Jenners. It might ask me to stop wearing sweatpants in public. That I won’t stand. That’s a dealbreaker. But in general, jobs can be like men. Not perfect, a little bit weird, but there’s a match out there for everyone.

And unlike men—unless this is a Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster situation—you can create your own job when you’re a writer if you don’t find one. Our craft is in our head and—if you’re like me—your head is a vast whirlpool of weird, funny ideas and mild depression.


Maybe I’ll have the job of my dreams. Maybe I’ll make it myself. Maybe I’ll write a fantastic book that helps a lot of people and gets me on Ellen. And not just as a video segment of me running naked through a McDonald’s drive-thru. A real, sit-down interview. Maybe I’ll find a job where not only do I not have to hide my weirdness, I can actually celebrate it and write about it. Maybe I’ll find the perfect job when I stop looking for the perfect job.

*Closes eyes and walks into closed door*

So in the meantime, I’ll enjoy only really having my blog to worry about as my thing. Eventually I might have kids—aka a dog—or a husband—aka a bottle of white wine—to occupy my time. And I’ll have a high-powered job where I can wear flannel to work and write about pop culture and make penis puns. Wouldn’t that pe-nice? AYOO.

That was really fun to be inspired by the ghost of Carrie Bradshaw. I know that I’m not as glamorous/old as Sarah Jessica Parker, but I hope—for just a moment—I was your Carrie Bradshaw. I hope that my angst was your angst in this moment, and that you could see me slow-spinning in a tulle skirt right now.

Me @ myself

Me @ myself

I find inspiration in writers—even fictional ones like Carrie. I love my Sloane Crosleys, my Tina Feys, my Ryan O’Connells. But I love one writer even more than I love all my idols. I love myself. So while y’all are great—previously mentioned writers—I will rise like a phoenix above all of you, but if—in the meantime—you could help me out with a connection or an internship or just spit in my face quickly, that would be awesome. Let me, readers, be your new literary best friend. Not your real best friend, because I’m a lot to handle. Also that’s a lot of commitment, and I’m not looking for anything serious right now.

Signing off now, your very own Carrie Bradshaw, your very own “Sad and the Pity.”

Humor, Life, Rambles


I’m not going to lie to you guys—I didn’t dress up as Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers for Halloween. I was totally going to, but I put on the t-shirt and sweatpants and looked down at myself and felt so acutely un-cute that I was like, “Errrr.” And then I was in my kitchen and my flatmate comes in and he asked me what I was doing for Halloween and I told him and then he asked me when I was getting into my costume.

“I am in my costume,” I stare at him.

He stares back at me. Eyes flick down to the sweatpants. “Oh. I thought you were in pajamas.”

I wordlessly scream at him.

So I decided to put on a pair of black skinny jeans, draw a tombstone on my shirt and write “My Dream” above it. I was going to write out “My Dreams” but I’m not good at planning and—frankly—I ran out of space. And then on top of that, I painted my face like a skull.

Screen Shot 2015-11-02 at 8.49.11 PM

Really, I’ve never looked better.

So for Halloween this year, I went as “My Dreams Are Dead!”

“Oh!” My mom shrieked a little bit when I showed her my make-up.

I felt bad for ditching my original costume, but I didn’t feel that bad because it’s not an actual person and even if it was, I have difficulty processing emotions. So. On Actual Halloween I went to a club with a DJ who insisted on playing The Worst Of The ‘80s and then we waited in line for almost two hours to go to this really fancy 24-hour restaurant on the 40th floor of a downtown London skyscraper to have duck confit and waffle and by the time I got home it was 5:30 am and even now everything is fuzzy. On Fake Halloween—aka Friday—aka the Beginning of Halloweekend—

Side bar: I fucking hate when people say Halloweekend even though I used it this weekend but I’m allowed to (ironically, obviously)


Danny + Jenny 4NEVER

—I went on a pub crawl in a ~hip~ and ~cool~ part of London called Shoreditch and I was a sexy lumberjack—short khaki shorts that I cuffed even higher on my pale thighs; red flannel shirt unbuttoned almost to my bellybutton; gray beanie—but to make it ~spooky~ I painted on a slit throat because I wanted to add depth to my performance. It was very well received. People were very attracted to me. Rightly. Interestingly enough, people were less attracted to me when I was a skeleton, even though my entire mug was completely covered in paint. Weird.


Speaking of ugly mugs, I was looking through pictures of people I went to high school with. AYOOOO WHAT A SEGUE. No there is really something very satisfying and emotionally vindicating about going through the photos of people from high school and being able to decide whether or not they’ve gotten worse-looking or not.

I was talking to a guy I went to high school with; we were friends but more friendly but friends but also I think we were both a little bit of a bitch in high school and that really bonds two people. My friend—let’s call him Lucas—also likes dudes so we were dishing and there is something very satisfying about talking to someone from my high school—all boys—about boys. I was grilling him about his hot friends. He wasn’t grilling me about mine because I was the hottest friend. And then we just started looking at the guys we went to high school with.

Some of them have gained what I call the “Fratty Fifteen” where you join a fraternity, drink enough beer to feed/drown an Amish village, and gain fifteen pounds in your neck/face area, and also I’m hotter than you. Side effects of the Fratty Fifteen also include a beer gut and a superiority complex inherited by me. So yeah, a bunch of them look like forty-year-old dads and I am living for it.

Still stings. Just kidding I'm fine. I have no pride or dignity.

Still stings. Just kidding I’m fine. I have no pride or dignity.

Of course there’s the guys who have gotten way hotter since high school but those I just make into voodoo dolls for later. Halloween may be over but being a witchy bitch is year-round. It was nice to connect to him. Lucas, if you’re reading this, you go girl! And if you can’t figure out if I’m talking about you, dafuq dude? Seriously?


white ppl, amiright?

white ppl, amiright?

With the advent of a new month, I have done away with all of my Halloween social media fixings. For my laptop wallpaper, I went with a simple Pinterest-y background. I try to find something funny for my wallpaper, like “Hocus Pocus and Chill” but nothing really funny happens in November and Thanksgiving isn’t really funny because of the Trail of Tears and smallpox and just generally white people and also feeling fat, so I decided to go for the “pretty” route.

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

For my Facebook and Twitter headers, I went for a “Queens of Cooking” theme and did Ina Garten for my Twitter, and my Kween Kris Jenner on the kover of her kookbook. Also, why has Kris Jenner not released a holiday-themed cookbook and called it “Merry Krismas?” Like I don’t want to do the job of her marketing team, but come on people the opportunity is shaking its tits in your face. Metaphorically, of course.

@KrisJenner, let's talk about

@KrisJenner, let’s talk about “Merry Krismas”? Call me?

My phone background is currently Kris Jenner and Ina Garten as well, but that’s more of a placeholder until I find something else. I change my phone background more than Kylie Jenner changes wigs—

*Holds for canned audience applause and knocks on my microphone—“Is this thing on?”*

—and it really depends on my mood.

Side bar: it took me a solid five minutes of minute adjustment to get these photos centered. So be happy. S/o to Shelby. Ily and our joint love of artisanal glass-blown dildos. And that’s not the only thing being blown. AYOO I’ll leave.

  12188861_10208362593329558_183573037_n   Screen Shot 2015-11-02 at 9.28.54 PM


I went grocery shopping today and bought more donuts. I regret nothing. I regret some things. But not this. Never this.


P.S. I look so chiseled as a skeleton.

Okay bye!

Xoxo Gossip Squirrel

I want to get this to 1000 words, so imagine that Gossip Girl was actually a squirrel.