Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles


Written while having bad skin.

I don’t want to be dramatic, is something I say to myself and others before I go off. I won’t even say it now, because I want to remain cool and calm and collected, and foreshadowing a blog post with “I don’t want to be dramatic” just mentally gives me the go-ahead to rant. And I’m above that, frankly.

I’m about to head back to school. I have officially turned 21 (#twentyfun). I’m living life large, but also small because I’m so thin, and also medium because I can speak with the dead. But as I’m going back, I have to start reacquainting myself with my peers and my piers (Boston is a river city), and that means reacquainting myself with Fakesters (Fake Hipsters, but I can’t think of a wittier amalgam, so fucking sue me. Also like you even fucking know what an amalgam is).

To the casual basique onlooker, I might be generally confused (slightly) for a hipster. I’m gay (very against the mainstream), I wear a lot of sweaters, I make strong references, and I’m an English major (hipster boner city because if I’ve listened to one New Balance-wearing wannabe discussing 1800s English poets, I’ve listened to a thousand). However, I’m also deeply invested in the welfare of the Kardashian-Jenners, I don’t own an antique printing press, and my iPod nano has since lost all charge because I retired it in 2009 like the humanitarian I am.

However, when you dance the dirty tango with Hipsterdom, that means that you come into contact with A) real hipsters (which I can’t even) and B) Fakesters (which are like real hipsters but infinitely more insufferable). Look, I get it. Everyone gets caught up in trends. The ‘90s are back, hunny, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. HOWFUCKINGEVER, I can’t handle it when people take things a little too far.

I’ve been watching Friends recently and besides the very problematic lack of queer or black people, it’s been cute. It’s also been hauntingly familiar because everything that all the characters wear is something that I’ve seen on a classmate. Crop tops, oversized flannels, a simple boot. We’re jonesing for the ‘90s bad. Which is cool. Which is fine. But there are some things that cross the fucking line.

I was on Snapchat and I was scrolling through people’s Stories—muted—when I came across the Snapchat of a not friend-friend (like, we’re “friends” but I wouldn’t eat in front of her) and she has Snapchatted her listening to a circa-2007 iPod classic. So let’s break down this situation. You think it’s fucking hipster and alternative to listen to an iPod classic (no h8, don’t send me your letters, iPod classic stans) and document on a modern social media app with YOUR FUCKING IPHONE 6S. If you’re going to commit and make me seem like an asshole millennial, then you don’t get to use a goddamn iPhone. Go back to a corded housephone, you monster. And I say this with a lot of love and also if the person who did this ever finds this blog, I just want you to know that I don’t hate you, please don’t spit at me.

I can handle the Tumblr freaks and the mirror selfies and the acid-washed mom jeans. I can handle them because I am them. But I can’t handle blatant and (frankly) dangerous behavior. You’re not edgy. There’s a reason why we don’t use the iPod classic anymore. And that reason is because we have fucking iPhones, which you know, you fakester.

This might seem harsh, but let me reason with you. I deal with fakesters a lot: I go to an urban school in a fairly liberal city. And a lot of me being a mainstream, trendy motherfucker led me to feeling like an idiot. I felt like I was stupid in the face of these “edgy” people, like I was a phony or a total basic for liking the things I like. The people who are so stuffed to the gills with ennui that they’re choking on irony. I’ve learned to cope and ferret out my own internal reasons for feeling inferior.

But I can’t deal with fakery. I can’t handle peers who go thrift-shopping with their parents’ credit cards, who have political opinions but aren’t registered to vote, who have answers to questions they don’t understand. I can handle the slight narcissism that comes with being a hipster and going anti-trend. I even respect it sometimes. But I can’t handle full-on bullshit. You’re not indie. You’re not edgy. You can be you and do your thing and wear chokers and I can do my thing and read Daily Mail, but let’s not pretend that we’re any different. At the end of the day, we’re both trendy millennial fuckers. And that’s okay. Because that’s the way it should be.

pop culture, Review, television


Grade: A (but not an A+ because it’s still disgusting and sad)

There are a few episodes of reality television where the “reality” and reality blur together uncomfortably and you realize that these people are, like, really fucking messed up. The episode of Kourtney and Khloe Take Miami where Scott smashes a mirror is one. And the finale of this season’s Real Housewives of New York City is another. The drama was so close, so hideous, and so tangible that it almost felt scripted. But it was real in the ugliest way.

We open up back in Miami, where the producers cattle-prodded the Housewives into going because Mohegan Sun sucked and Bethenny was bleeding too profusely to go to Mexico (I never thought I would be angry at vaginas for having their own storylines in RHONY and having those storylines impede my promise at a dramatic vacay). Bethenny, whose jawline is really cute now, has just told Luann that she has a photo of Tom and some woman making out. AT THE REGENCY. WHICH I’M ASSUMING IS A BAR.

Side “bar” (ha?): These women and the inhabitants of their social spheres inhabit only, like, three places in Manhattan: Boutique the club, The Regency Bar, and Sonja’s vagina. The last one has late checkout, so it’s particularly popular for the late-risers.

Anywayanywayanyway, Luann refuses to believe Bethenny and oscillates rapidly between swooning onto the ground like a Southern Belle, fake-vomiting, and shouting, “TOM’S MADLY IN LOVE WITH ME.” Reminder: they have been dating for four weeks and engaged for one. Luann says that she “knows” he’s the one. FOUR WEEKS.

For her part, Bethenny does truly seem remorseful, which is a little too late. The entire season, Bethenny has been a raging psychopath (not a diss, just a fact) and so mean to Jules, so I find it a little weird that this is the thing that she’s in literal tears about. After she tells Lu, the camera shows her sitting in bed, lying in bed, and drinking straight from the Skinnygirl bottle. Great sutured advertising, btw Bravo!!

The entire time (all four weeks) that Luann and Tom have been together, the women have said that Luann is in love with being in love, and in love with the hype. And when she whispers to Bethenny, haggard and old and tired, “Don’t do this to me,” it’s almost as if she’s asking Bethenny, “Don’t do this to me. Don’t ruin my storyline.” I know that’s harsh, but I think it’s also true. Luann is an honestly awful person. I don’t want her to be unhappy, but I also think that this is a natural progression of her storyline.

This episode was, for the first thirty minutes, too close and ugly and weird and not-good drama. Luann’s in a tizzy, Bethenny’s inconsolable, Ramona is getting very close to people’s faces and screaming, “I FOUND OUT THAT MARIO WAS CHEATING FROM PAGE SIX.” It’s a lot.

And then, when Luann is in the bathroom after the bomb has been dropped and she’s been talking with Tom, you see the wildness recoil and something more calculated take its place. Reality TV “reality.”

However, before we get into the whole problematic of it all, I just have one moment that is perfect. Luann, this entire time while she’s been spinning out, has been texting Tom via voice call. Meaning, she speaks into Siri and Siri types out a text message. TO REMIND US THAT THESE WOMEN ARE ELDERLY.

Luann, in her text to Tom: “How could you do this to me. Question mark.” BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO VERBALIZE PUNCTUATION. A moment of levity.

Screen Shot 2016-08-25 at 6.48.48 PM.png

Source: Bravo TV// “How could you do this to me. Question mark.”

After she’s freaked out, Luann does the classic horrible move of getting back together with Tom and shooting up Bethenny like a trussed-up turkey on Thanksgiving. Why is Bethenny so involved with Luann’s business? Why is she gunning for Tom? Why did she fact-check?

The last one makes me actually annoyed. Bethenny rigorously fact-checked and made sure that her information was solid before coming to Luann. LUANN SEES THAT AS SHADY. LUANN, YOUR FIANCE IS PLAYING TONSIL-HOCKEY WITH A COUGAR AT THE REGENCY. GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT.

Luann’s darkest moment, when you glimpse the depths of her denial and delusion, comes when she tries to believe her own lies. She says they had a fight, he went to the Regency, and met up with a girl whom he had not seen in a while. She was, according to Luann, “of course ready, willing, and able to be there for him. And, you know, Tom fell into her clutches.”

And right there, more than any other moment in the episode, is when I decided that I hate Luann. Because someone who blames other women for the cheating of her fiance, who forgives the man but slut-shames the other women, is so beyond anti-feminist that it’s disgusting. Women like Luann are so willing to believe their own narratives, that men are gullible and fall into the traps of women, that they take back cheaters time and time again because “that’s just their nature.” Tom can’t help it. UM TOM COULD HELP IT. AND HE’LL DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. Luann will keep making excuses for him because to not make excuses would be to give up the fantasy and the narrative of “Happy wife, happy life.” And that makes me so sad, that people are willing to sacrifice so much for the facade of a good life.

Luann does a bunch of shitty other stuff, but all in the haze of acting for the storyline. She’s gone and cracked, and it shows. During Bethenny’s Mexican fiesta party, appropriation to the max, the women are discussing the $10K pinata (I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN) that Bethenny got them, when Luann marches up, taps on Bethenny’s shoulder and says, “STOP TALKING ABOUT ME AND TOM.” She obviously believes in the reality tv formula that a group of women talking must be gossiping. It’s so obviously her trying to start drama and her blind belief that these women really care that I had to laugh. I didn’t want to. I HAD to.

Screen Shot 2016-08-25 at 6.52.39 PM.png

Source: Bravo TV// What’s sadder: Jules’ belief her marriage will succeed or her denim lewk?

This finale was one of the darkest I’ve ever seen, from the glimpses of turbulent pain in Jules’ eyes as she says that she hopes hers and Michael’s eighth anniversary will be lucky for their marriage, knowing full well that in the time of the testimonial filming, her relationship has already headed for divorce. The blind faith of Dorinda. The magic eyes of Ramona. Sonja looked amazing, but she always does. The upcoming knowledge of what Carole will wear to the Reunion. All SUPER dark stuff, you guys.

And at the center of the tornado, in a circle of belying calm, are Bethenny and Luann. Their friendship in tatters, and Bethenny’s utter disbelief that Luann could attack her for Bethenny’s probably first, and last, attempt at benevolent, no-strings-attached do-gooding. Luann will choose her LuMan every time, and the rest of the girls are just collateral damage.

I typed this all on my new LAPTOP, so I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet, but I wanted to put up content. Also my BIRTHDAY IS TOMORROW #TWENTYFUN. Ugh I hate myself for that hashtag, but I won’t delete it. I need to learn from my shame.

Favorite Moments:

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  • Bethenny screaming at a waiter to never serve vegetarian ceviche in her presence again.
  • Luann: “Me and Tom are doing our own therapy. People tell us to go to a therapist, I say, Why?”
  • Everyone loving Adam’s new haircut. It’s cute. It’s not that cute.
  • Sonja being confused by food and reminding us, yet again, that she and Tom were lovers and that her current boyfriend gets his rocks off to antique napkins.


Apart from the hugely jarring fact that Bravo is not airing any Real Housewives episodes while the Olympics are airing—like why?? As if they have the same demographics????—this Olympics has been a lot about “the Olympics” and less about “me” so I’d like to pull the focus back onto myself. I’m sure we’ve all seen those Tumblr posts where it’s like “Katie Ledecky at 19 breaks world record, while I’ve got my hand stuck in the Pringles can” or “Gymnast: lands a triple axle flip but lands off-kilter; me (mouth full of Cheetos): bad form.” And that’s so millennial that we’re all feeling the same amount of shame and self-loathing that we, as old teenagers and young twentysomethings, are literally accomplishing nothing while our peers are winning medals and looking so ripped while doing it.

So to make me/us feel better, I’ve created a list of things that I could be the Olympic athlete for:

Side bar: Do we call them “Olympic athletes” or “Olympians”? Or is “Olympians” strictly for Greek deities? Drop me a line.

Five Things I Could Turn Into An Olympic Sport:

1). Folding laundry: I’m, like, really good at it. I have that trifold trick down pat, and I’m actually not bad at folding buttondowns, which—as everyone knows—can be a real drag to fold. I have yet to master the “Grasping the shirt at two seemingly random points and through artful twisting and cotton origami” method of folding clothes, but let’s pretend that that’s the same thing as using performance-enhancing drugs. Yes, it’s technically faster, but morally dubious.

2). Bingeing Netflix: There are very few things I’m better at than watching copious amounts of television. I burned through Scandal, I laughed through Chelsea, I tore through The Office. I’ve recently started rewatching Friends and this is completely unrelated to bingeing, but there are very few things in this world that I am more into than Season 1 Chandler Bing. The hair, the snarkiness, the gay vibe. I LOVE HIM AND WANT HIM TO BE MY HUSBAND.

Side bar: Everything that the people on Friends wore is exactly what everyone I know wears now.

3). Not knowing when I’m being flirted with: Not that this happens a lot, but for someone who is as self-centered and egotistical as me, you would be certain that I would be better at knowing when someone is similarly entranced by me. But, for whatever reason, I’m the last to know when anyone has been flirting with me. If you’re flirting with me (plz flirt w me), can you just, like, email me the night before to let me know to be on the lookout? Thanks. Also can you put something catchy in the subject line, otherwise I won’t even see it. I get a lot of emails.

4). Tongue-popping: What started as an ironic quirk has ingrained itself into my behavior as a nervous tic and a method of echolocation. Whenever I enter a particularly well-acousticed—not a word—area, I tongue-pop to hear the echo. It also acts as excellent verbal punctuation and pizazz. I can tongue-pop really loud, and the only downside to this Olympic skill is dry-mouth.

So that you can also learn this valuable shady skill, I’ve included a YouTube tutorial by the Tongue Pop Queen Herself, Alyssa Edwards. Yawelcomeyawelcome.

5). Cooking peppers and onions: My family reads me to filth for this, because I can only cook, like, four things really well, and one of those is peppers and onions. My friend—whose Wunderkindof pseudonym I can’t remember right now, and I forget which article she was mentioned in so I can’t look it up/I’m too lazy to look it up—can attest that I make bomb peppers and onions. Sometimes I’ll add kale into it too. The secret? Low heat, lots of patience, and balsamic reduction. If I could wed and bed one reduction, it would be a balsamic, hunny. Bombsalmic reduction. So fucking good. So fucking easy.

I’m not really good at that many things—oh I can crack a lot of bones in my body!—so I’m gonna end this list at five so that it doesn’t drag on and get sad.

Get?!” you ask in disbelief.

This article is—at this moment—under 700 words and under 700 words has never felt so long. I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel right now, but I’m too dumb to know anything about politics—usually I’m more well-versed but idk what’s been happening with my brain—and no good juicy pop culture has been happening lately. Celebrities, give me your drama! I’m out of a job until you do!



Written after a weird, resent-y day. I hope this seethes with resentment, especially towards YOU DEBORAH. GIVE ME BACK MY TUPPERWARE.

Is anything more stressful than staring into the void of Netflix after finishing a binge and not knowing what to start next?

Whenever people say stuff like that—rhetorical questions—I always answer with stuff like “Famine” because I’m terrible. But seriously you guys, there is actually nothing worse than not knowing what to watch. This is tough stuff, you guys. You guys.

Remember when I said that I was going to stop writing about myself and focus on topics outside my person? That’s really hard when your life is as deep and multifaceted as mine. Also I would have to “look stuff up” if I wrote about not-me, and you guys the keys are really hard to push on my laptop and it’s just not in my five-year-plan to have bodybuilder fingers from pushing sticky keys. You guys.

I have nothing to say/everything to say but I’m not allowed, so instead of not posting on Thursday, thus marking the first Thursday in a WEEK that I haven’t missed—I’m on a roll, people—I think I’ll just burn off some resentment calories by listing things that make me annoyed that I’m not able to actually change. This was written I guess when I hadn’t posted in a while, but the similarities to my life rn are SHOCKINGLY WEIRD. Astral coincidence or I’m just stuck in a rut on Thursdays…

1). Group chats where I can’t turn on the “Do Not Disturb” button because sometimes they have important info/compliment me.

2). Having a corn kernel stuck in your back molar JUST after you clipped your nails. OMG I JUST FUCKING CLIPPED MY NAILS. I’M TOTALLY IN A RUT.

3). When your thighs chafe but you’re not being more active than usual, so you have to deduce that you’re just getting fatter. STILL FAT.

4). Compliment jacking off contests: This is a gross way to describe it, but the only other way is “the black hole where you just keep shoving compliments at each other in the vain hope that one of you will just give up and die, and thus end the cycle.”

5). When you keep accidentally writing “irrigating” instead of “irritating.” One is a valuable farming technique and one is a nuisance. I mean, technically they’re both nuisances, amiright ladies? My farming material never lands.

I can’t think of any more, so I’ll cease and desist.


Oh, should I have written about Kylie Jenner turning 19? I’ll pass. Even though I love you Kylie!!!!!

Humor, Life, Politics, pop culture, Things Happening RN


Some days I am bursting with ideas, and I feel as if I could write for hours. Other days, I stare out of the window—waiting for my husband to return from war—and just can’t get anything done. I can’t actually tell which type of day this is because all I’ve been doing is watching YouTube videos—so it might be the latter—but I figure that I could comment on things that are already happening, thus cementing my position as someone without any creativity but with a lot to say. People love that, right?


1). Donald Trump vs the Khans: This is kind of already been discussed, but Khizr and Ghazala Khan, the parents of a deceased U.S. soldier, spoke at the DNC against Donald Trump and his treatment of Muslim-Americans. The Khans’ son, Capt. Humayun Khan, was killed in Iraq in 2004. Khizr called The Donald out on his lack of empathy and also his disgraceful conduct. In true Trump fashion, rather than respond gracefully, Donald attacked Ghazala Khan, who did not speak at the convention, implying that, because of Muslim tradition (??) she was not allowed to speak. Ghazala wrote a piece for The Washington Post, saying that she was too overcome with emotion to speak at the DNC and that as a parent, Trump should have had more empathy for someone who has lost a child.

Interestingly, this is one of the few things that is really sticking with Trump. Maybe it’s the combination of misogyny and criticizing a U.S. solider who gave his life for his country and him illustrating exactly what the Khans were talking about, but even some Republicans have criticized him. This, however, has not stopped them from endorsing him, which President Obama completely called them out on.

Obama asked if this is someone that Republican leaders have repeatedly strongly spoken out against, but still continue to endorse, what it said about their party as a whole. Yet again, another reason why Obama is a total rockstar and I am weeping at the thought of him leaving the White House.

2). The Olympics: I’m not like #sporty, so I haven’t been watching the Olympics and I missed the opening ceremonies because I was at a party, but apparently the Olympic Village (which I keep wanting to call “Victor Village” a la Hunger Games) is less than impressive. After maintenance attempted to run a “stress test” to see if the Village could cope with actual Olympians living in it and that test resulted in major issues, some athletes have been relocated to hotels and the US basketball teams are living on a docked cruise ship.

Side bar: They have basketball in the Olympics??

Coupled with the Zika virus issue, this is shaping up to be a little tough for the Olympians. But seriously, they’re all so hot that I doubt any of them have time to do anything other than stare at each other and compete.

3). I had a burger yesterday: I’m writing this on Sunday, and yesterday I went with my best friend and his girlfriend (we are also friends, but I need her to understand her place in the food chain) to this dive near their house and it was so good omg. Sometimes it makes me remember that good food doesn’t need a lot of accoutrements and embellishments. This has been reflected in my style and is also a general theme in my life right now, so I’m glad it’s being reflected in my food. Something great is usually also something simple. Except for me: I’m a complex diamond of a human person.

4). The Cursed Child: The script for the play “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child” was released in book-form, and I can’t decide whether or not I want to read it. It’s not written by J.K. Rowling (more like J.Slay Rowling amiright ladeez) and I’ve already read all the spoilers—NOT PLEASED—so idk if I should. It’s interesting that this is a year of Harry Potter revival, with The Cursed Child and Fantastic Beasts coming out close together. but while Fantastic Beasts doesn’t bother—it won’t affect the original seven books and it gives us a canonized lewk into the American wizarding world (nerdgasm)—The Cursed Child totally bothers me because it RUINS THE EPILOGUE. THINGS AREN’T SUPPOSED TO EXIST PAST THE EPILOGUE.

5). Kylie’s Birthday Surprise: Just shy of her nineteenth birthday, Kylie Jenner released her Birthday Special Surprises for her cosmetics line. An eyeliner—new for her—a new gold metal matte, an entire eyeshadow kit, a new gold gloss, two cream eye shadows, a new matte, and new mini-mattes. She’s, like, a fucking mogul, you guys. Like, we’re all just watching Kylie Jenner take over the world.

Also also also do you think that Kylie will release a highlighter and call it “KyLighter?” Because I might’ve just thought of her newest product. Fucking missed opportunity if she doesn’t, and also a missed opportunity if she doesn’t hire me as Media Consultant/Product Punnist/Thinspirationist.


Shockingly, I don’t have much to say. Well, I have a lot to say, but I don’t know how much of it I can put online without regretting it later. Isn’t it ironic, after all the bullshit I put on this blog, that I have boundaries and standards? I don’t believe it either. Also, like, besides the Olympics—which I’m too busy to watch—and the DNC/RNC—which I’m too dumb to understand—there really hasn’t been much going on. It’s almost Kylie Jenner’s birthday.

Actually omg you know what I have to say? Remember how when everyone was freaking out in anticipation of Kylie Jenner turning eighteen and being #legal?? And it was basically all about how we knew that Tyga and Kylie were together but to avoid the whole “statutory rape” thing, they had to keep it on the DL until she was legal. Ew, I just realized how gross that is, that a 26-year-old left his girlfriend and their son to be with a literal 17-year-old. For some reason, this has made me completely understand Blac Chyna in a way I never did before. My eyes are opened.

Anywayanywayanyway. Well, today is Shawn Mendes’ eighteenth birthday and I feel like it’s a similar thing for the gays that I know. Because he’s literally so hot but I was literally like “Ew he’s literally 17” but now he’s not. This is my Kylie moment. He’s my inspirashawn. OMG THAT’S BRILLIANT I’M A FUCKING POET.


Humor, Life, Love & Romance


In the Splash Zone.

“Okay, so take a candid photo of me looking away, but I want to be laughing, and I want to look thin,” I say, punching the emphasis on the last clause, hoping to impress the very dire nature of having a Thinstagram (making that happen?) onto JR, who is not exactly up to the onerous task but is the only person who is sitting across from me, thus giving him the ability to angle the camera in a flattering way.

In the swampy air of the bar, sitting on a reclaimed church pew and in a $10 Uniqlo shirt, I swivel towards Loren, because in this “candid” photo, she’s the one I’m “laughing” with. Sweaty fingers curl around the sweating glass, and as I turn and dive into the first “pose”, the cup slips out of my fingers. The G&T contents douse my left leg but most goes directly into Loren’s crotch as the cup bounces off her thighs and rolls into the nether regions of the Brooklyn bar floor.

JR was kind enough to capture my immediate shock and mortification, so here is that photo.


Source: Danny McCarthy

After mopping up the church pew and Loren’s vagina, we sat back down and listened to a sixty-five-year-old man backed up by a black woman in Casual Friday realness and a drummer in a Los Pollos Hermanos t-shirt and wedding ring.

Do you remember in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows when Aberforth Dumbledore was introduced and you were like “Oh wow, there’s someone who’s an even bigger old hippie than Albus Dumbledore?” This lead singer was the Aberforth to Bernie Sanders’s Albus.

Thirty minutes previous.

Sandwiched between Loren and JR and heavily aware that I’m blocking Cool Black Girl in Red Braids and Snapback from seeing the band we came to see, I’m staring at Hot Lead Singer. He’s lean in the way that all indie singers are, with large capable hands and artistic veins tracing up his smooth forearms. He croons into the microphone, the bulb of which nuzzles his hooked nose. The way he sings feels authentic enough, but it’s like watching a TV show of what an indie band should look like. The low, gravelly voice, the scrunched eyes, the intensity. The overlarge Hawaiian shirt open over a sharp-clavicled chest and clashing printed shorts.

As the sweat pools in my lower back, I realize that this could be my future. Dark, swampy Brooklyn bars, JR and Loren, making eye contact with cute boys in polo shirts. Sweating glasses of amoretto sours and clinking bottles of Blue Moon. The wreathing aroma of someone’s last blunt, the ember of which is probably scattered on the front stoop. For the first time, after the initial awkwardness fades, this feels like it could become something grounded in our reality.


Source: Danny McCarthy// Be honest, is this an Instagram or a THINstagram??

I’m graduating in less than a year. In less than a year, I’ll have to be figuring out my plan for the next few months. If I stay in New York, manage to get a job, and eventually scrape enough money together to move out, I could make this—standing in bars, listening to alt bands, black tees and light-wash denim, gin and tonics splashing onto my shoes—into a life.

Back at Splashgate.

But this is what I get for trying to be a hip Brooklynite: drinkless and sitting next to someone whose vagina is wet because of me (yes, I hear it too. It’s a hilarious joke, but focus on Splashgate).

And when I think I’m all cool and hip, I remember that I ate a Frosty in the car on the way over, and that I still can’t properly pronounce “February.” And these are things—I’m imagining—real adults can do. Not the Frosty part; everyone loves a good fucking Frosty.

Trying to plan for the future feels a little premature when I still feel like such a kid. I mean, all around me, people are growing up, but I think it’s a mark of still being in school—and in that school mindset—that I see myself as a kid. I work with seven-year-olds, and really, their frame of mind is not that different than mine. I have a slighter firmer grasp on economics and a better appreciation for logic, but other than that, we’re the same.


Anywayanywayanyway, this post has been sitting in my “Minimized” folder for almost a week, and I didn’t plan ahead for a blog today—spoiler, I write them ahead of time—so I figured I would just publish this one. Also I’m gonna do a quickie bonus post either today or some other time, of an article I thought was funny, but a little sparse. Kind of like a bald comedian—eyoooooo.

Literally what was I talking about?


Humor, Inspirational, Life


I’ve been spending a lot of time with my friends JR and Loren recently—not their real names, to protect anonymity, because since I’m a celebrity, my security detail thinks they’re at risk for my crazed fans (Stars: They’re Just Like You). We’re all very smart dumb people—meaning we talk about smart things, but we’re dumb as fuck so it doesn’t go very far—but we were actually talking a lot about buying the right size clothes for your body.

And that got me thinking about what actually makes a person attractive because someone—probably me, I’m astute like that—said that when someone wears clothes well (fit-wise), they can basically pull off anything. Like, I can’t wear mesh because I’m not confident, but EJ Johnson—son of Magic Johnson and kween of Rich Kids of Beverly Hills—can wear all mesh and it looks completely normal because he’s so confident. Also his skin is smooth as molasses; it’s insane. That’s not the point though.

So because I attempt to convince everyone in my life that I’m hot—by saying things like “I’m too pretty to be this smart” or “It’s hard because this hot” or “I’m hot. Say it and I’ll let you go back to your family. Say I’m hot.”—I thought I would share that knowledge that I, as a smart dumb person, have gathered like our hunter-gatherer ancestors. Also, side bar, why is it that when our ancestors traveled without roots around, looking for food, they’re “hunter-gatherers” and when I do it, I’m “trespassing in a McDonald’s after hours”? It’s simply situational.

What if the entire list was just “Do cocaine and get super skinny” and then I just pressed the “h” key for ninety lines? Is that quality content?

How To: Convince People You’re Hotter Than You Actually Are 

1). Move really fast: They can’t make out your features if you’re blurry. If you get motion sickness—guilty—then you can wear a large Sia-style black-and-white wig.

2). Haircut: I search for a haircut that will suit my egghead with the same fervor I can only imagine a mother looking for her child in a mega-Costco has: we know what we want, we just can’t find it. I like to say that I look like a thumb, but I look a little less like a thumb when I have a good haircut. Also, when getting a haircut, it’s important to be vocal to your hairstylist. I’ve left Supercuts plenty of times looking rekt because I was too much of a mouse to tell the hairdresser to chill out.

Also side bar: A “trim” to my bangs does not mean “cut enough off where I can’t sweep them to the side and they just hang there like bats.” I cannot stress this enough.

3). Be rich: If you pay people enough money, you can make them say anything. Examples: psychics and Bethenny Frankel’s assistants.

4). Correct sizes: After years of squeezing myself into a certain waist size—which I will not disclose online—I realized that not breathing wasn’t fun and also when you wear too-small pants, it pushes your love handles up and while push-up bras are great for boobs, the same sentiment does not extend towards love handles. So I decided to actually go up in my pant size, and I was really surprised at how much better it made me feel. I’ll never not have body issues, but after a brief anxiety-spiral, I convinced myself that going up one size does not mean that I am a mammoth beast. It actually made me look better.

I went through a phase where I thought that if I wore small shirts, I would look muscular. That’s not true; it just looked like I fell into a coma from the ages of twelve to eighteen and hadn’t changed my clothes yet. Now I fall into the camp of buying larges because I like things loose, but sometimes I’ll spring for a well-cut medium if I’ve been really regular and my stomach is flat. Is that too much information?

5). Confidence: People are gullible, so you can pretty much do whatever you want if you’re confident enough. I’m extremely gullible and pretty malleable, so if someone suggests that someone else is attractive, I get Inception-ed into believing it. I know someone who, without confidence and hair gel, would look like a Big Bang Theory extra, but as he is now, I would pour pig’s blood over myself if he asked. God he’s so hot. You know when medium-looking people manage to get really hot people? Sometimes it’s a Mail Order thing, but sometimes it’s just that their confidence is through the roof. Or the hot people are interested in “personality” which is a very ugly-person thing to be into, so I don’t think that’s it.

Convincing people you’re actually more attractive than you are is a lot like The Secret. It’s a lot of positive reinforcement, book clubs, paper cuts, direct eye contact and pure, unadulterated aggression.

Here’s a free tip to close out the blog. One way to make people think you’re more attractive than you actually are is to actually downplay your real level of attraction. Some ways to do this are to pretend to be “shy”—like how post-makeover Mia Thermopolis still had the personality of pre-makeover Mia Thermopolis—or to write blog posts like “How To Convince People You’re More Attractive Than You Actually Are” in vain attempts to get people to reach out and say things like, “Why did you write this? How can a 10 convince people they’re an 11/10? That scale doesn’t exist!!!!!!!!!!!”


Source: Moviefone // I don’t want to be rude but how relevant is Moviefone still?

But that seems so desperate, so who would ever do something like that?