Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things I Like


Time for another round of I’m Out of Ideas For This Week and On A Time Crisis! Oh wait, it’s called what? Really? That’s a bit of a sloppy name. Who thought of that? I did? Ugh, whatever. Nevermind, it’s time for Things That Are Happening RN!!

1). BLAHG: I’m obsessed with making header images for my blog. I spent a good hour just goofing around, finding the perfect font that says “Sexy, but approachable” mixed with “Never f*cking talk to me.” And I think I really found it. S.T.U.N.N.I.N.G. I also made a matching banner for my Twitter, which some people might consider a low point but I consider it more of a stepping stone to madness. Which I guess isn’t…better.

2). Katy Perry: Katy Perry made a perfume that’s called “Mad Love,” which is supposedly related to her “Mad Potion” perfume. HOWEVER “Mad love” is actually a Taylor Swift song lyric, as in “Baby now we got bad blood, you know we used to be mad love” (or idk; I don’t know the lyrics by heart). This is SHADE CITY because “Bad Blood” is allegedly about Katy Perry and how she stole dancers from Taylor’s tour and they both fought over John Mayer. A) You can’t steal dancers; they’re people. The last time someone stole a person, it resulted in SLAVERY. B) Why are we fighting over John Mayer? Just find a charismatic homeless person—same effect.

3). Taylor Swift: was dating Calvin Harris—now dating Tom Hiddleston. I realized that when T-Swizzle doesn’t have any new music for me to consume, I really find her very annoying. I don’t think that anyone can deny that she’s a musical powerhouse, but it also serves the alternative purpose of distracting me from her kind of awful personality. But Swiftie 4 life.

4). Bathing suits: I bought swimsuits from Old Navy yesterday. SALEEEEE. But there’s no more vulnerable of a moment than when you’re trying on a bathing suit under the harsh fluorescent lights of your local Old Navy. It really tests the strength of your character, and my character has the solidity of cheesecake.

5). COLOR: I’m really into lime-green and goldenrod-yellow lately. Usually these are some of my least favorite colors—omg I also forgot; I used purple in one of my Wunderkindof banner mockups (for when we’ve moved out of the summer themes) and I HATE purple. What is getting into me??

6). FASHUN: Do you ever buy one article of clothing and suddenly envision an entire capsule collection of your new style? I bought a tie-dye sweatshirt online the other day and it sent me on a science-nerd/grunchy hippie/clean grunge/second-hottest-kid-in-space-camp journey, for which I’m currently living. It’s really amazing what a piece of clothing can do for you.

7). DOG BLANKY: My sister put a picture of our dog onto a blanket and it’s massive and the best thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

8). OITNB: I’m two episodes in but I’m already exhausted. I wish no one else liked it because now I feel like I’m forced to watch it so that I can be a part of the cultural zeitgeist.

I could go on but I love stopping lists at the number 8 because it reaaaaaaaally (I almost forgot the second “L” and then realized, “What the fuck does it matter? I used like seven “A”s) undercuts any sort of expectation you might’ve had for me. And I’m nothing if not excellent at circumventing the expectations heaped upon me.

I werked out my arms today and instead of feeling “buff y ripped” I just feel tired.

Humor, Life, Rambles


Today I was at the gym and I full-on ripped my underwear. Like SpongeBob SquarePants-style. Like Contact-rip in the space/time continuum-style.

Let me set the scene. The place: Planet Fitness. The muscle group: legs and abs. The perpetrator: a pair of navy-blue boxers from GAP. The victim: me, and my butt.

I walked into the gym and went to the back section where the weights/douchebags are and grabbed a dumbbell. I managed to finish one exercise—lunges, because I want that tush—when I readjust my stance and frame my feet to begin squats.

Literally, I square off my feet and dip into the first squat when my underwear busts open like a jack-in-the-box with an audible pop! noise. I have headphones in and I’m listening to a podcast, but the force of the tear is so visceral that it startles me. I get out of the squat and turn slowly, praying feverishly that the tear was my boxers and not my shorts. My butt rounds the corner and I can see that, for now, the tear has been restricted to my underwear.

With a new, uncomfortably breezy derriere, I try to finish at least the first set of squats, but after four quick dips, it’s becoming abundantly clear that unless I want to do a strip-tease for the elderly and housewives who are with me at Planet Fitness on a Monday at 11 a.m., I should move on to something else.


Source: From my FAVORITE (FAVOURITE??) podcast Throwing Shade

There are certain pivotal moments in a person’s life. The first time they fall in love (with a person/inanimate object/food). The first time they drive a car (successfully—which for me was not the first time as “drive a car”). The first time they shit on the side of a mountain while on a six-mile hike (Done and done). And the first time that their butt proves to be too much for inferior underwear and rips in a public place.

With this newest life-marker, I realized several things. One, that clothing is nothing more than a consumerist façade. Two, that clothing is nothing more than a consumerist façade and without that consumer façade, you feel super-duper nakey. Three, that even though no one can tell that you just ripped your underwear from taint-to-waistband, you’ll walk around for the next half hour being extremely paranoid that everyone totally can.

I also had the intense internal debate of whether or not I should leave the gym that moment and properly deal with my shame. Here’s how that situation went down.


ME (leggy auburn millennial with 6/10 skin and an ass that won’t quit): (does single squat and causes a seismic rip that will affect ecosystems for years to come)

SHAME: You need to get out of here, quick.

ME: What?

SHAME: You just ripped your underwear, you freak. You’re basically streaking rn.

ME: No but I just got here. I need to werk out my body.

SHAME: Just say “work.” Don’t add the “e.” it’s juvenile.

ME: I didn’t add the “e.”

SHAME: Yes you did. Sharon, can you go back in the transcript?

SHARON (court stenographer): “I need to werk out my body.”

SHAME (rightfully vindicated): No “e”, huh? You’re disgusting.

ME (shamed for the “e”): I drove all the way over here.

SHAME: Why are you doing this to us? Your underwear is ripped; this isn’t a gay 1990s porno. This is To Catch A Predator. Why are you Jim Henson-ing yourself?

ME: The creator of the Muppets?


ME: Jim Henson, the creator of the Muppets.

SHAME: Who am I thinking of then? Sharon, who am I thinking of?

SHARON (Googles it but she’s on a BlackBerry, so it takes forever): Chris Hansen?

SHAME: Chris Hansen, yes. You’re Chris Hansen-ing yourself.

ME: I can’t take you seriously if you can’t tell apart Chris Hansen and Jim Henson. We’re done here.


Source: Rebloggy


Fun fact: there is a “Jim Hansen” who is a professor at Columbia University, researcher in climatology and a climate activist for mitigating the effects of global warming. Well, I guess it’s more of a “fact” than a “fun fact.”

There’s not a grosser, more awkwardly slutty feeling than working out with ripped underwear. I imagine that there are people who completely get off on stuff like that, but I’m as pure and virginal as the driven snow and I just dealt with greater-than-normal swampass.

In other news, I just finished watching the penultimate episode of Game of Thrones. I almost thought about doing a recap, but GoT is literally so confusing that I have no idea what’s happening/what has happened/who anyone is, so it would be a lot of me going, “And then Red Beard guy, omg what is his name, bite the throat of that other guy—is he new or should I have known who he is?—and Jon Snow basically got a deep-tissue charcoal scrub, but instead of charcoal it was mud and the blood of his enemies.” Wait, that sounds fun. Not the mud and blood part, but the recap. Regardless, it’s not happening. But I’ve been watching that, and reading. A. ton.

You know you’ve become a complete lost cause when you’re staying up late requesting books from your library. I’ve fallen so far.

Humor, LGBTQ, Love & Romance


I don’t know if it’s the fact that my love life is as barren and devoid of life as Antarctica (which means “no bears” because “arktos” is “bear” in Greek and “a” or “ant” means “without”—it’s called the alpha privative—and which coincidentally is probably a good example of why I’m without love; because I love Greek etymology and the cool kids who had sex in high school probably only like cigarettes and nothing) or if it’s the rampant repression in my family, but the last time my mom and I talked about a relationship of mine, I was freshly fourteen.

She was driving me across town to hang out with my cool friends and the route took us past a huge cemetery. While driving past the cemetery, my mom asked me if I was going to give my girlfriend—yes, that’s not a misspelling—the bag I had bought for her—I just accidentally typed out “him” because my body is rejecting the notion of heterosexuality on base instinct, it seems—while we were in London over the summer. It was my first European excursion and I had spent some of my meager allowance on a tote bag—in a sensible ecru emblazed with red and blue ‘LON-DON’—for the love of my life. Unfortunately before I could give her the tote bag, she broke up with me via AIM. I might be dating myself with that reference.


A few months passed, and my mom was driving me to a casual hang with my now ex-girlfriend and our mutual friends. I can’t remember the details—selective blackout—and the friendships soon dissolved after that as I realized I was wildly and deeply swimming in the dude pond. “What happened?” My mom asked, concerned that her heterosexual son had ended his first heterosexual relationship, heterosexually.

Years later while heading back up to school, I was walking along the bridge that spanned the wide expanse of train rails when I saw her sitting on the floor, long legs curled underneath and looking flawless without makeup, with her new boyfriend, who I can’t remember—again, blacked out—but I’m pretty sure was the live-action inspiration for Prince Eric. Glad she’s happy. I walked past with my head angled the other way because the only thing worse than confronting your old girlfriend that you’re gay is confronting your girlfriend with her hot new boyfriend that you’re gay.

I was talking to some old (ish) friends the other day and I was relating the tale of dating my first (who am I kidding? Only) girlfriend. “I remember being twelve and dating her and being uncomfortable. I brushed it off as thinking that I was a “free spirit” and couldn’t be tied down in a relationship,” I said, pausing before adding, “That was a lie; turns out I was just very, very gay.” Wait for laughter. Be emotionally fulfilled by others’ external laughter noises.

During the conversation of the tote bag—custody arrangements were later made in the best interest of the tote—I was fourteen and for the next year, I steadfastly ignored the rising feeling that lingered underneath layers and layers of Irish repression and fear. I became permanently tense and headaches plagued me from the sheer effort of keeping the lid on my homosexual (porcelain, gilded) box. Finally, at fifteen, in the shower, I realized I was exhausted. “Fine, I’m gay,” I’m sure I said, face directly in the showerhead so that the gurgle of water blanketed my voice. And instantly, some of the tension let out and I unspooled from my sharp wire coil.

Something I learnt after I came out was that, apparently, everyone already knew and was dying to tell me. “I always could tell,” said one well-meaning, slightly condescending person after another. I played with Barbies until I was eight, wore a cape for a year when I was five, and routinely claimed that Prince Eric was my husband. Excuse me if I don’t doff my cap for your super-sleuthing and Holmesian detective work. If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. There’s nothing more disappointing to a theatrical gay that’s having potentially the biggest moment of his life than to find out that everyone already knows his big, juicy secret.

There’s also nothing more useless. In my Film Theory and Criticism class this past spring, we were reading incredibly dense theory by Slavoj Zizek, who I hate with a fiery, unrepentant passion, and someone asked a question about a particularly dense passage. My professor laughed and said, “Oh that’s so confusing. I have no idea what he’s talking about. That’s not really what I wanted you to focus on.”

The students looked at each other before the girl who asked the question raised her hand again and ventured, “What were we supposed to focus on?”

If I actually did the readings for that class, I’m sure I would’ve been as upset as the other students when they found out that instead of struggling through the theory for hours, they could’ve just focused on select passages. That sucks, guys; you totally have my sympathy.

See, that is some information that would’ve been handy before the fact. That would’ve made a difference. You telling me three years after I came out that you’ve “always known” and telling some charming story about me, I don’t know, making dresses for my Polly Pockets—which is a real thing that I did—is decidedly not helpful for me, neither before nor after the fact. Please keep the fact that you figured out my sexuality when I was four to yourself. It’s not needed. Thanks, but no thanks. The whole practice, the “Of course I knew!” routine, is largely demeaning and unfair to all queer people, who have struggled to come to terms with their identities for years.

In an effort to avoid the whole rigmarole of sitting down, finding the words and coming out to people, I’ve instead usually opted for the secondary route of loudly proclaiming which guys—celebrity, make-believe, or otherwise—I think are hot. It’s a method that has proven relatively successful for me, unless the person I’m talking around is deaf or one of those people who think that wrestling isn’t gay or that guy who says, “What’s better than this: Guys being dudes” in that video. Those people are deliberately obtuse. Also I don’t know the word for “gay” in American Sign Language. I could improve, but I don’t think that would end in any other way but a lawsuit.

“We just didn’t work out,” I sighed to my mom vaguely at her question and went back to staring pensively out the window at the passing blurs of cemeteries, thinking about wrestling.



I’ve debated for the last 24 hours whether to address the Orlando massacre today. On one hand, I feel helpless to do anything and that helplessness has made me wonder if one more article will do anything. It seems impossible in the wake of such a tragedy.

But on the other hand, I am filled with such an anger, at the shooter, at the reaction on Facebook, and at our government, that I think to say nothing would be to be tacitly supporting false ideas. And fuck that.

The shooter, Omar Mateen, targeted a gay nightclub during Pride Month. He specifically targeted the LGBTQ+ community, marking this as not only the largest massacre in U.S. history but a hate crime of horrific proportions. The shooter was American, born in New York. The shooter legally bought his weapons. He was, according to his ex-wife and family, not particularly religious but that is something that I cannot prove or disprove. Allegedly before he attacked the nightclub, Pulse, he called 911 and pledged his allegiance to ISIS.

As a queer person, I am sickened and saddened and distraught at the loss of so many members of my community. Pulse was a nightclub, and nightclubs have been, historically for LGBTQ+ people, safe havens. We have gathered there, rallied there, found strength there, and found community there. To attack in a nightclub, Mateen struck at the very core of our community.

But watch, in the coming hours, days and weeks, how our government reacts to this tragedy. They will focus on ISIS, or on fanning the flames of xenophobia, or proclaim him to be “mentally unstable.” They will offer thoughts and prayers. We don’t need your thoughts and prayers. We need, from our government officials, action. We need them to change our laws.

I don’t need politicians like Ted Cruz, Donald Trump or Carly Fiorina to offer their “prayers” for a community that up until the attack, they called rapists, pedophiles and deviants. We don’t need those kinds of prayers. They will offer sympathy because it is what is expected of them, but memory is a long thing. I don’t need people who destructively limit women’s access to abortion clinics but allow for lax gun control policies to offer sympathy. You don’t get to protect one sphere of life while leaving another to die. You don’t get to pick and choose.

Watch how our presidential candidates react to this tragedy. Watch if they shift the focus from the necessary conversation about stricter gun control to inflaming hatred against Muslims. See what they say, what they promise.

I need our politicians to finally decide to change laws. Don’t give me bullshit about the Second Amendment, or that if the clubgoers had guns they could’ve fought back. If you want to abide exactly by a centuries-old document to the detriment of Americans, give up electricity while you’re at it. Commit.

I am angry because nothing seems to be enough. Sandy Hook wasn’t enough. The shooting in the movie theater wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough for politicians to stand up and decide to change laws. How many times does President Obama need to get up to that podium and deal with such tragedy before lawmakers decide to change?

Our politicians, our democratically elected politicians, are telling us that our lives are expendable. That our safety is worth less than preserving some ancient tome. I won’t stand for that. I don’t want to exist in a country where in 2015, there were 372 mass shootings.

Thoughts and prayers are kind and appreciated, but that time has passed. We need direct action from our government. Don’t hide behind xenophobia and Islamophobia. Don’t say that this is unrelated to gun control laws. Own up. Take responsibility.

To everyone who was affected by the Orlando shootings, I am so deeply sorry. I am sorry that you went to what you thought was a safe space and were attacked. I am sorry that we could not protect you. I am sorry to your family members, who woke up to terror and confusion. I am sorry that we did not do enough.

This attack was done during Pride. Gay Pride is not just a celebration of being gay; it is a political statement, a show of strength in a world that condemns us and vilifies us. It is not just about rainbows and love; it is showing that we still face extreme prejudice and violence, and that did not end with marriage equality. It continues every single day.

I am proud to be gay. I am proud to be queer. I will not be cowed by violence; I will not be bullied into silence. The LGBTQ+ community has existed and persevered in the face of extreme danger forever. We have done that because we are stronger than that; because we refuse to break. Remember that in the coming days and weeks. We are strong; we are united. Remember those who died at Pulse and remember why we continue to fight.


Humor, Rambles


I’m currently a stay-at-home child. I don’t have a job. When my friends and peers are suiting up and heading out to their internships, I’m deciding whether or not I’ll spring for the chino shorts or if I’ll just slide into another pair of gym shorts and prove that I have fully and truly given up on life.

But because I stay at home—tending the chickens, doing watercolors, and growing yams for my own organic lubricant—I’ve really gotten to know myself on a deeper level and I’ve also developed some amazing hobbies to keep myself busy and keep my mind as sharp as it usually is (a dull 7/10).

I finished building an armoire today. So weird, but every time I say “Armoire” (and I say it a lot because I’m very self-conscious about the fact that I don’t have an internship, so whenever I meet anyone, I blurt out, “I’M BUILDING AN ARMOIRE” like I’m some sort of guerilla interior designer) I feel like I’m one of those Ina Garten gays who wears multi-pattern silk overshirts and paisley ascots. Now that I think about it, I’m kind of into it.

Side bar: I’m that asshole who tries to pronounce everything in the “correct” way. So it’s not “arm-whar.” It’s “arm-mwah (while twirling curlicue mustache)”.

But anyway, yeah I built an armoire. And I can’t even pretend it’s very “masc 4 masc” of me because 1) It’s an armoire (which is the gayest of all furniture storage besides ottomans and Lazy Susans) 2) I did it while listening to podcasts, and 3) I complained so much that out of the six or so hours it took me to put Armand (the armoire) together, five of them were me just complaining to my mother. However, I did use a power drill (or power-screwdriver ? Unclear) and I, like the true serial killer in the making I am, just pressed the button and watched the power-drill whirl around, screeching its beautiful metal melody.

So besides building an armoire, power-washing my front stoop, going to the gym (omg am I secretly the most masc person ever? Is this like the time I didn’t know that I loved Beyoncé?), I’ve been watching a ton of TV and listening to a bunch of amazing podcasts. Is it so boring to name the things I’ve been absorbing lately? Or is that cool? Okay I’m gonna list the podcasts and stuff I’ve been listening to and the shows I’ve been watching, so if you don’t care, just scroll past.

  1. Throwing Shade podcast
  2. Weird Adults With Little Esther podcast
  3. Anna Faris Is Unqualified podcast
  4. Bitch Sesh podcast
  5. Candidly Nicole—a faux VH1 TV about Nicole Richie
  6. Not Safe With Nikki Glaser—tv show
  7. The Week With Charlie Rose—just fucking with you guys.

I’ve also been reading a ton—menus, receipts, subpoenas—which has been soy nice because I’ve just been so oversaturated from my school year of reading serious literature. How boring. Trying to make me a “better person.”

I made this catchy title before I finished writing the post, so I should probably talk about my dog. He’s following me around everywhere—like will not leave me alone at any point. I was washing a cup in the bathroom, he was standing at my heels (size 11 Louboutins). I’m doing laps around the first floor (something I do when I keep forgetting things and have to keep getting them) and his little feet are click-clacking behind me (I forgot to mention that he’s also wearing Louboutins in this scenario). I’ve read somewhere that dogs can sense ghosts. I mean, animals can sense tsunamis or whatever, so I don’t think it’s that big of a stretch that they can sense the supernatural.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that either I’m a tsnumani, or I’m about to die/become a medium/there’s a ghost who is obsessed with me, because my dog cannot leave me alone. I hope it’s that I’m a medium, because that’s the most positive out of all the three possible outcomes I’ve discussed. But if I die then people will find this blog post and think that I’m clairvoyant or that my dog is a witch, and I cannot condone the next round of canine Salem Witch Trials. I will not let this happen.

Also the photos I’ve chosen have no real relevance, I’m just getting burritos and don’t have time to be visually hilarious. Plus those are funny tweets.



Alternate titles: “How To Disguise Your Flagrant Narcissism as Genuine Confidence” or “How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.”

First, I’d like to just say right off the bat that if you’re funny, you could essentially get away with whatever you want. Actually wait, that’s not entirely true; if you’re hot, you can actually get away with whatever you want. And I’m not even limiting that to getting away with narcissism. If you’re hot, you can do anything. Like Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP. Do you think Gwyneth is qualified to recommend organic lube? Of course not.

So, if you’re above an 8 (the scale varies re your location), please disregard this blog post. You’re already set for life. Actually, you could give me some advice. If you have a high level of skill in getting people to like you (being blindingly funny, or a natural blonde), then this post can serve as more of light entertainment. But if, like me and rest of the plebeian majority, your flagrant narcissism is unequal to the level of your attractiveness and/or wit (just kidding, no one can be both hot and funny), this article is your savior.

THE NARCISSYSTEM—soon to be trademarked, but it’s not done yet so don’t steal it, you guys. I’m serious.

First I should point out that I’m butchering “narcissism” in the same way that Khloe Kardashian has a video series on her app called “Khlo-C-D.” I know that I’m not referring to clinical narcissisim. Don’t send me your letters. I’m referring to the casual narcissism, the millennial narcissism.

Our generation has been bred for casual narcissism in the same way that pugs and other brachycephalics were bred to look like E.T. It’s almost not our fault, it’s the fault of others…Which is something that a casual narcissist would say to avoid taking the blame for their actions. Moving on. I don’t think that someone could be around so many front-facing cameras and not be a little bit of a narcissist. There are Instagram models, people—open your eyes. It’s completely out of our hands now.

However, it’s a complete double-edged sword. We’re all narcissists, but you can’t be too openly narcissistic, because people don’t like seeing the physical manifestations of their souls. It’s too creepy (similar to the “Uncanny Valley”). It’s a mixture of the joy of having someone to hate—thus redirecting some of that self-hate that every millennial has—and the pure rage of someone having the balls to say what we’re all thinking. But on the other hand, you can’t be too modest. People hate modesty more than they hate ostentation because modesty means you don’t know/accept how good you have it, and people cannot handle that. It’s the Anne Hathaway Syndrome: don’t be too modest or people will want to skin you alive.

Like everything else in the world—it makes no fucking sense. The very act of maintaining social media presence implies some inherent narcissism: you think that what you’re putting out is funny or pretty or palatable enough to be worthy of consumption en masse. Even the Internet troll exhibits some base form of narcissism (mutated, though; in the same way that an actual turtle is tangentially like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles); they believe their vitriol is good enough to be coattailed onto creative content. And if you don’t have any social media presence, it’s assumed that either A) you’re Amish or B) you think you’re too good/authentic/uninhibited for social media.

So if you’re stuck between too open and too modest, finding the right balance requires a mixture of humor, timeliness, bold disregard for social norms, and a pinch of spunk.

If you’re deeply self-involved, but also critically insecure, here’s a great way to both get compliments and sympathy. I, as a gay 6 and a Boston 7, will say things like, “It’s hard because I’m so hot,” or “I wonder if I could get away with some of the things I say if I were ugly.”

Then wait, staring silently at your friends/personal assistants and wait for them to laugh or say nothing. If they laugh, it’s because they know that you’re ugly and you’re talking like an 8+, and if they’re silent, either they agree or they’re letting you have this. In either case for the second option, you win. The practice revolves on being hilarious, which is an excellent mask for the fact that you think that you’re actually that hot. Like I think I’m actually hot enough to get away with the things I say. Modern science, as well as my checkered dating history, provides a pretty strong counterpoint to that, however.

Here is where two roads diverge in the woods. Which path you takes depends on whether you’re hot or funny. We have established previously that you can only be either hot or funny, so I don’t have to worry about making up some third, weird combo path. Two paths. Accept it.

If you’re hot, take the Instagram. With a great enough following (or simply a like-happy following) you can bask in the social acceptance of your flagrant displays of narcissism. Outside of early Facebook-late MySpace, taking selfies has never been so publicly accepted. However, if you chose to Instagram, mingle your selfies with landscape shots, shots of dogs bounding freely, and/or simple, white aesthetic shots of food or furniture. Invest in a proper editing app, such as Afterlight or VSCO. Have a wide breadth of edited shots to upload at a moment’s notice (as long as that moment’s notice lies within the bracket of heavy traffic times). I edit my photos in the bathroom so when I’m out and about, I don’t have to edit at a moment’s notice.

If you’re funny (or ugly), go via Twitter. I, shockingly for a L.A. 5 and Milwaukee 8, use Twitter. Twitter allows me to be the most viciously funny, sloppy version of myself. It’s the social media equivalent of being so deep into a long-term relationship you exclusively wear sweatpants. Twitter has seen me at my worst and accepts me for it. In fact, it encourages my worst. I have never been dumber, funnier, ruder or sharper than I am in my best moments on Twitter. At my funeral, I’m going to have a flat-screen above my casket that plays a slideshow of my greatest Tweets.

Lastly, pretend that you’re in on the joke. If people knew that you were actually being serious, they would abandon you on an iceberg. But if they think you’re being funny, skewering our narcissistic society with your acute view and biting wit, then they’ll be into it. Here are some ways to coat your self-centeredness in “humor.” A). Amp up your narcissism ever so slightly, in the vein of shows like Candidly Nicole and Inside Amy Schumer (specifically the skit where she uses Tig Notaro’s breast cancer diagnosis to get people to be nice to her). B). Write a humorous article, maybe entitled “How To Be A Narcissist and Get Away With It” on your excellent, but not widely appreciated (because your humor goes over everyone’s heads), blog called the Blunderkindof and make it seem as if you’re emulating the vapid pleasure-society that we all inhabit. No one will catch on that you yourself are a wildly spiraling tornado of narcissism. It’s foolproof.

If everything else fails—fake your death and subsequent “resurrection.” This one guy did it 2000 years ago and he got a book deal out of it. So extra.


I hope you liked this snunny (snarky + funny + nihilism) post! I had an absolute blast writing it, and usually the only thing I enjoy is inflicting pain upon the masses! What a departure! But seriously, I actually loved writing this insane, silly, rude post and I hope that you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Or if that’s too tall an order, I hope that you had a modicum of the pleasure I had while writing it. I’d like to thank Nina for bouncing ideas off (even though she thinks I’m not pulling off being a functioning narcissist).

Life, Rambles


Alternately titled “YIP, YIP, HOORAY!”

I have the yips. And if we’re being honest, I’ve had them for a while.

Side bar: “Yips” sounds like an STD (a STD?), but something particularly embarrassing. Something Tiger Woods would’ve gotten from one of his 15 prostitutes. I really don’t know why I’m starting this post by talking about El Tigre.

I’ve had the yips ever since I wrote the post about suicide and depression. It got so many views (roughly twelve times more than I’m used to) and the resulting feeling was a deer in headlights. But that doesn’t feel quite right. More like when you disturb a rock and the beetle that’s been making its home underneath freezes, suddenly aware of the vastness above it. I’m the beetle in this metaphor.

And since I’ve been made aware of the vast curve above me, I’ve realized that people might actually be reading what I write—a concept that had not been fully concretized in my head—and having opinions about my writing, and that’s led to the yips.

I do much better when no one’s watching—actually I do much better when people are actively rooting against me. In my freshman year of high school, my track coach knocked me back one running group. We would run in heats, so Group A would start their sprinting lap, then ten seconds later, Group B would start, and so on and so on.

He called out my name—well actually, he thought my name was “Murphy” so he called out “Murphy”—“Go to Group Six.” Group Six was the slowest runners—I had previously been Group Five, which was the mingled remains of runners who were not quite slow but not quite fast (Groups One to Three were largely interchangeable in speed, Group Four was always vying for the chance to jump ahead, and Five was largely content to swim in its own pond). Six was the asthmatics and the fatties.

Instead of being shamed into embarrassment, the demotion kick-started dogged stubbornness, and I roiled internally.

Group Five would go into their lap. Ten seconds. Group Six, me poised at the very edge of the line, would go. I sprinted, pumping limbs, and caught up with Group Five. The next round, I would pass the slowest member of Group Five. Then the next slowest. After every lap, I would stand, gasping, and make direct, combative eye contact with my coach. He didn’t notice, but I knew that I had made my point.

Group Five.

This anecdote tells us a few things. One, I might not know when to quit. Two, I’m very aggressive. Three, I succeed with flying colors when no one has any possible expectations of me. The minute people expect something, I deflate like a bouncy castle at the close of a middle schooler’s birthday party.


Source: Imgur

And it sucks, because I don’t want to have the yips. I want to use my blog for what it’s meant for—complaining about boys, writing veiled personal essays to catch certain people’s attentions, and cutting up pop culture for general consumption.

So I’m officially casting off all expectations. Most people have very low ones of me already, but shed those too. Because mama’s back, and there’s some good shit we need to discuss.

I don’t know if I should talk about them here….or….?

See, I started writing this on Tuesday and now it’s Thursday and I was going to write more but I was apparently distracted—probably by, like, a butterfly or I went to get something to eat. Regardless, I did not finish this post, but I want to. I think I’m going to go back to my roots and start forcing myself to write biweekly posts, yips be damned.

Side bar: I’m writing this having just woken up from a nap. I was reading Kim Barker’s book The Taliban Shuffle (which became the movie Whiskey Tango Foxtrot with Tina Fey) and that is one book you don’t want to be reading when you fall asleep because all my dreams were about the Taliban and me wanting to go to the mall.



Source: PopSugar