celebrity, pop culture

THE PATHOS OF ROB KARDASHIAN

I might be in a twelve-person minority, but I’ve been watching Rob & Chyna. I don’t know why, I think I hate it. I don’t know what’s the worst: the blurred/pop art-y effect on transitions or the fact that it’s Rob. It might be the latter. Maybe if the show was just Chyna. It would be better. Or, best option: you drop both, and it’s just a sitcom with King Cairo and Nanny Joy. And occasional appearances from that hot guy who always hangs out with Chyna (is he, like, her trainer?) and Chyna’s mother, Tokyo Toni. Omg, I just realized that it’s “Chyna” and “Tokyo.” Appropriation?

As a long time KUWTK­ watcher, I’ve witnessed the evolution of Rob. Remember when he was a model? Remember when he was dating a Cheetah girl? Remember when he had a better ass than Kim?

We saw his steady decline into depression as he gained more and more weight, until he became a recluse in Khloe’s house for the last three years. Then, through the grapevine, we hear that he started dating Blac Chyna, and he slowly-slowly-slowly starts making appearances on KUWTK.

I really wanted to like Rob, but he’s become such a reprehensible, two-dimensional character that it’s almost impossible. I try to rationalize it as depression-based, but I feel like I’m allowed to say this: Being depressed is not an excuse for being a shitty guy. I have depression and anxiety, but you just buck up. It sucks and it’s hard, but Rob’s actions should not be excused by his illnesses.

I’m talking about, of course, his most recent actions: leaking Kylie’s private phone number on Twitter. He hasn’t taken it down, and she’s probably since changed her number, but the ugliness is burned into the brain of pop culture.

The incident: Apparently Rob was pissed that his sisters were throwing two separate baby showers—he and Chyna apparently haven’t spoken in months—and they didn’t invite Chyna to his shower. Btw, she knew about the separate showers and thus probably knew that she wasn’t going to his. But Rob, the kween of overreacting, decided to go ahead and publish Kylie’s phone number.

In a weird way, it’s a perverse parallel of Kim exposing Taylor via SnapChat. Both come after perceived wrongdoing, both were attempts at exposure and humiliation. But Kim’s retaliation was supported by a backbone of righteous retribution: Taylor was lying, and it was affecting Kim’s husband and her own reputation. Rob’s reeks of pettiness, in a way that the Kardashian-Jenners never show publicly. Maybe they are petty, but their images are so carefully cultivated that that slips through.

On Rob & Chyna, Rob plays so flatly, a depressed guy so clearly uncomfortable in his skin, so unenthused with having a child, so unenthused with everything. He’s so obviously putting on this act, dropping his cut-glass Calabasas accent and talking like he didn’t graduate high school. Rob, you might not have gone to college, but you’re from Hidden Hills, California—stop talking like that. Use proper grammar. He just wants to fit in, and it makes me want to hit him.

In literature, there’s this device that’s employed called “pathos.” It’s the word from which “pathetic” is derived. Pathos invokes a strong emotion, usually sympathy. And that’s what Rob is to me—pathetic. He pulls this twisted emotion out of me, revulsion coiled around aching sympathy, strung through with lip-sneering annoyance. He’s pathetic, and I want to be empathetic, but what he’s doing is so shady and petty and small that it’s nearly impossible.

From a literature sense, the “character” of Rob is deeply fascinating. The only boy; the heir. More sensitive than all his sisters, and falling susceptible to the fame. Trying to claw his way back to that golden place, the elusive upper echelon where his sisters reside. Getting a warped version of what he wanted: notoriety instead of fame, money instead of happiness. Lashing out in a cry for attention. Helpless. Hopeless.

And if this were literature, I would hope for a redemption arc. I would hope that Rob is salvageable, that this anger that seems to be burning a hole through his skin can be quelled. Because otherwise, he’ll blow up like a social media supernova.

Depression can’t be cured by any amount of money. It takes time and sympathy and therapy and work. But as Tokyo Toni pointed out in the Fourth of July episode of Rob & Chyna, they don’t have some of the issues that most people struggle with. They have plenty of money; they are in stable homes. They [Rob and Chyna] have issues that are possible to overcome.

At a certain point, to get better, you have to make the active choice to seek it out. And if that moment won’t be rapidly arriving with the birth of their baby, I don’t know what will.

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Books, Review

Review: Live Fast, Die Hot

Jenny Mollen’s new book “Live Fast, Die Hot” proves that you can be crazy, hot, and vulnerable and not end up dead.

by Danny McCarthy

 

Jenny Mollen’s book of humorous essays, Live Fast, Die Hot, reads like an extended love letter from a hyperactive, hormone-addled teenage youth. The recipient of the letter: basically everyone Jenny comes into contact with. Manhattanite mothers on the playground. The liaison connecting Jenny to the isolated Atlas Mountain weavers of her Beni Ourain rug. Her drug dealer. But most importantly, as it becomes more evident in the latter half of the book, the recipient is Sid, Jenny’s two-year-old son.

In nine semi-independent, semi-chronological essays, Jenny explores the truth behind an age-old lie: You may be an adult, but that doesn’t mean you have your shit together.

Jenny decidedly does not have her shit together. In her second chapter, Jenny’s new night nurse describes her as the “least prepared parent she’d ever worked with.” In another, Jenny starts stalking her New York City neighbor to get them to stop smoking on their terrace, because the smoke blows towards her baby’s nursery.

Jenny’s antics are misguided attempts to make everyone like her, holdovers from lackadaisical parents—in one essay, Jenny steals the favorite toy of her mother’s prized dog Rocky because she’s jealous of the attention he’s getting. The current running underneath that manic desire to woo everyone is a softer desire to be liked. While going on Tinder to try and find other mommy friends, Jenny stops her husband, Jason Biggs, from helping her.

“It still irks me when I am brushed to the side as people clamor to talk to him,” Jenny writes. “This is why I didn’t want Jason making a Tinder profile. Because I knew if he did, he’d probably have more mom friends than me.” Jenny blunts the anxiety with humor, like when she stoppers that insecure moment by saying, “Unlike my goal of dying with more Twitter followers than Jason, having more mom friends was something within my reach.”

That vulnerability cuts the more outrageous stories, and carries the book. In a flatter essay, Jenny hates her husband’s dog—a holdover from his life before her—and manages to eventually pawn him off onto an Instagram friend. We forgive her more narcissistic moments because we’ve seen the good.

It doesn’t become entirely clear what the book is about until the last chapter. Jenny is deep in the Peruvian jungle, hallucinogenic tea coursing through her. Drawn to the jungle with the promise of enlightenment and an appearance on her friend’s Netflix documentary, Jenny goes on the trip to drink ayahuasca.

After drinking the tea, shitting and vomiting herself dry, Jenny sees a vision of her and Sid, doing a synchronized ice-dancing routine. And after looking into Sid’s eyes, she is overcome with emotion. She realizes, “‘He loves me,” I wept, like I was a contestant who’d just been proposed to on The Bachelor. He already loves me. Because I’m his mom and I’ll always be his mom.’”

Every psychotic thing—stalking her neighbors to get them to stop smoking; traveling to the Atlas Mountains to prove she could be independent; meeting weird, cold Manhattan moms so that Sid wouldn’t be excluded in preschool—becomes elucidated as Jenny’s attempts to combat her “feelings of unworthiness.” Her frenetic love for her son is her wanting to impress him. Jenny might be obsessed with getting everyone to love her, but she’s not a total megalomaniac. Hopefully.

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Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things Happening RN, Things I Like

FALL’S HERE, IT’S QUEER, GET USED TO IT

Saturday. 

I’ve spent the day writing articles and emailing back potential new writers for my section, whilst recuperating from a tough week journalistically. But, frankly, the only thing I’ll remember from today is that I’ve spent the majority of my energy today A) thinking of puns about “autumn” and “fall” and trying to engage Shelby in a Twitter war. She’s not really taking my bait, which I think just means that not a big enough celebrity to warrant her time.

This past Thursday was the first day of fall. You probably didn’t realize, but I didn’t post that day. It wasn’t because I was out, celebrating fall or something—I don’t even know what “celebrating fall” would look like, other than taking a bath in a giant Starbucks cup a la Dita von Teese. It was because I was trying to find a wall with sheetrock thin enough for me to bash my head through. It’s been one of those weeks.

But now I’ve taken approximiately seven deep, cleansing breaths and drank alcohol, so I’m uncoiling from my “stress fetal” position.

It’s been a while since I did a season-themed post, mostly because time is a human construct and I don’t believe in a linear time concept. Everything is relative.

For the first time in literal months, I’m almost chilly. Here I am, sitting in the student union, wearing LONG PANTS and LONG SLEEVES, feeling like a g*ddamn polar bear. I’m so used to being hot—last week, I sweated through multiple outfit changes—that the idea that we could be leaving that behind—I’ll start sweating beneath layers of clothing instead—is almost too good to be true.

Also I’m using Gilmore Girls gifs (try saying that five times fast) because NOTHING says fall quite like Gilmore Girls.

To celebrate the beginning of Plant Death Season and the upcoming Communing With Souls Day and National Turkey Slaughter Day, here’s a list of things I’m excited about for fall:

MORE EXCITED THAN I AUTUMN BE

(not the best pun, but you can’t argue with the fact that it’s definitely not the worst I’ve ever made up)

1). FALL FLAVORS: Not pumpkin spice, which is—I’m pretty sure—not an actual thing, but rather a scheme created by Ryan Seacrest and Starbucks. I do love me some sweet potato pie/pumpkin pie (I can’t ever remember which is which). I’m more excited for some cinnamon-dustings, some brown sugar, some sultry maple. At my internship last year, the coffee place in the basement of the building mixed their own spices and they had this autumn one that I would sprinkle over my lattes in the afternoon and it was SO BOMB.

2). SEASONAL PLAYLISTS: I never do this any other time, but I lose my g*ddamn mind for a winter Spotify playlist. I’ll gravitate towards certain bands during the summer—a fresh, very pop-beach-blue vibe—but fall is when I start curating actual playlists—more of a folk-rock-pop-brown-fire vibe—to get me pumped for making my Christmas playlist—which I’m already contemplating. I hate myself only a little for this, which rocks.

3). FLANNEL: Three words—“doesn’t show sweat.” Do you know how detrimental these last few weeks of school have been for me? I’ve been going through so many t-shirts that I think I might break the laundry machine (I’m not going to pay for a second load). In the colder months, I love to wear flannels and thick sweaters and button-downs because they don’t show sweat and I can pretend I have normal, human glands. Somehow, despite being made up entirely of genealogies that evolved in cold climates, I’ve got the pores of a Saharan camel-driver.

4). BIG MUGS: Nothing makes you look thinner/frailer than holding a huge fucking mug in two hands. GOD SO THIN.

5). SEASONAL DRINKS: I just turned 21, so I ain’t talking about no Pumpkin Spice Latte (although I inevitably break down every year and buy at least one). I’m talking about ALCOHOL. Ciders, golden-hued beers, hot toddies, Bailey’s. I can finally become the Pinterest drinker of my dreams.

Also, this isn’t one of my “numbers” but I’m just excited for everyone to lose their tans. This summer I tried really hard to be okay with my skin, but I’ll admit, I can’t wait for those beachy fuckers to know how I live 365 days out of the year. I’m also excited to not have to excruciatingly deliberate over Instagram filters that make me look as sun-kissed as possible. I can exist as a full-time marble statue™.

(whispers very quietly like a little mouse: “also number six I like pumpkin spice lattes”)…(more loudly says: “WHAT? No I didn’t say anything. You misheard. Pumpkin spice is not a thing; it’s a Hallmark seasonal scheme.”)

This blog started on Saturday, and now it’s Monday, and I’m just going to chalk that up to general laziness because the idea that it’s taken me three days to write one dumb article about FALL is an attack on my intelligence. Also today I’m wearing a deep burgundy-red long-sleeved t and I love being in them fall colors!!!! They lewk sew gud on me!!!

What if I was illiterate and that’s how you found out that I couldn’t spell and I’ve been using the “Talk-to-text” app that Luann used in the iconic “Tom, how could you do this to me. Question mark,” watershed moment in Real Housewives of New York City? And this entire blog—which I realized the other day is about to turn two—was just the longest con imaginable, and for no clear purpose.

I guess we’ll never know.

Also I’m super into yellow right now. Living for it!! So fall! So festive! So cheerful!

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Humor, Life, Things Happening RN

THOUGHTS FROM A COFFEE SHOP, PLUS SOMEONE HOT GOT FAT

Sitting in a coffee shop in the South End, drinking a Spanish latte from a mug big enough to swim in and sloppily picking apart a blueberry/undetermined muffin with my fingers. The mingling of foam and the sharp iron taste from me stress-chewing the inside of my lip.

The hum of machinery and the shrill, almost comically high, voice of a (graduate) student who hasn’t stopped talking for the twenty minutes I’ve been here.

I’m reading Jenny Mollen’s new book, Live Fast, Die Hot, and I can justify reading it because I’m reviewing it for my Media Criticism class and my original pitch of Finding Prince Charming was pushed back for a longer review. The book is amazing, and it’s this perfect blend of anxiety and humor, and it feels real and authentic.

The sky is overcast, but instead of feeling soft and snuggly, the layer of gray clouds trapping the humidity like a bug under glass. I walked from my apartment, forty minutes, and a dark circle of sweat still stains the fabric of my J.Crew rucksack. I can’t remember not being moist—my mom hates that word, but it’s the only one fitting—for these last few weeks. It’s the last vestiges of summer, the gasping breaths, the death rattle. Am I being too melancholic?

I’m in a weird mood, and if this were a book, the weather would operate literarily as a pathetic fallacy—a device where the exterior setting matches the interior mood. I’m conceited enough to actually believe that the weather reflects my mood, but I know that—objectively—it’s actually just a fitting coincidence.

Now the shrill-voiced girl is listing the pros and cons of various dating sites. Coffee Meets Bagel only sets her up with boring guys. However, she went on a string of dates with someone from Coffee Meets Bagel in an attempt to “lower her bar.” He was bougie, she has teen parents (she is so complex). He was a “businessman,” to which she scoffed. I am deep into this girl’s life. Her voice has peaked through the stratosphere and is head-butting into the mesosphere.

I had a not-fight last night (writing on Sunday, so this was Saturday) and I hate that. I’d rather have a fight where it’s explosive and loud and every bad feeling is drained out like a lance, but this was a bump rather than a bang, so you’re left wondering where the soft barriers of the fight end.

It’s super predictable and clichéd, but walking back from the party—liquid-legged—certain things become clear and it’s annoying. Like, all the pretenses are stripped away and your thoughts are cleared up and in the morning it’s a lot easier to rationalize and compartmentalize and store thoughts away. What am I saying? I don’t know. I do, but I don’t.

I’m sitting next to what I think/hope is a date. I think it’s a date because it’s two very cool, very smart people and I hope it’s a date because they seem to have a genuine connection and I just want them to get married/become partners and just do a bunch of cool things. Usually when I’m around dates or couples, it annoys the living shit out of me. But when I see people with a genuine, non-Instagrammy connection, it inspires and enlivens me.

How do you just start hanging out with people? I wish that there wasn’t that innate pressure when you’re hanging out with someone. When I’m with friends, it’s easy and light and freeing to just get coffee or walk and talk or not talk. But when there’s that tinge of something more, that slight tension in the air like the promise of a thunderstorm, I freeze up. How do we get rid of that pressure? And I’m saying “we” because, you guys, idk what to do!! I want to hang with people but not have any of the pressure or the implications or the history or the charge. I want it to be chargeless and just in-the-moment-y.

I have to eventually leave this coffee shop and explore the South End because it’s my beat, but as long as I stay in here, I can avoid my responsibilities and feelings of inadequacies as a journalist. Aka, just forward my mail (aka Amazon purchases) to my new address @ 69 Hiding From My Responsibilities Lane, Boston MA.

A few hours go by. I sweat more. I change my shirt three times.

I’m walking to Whole Foods to say that I’m going to buy bread for my soup (it was an organic tomato bisque from Trader Joe’s that I later added marinara sauce too because organic tomato bisque from Trader Joe’s tastes like the U.S. Mint) but really going to buy desserts and then throw in a random bread roll to assuage my fat guilt.

While walking—wait let me back up. I’m wearing flip-flops, an oversized tank top that says “Lifeguard” on it that I stole from my summer camp job, mid-thigh Adidas shorts and a black baseball cap, and (as always) my viciously overinflated confidence)—to Whole Foods, I spot someone who I tangentially knew of a few years ago.

He was in a fraternity that I was rushing (I was depressed and a lunatic, so don’t judge me) and back then he was so hot that it made me want to rub myself in Vaseline and slide down one of those Olympic ski mountains. He had great brows, a great hooked nose. HOWEVER, I saw him a few days ago, and then I saw him on the way to Whole Foods. He’s gotten fat. Not, like, obese, but he’s definitely gained some weight. Seeing that, bringing a hot person more down to my level (he went from a 9 to a 7, and I’m a 7 if you squint), really made up for the grey mood I’d been in all day. Ugh, so nice.

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college, Humor, Life

THAT WAS ZEN, THIS IS NOW

Alternate titles: “THANK YOU, COME A-ZEN” or “CHEAPER BY THE DO-ZEN” or “GOOD AND ZEN-TY”.  

Written while doing laundry, while drinking discount white wine and eating “Lite” string cheese, because whoever said that millennials are lazy clearly hasn’t met me.  

I’ve had a very spiritual, holistic day, you guys. Seriously, you guys, I’m very Zenned out. Why? I’ll tell you why. I woke up at a spritely 8:30, stared blankly at my iPhone—which at 8:30 in the morning is just a slender brick of incommunicable noise—rolled over, and slept until 9:16. Then I sat up, with that same brick in my paw, and debated whether or not I should go to the gym. On one hand, I could stay in, watch the third part of Real Housewives of New York: Reunion, chillax and eat. On the other hand, if I went, I wouldn’t have to deal with the gut-wrenching and spiral-inducing shame that results from me skipping the gym. Both very reasonable, healthy options.

I opted for the latter and got myself up, walked around, laid back down in bed, got back up again, peed, preened in the mirror, decided—yet again—to not wash off my acne medication and let that werk its magic for an extra forty minutes while I schvitzed to “Clumsy” off Glory at the gym.

At the gym I did legs—aka buttz—and sped-walked home, ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and knockoff Trader Joe’s Frosted Flakes each, showered/shaved (my face), got dressed and realized that I was going to be late for my Zen meditation class, which is not very Zen of me.

I’ve been sweating like a mammoth this entire school year thus far, but as the temperature’s dipped a little, I’ve been hoping for a reprieve. Today would have been such a reprieve, had I not had to run-waddle half-a-mile to my meditation class—

Side bar: I keep writing “medication” instead of “meditation” and that’s very telling.

—and so I showed up, actually dripping sweat. Not just schvitzing, but full-blown Niagara Falls-ing. Zen was good, weird, but good, and I actually was able to let go of my thots—and my thoughts—for a moment, which is very weird and very not me.

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Source: Giphy// Me @ Zen

After I was all Zenned, I went to a meeting with my psychiatrist. I’m not very good at being normal at a lot of things, so even I know that I shouldn’t talk about what we discussed, so I won’t. I will say that it touched upon lyfe, love, boyz, Boyz II Men (it didn’t, I lied, forgive me?), amongst other things. As usual, after all my psychiatry meetings, I left feeling buoyed, hungry, and a little depressed—I’m all these things already, all the time.

I really like getting back into the groove of seeing my psychiatrist because A) I’m a lot, B) I’m around me a lot of the time, so I need to decompress from myself, and C) it’s healthy and helps me to be emotionally healthy and mentally “stable.” Which is, let’s be honest, pretty sexy. I also like psychiatry because I can say anything and everything goes.

Very judgment-free. Very Zen.

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Source: Giphy// Me when ppl aren’t Zen like me

After my appointment, I got coffee/lunch (again, hungry) with my friend Lottie. That’s not her real name, but I don’t give out real names and I don’t know why I picked Lottie, but I panicked and we’re here. We got lattes, I got a BLT—healthhhhhh—and we literally talked for like OVER TWO HOURS. That’s a lot of time, but we glided through it because we’re both so witty. We also look a little alike, which makes me trust her instantly.

All in all, today was one of those “mental health days” without being a “Mental Health Day” because I hate when people say “mental health days” because it’s never the people who actually need/deserve/require a “mental health day.” It’s always someone who’s, like, stressed about something small and just needs, like, a #break. It’s the same person who thinks liking to organize their binder is the same as having OCD. It’s not, and you’re an asshole.

I’m not going to engage in this negativity—I’m so knee-deep in it, I’m practically married to it at this point (AYOOO)—and also it’s literally late so I’m just gonna chop things off here and post this muthafucka.

Side bar/PS: it’s getting a little colder and I love it, because I’m an autumn person (#Virgo) and even though my body is a 7/10, my egomania is a 12/10, my self-confidence is a 5/10 and my body issues are an 11/10, so I’m glad for the chance to cover up, chastely and modestly.  

Byeeee.

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college, Humor, Life

THE UNIVERSE IS TEXTING ME AND IT’S COSTING ME A FORTUNE

Written after wearing a NASA baseball cap in Starbucks and running into a guy wearing an (acid-washed, but we all make mistakes) NASA t-shirt and saying goodbye to him as my “NASA buddy”. In related news, I’m planning a spring wedding, space-themed.  

I’m sitting on a bench in front of my college, having just ordered a “grande cold brew, with an espresso shot. Light ice” in a high, irritating voice, because if my drink order is going to be complicated as fuck, then I might as well go the full mile. Also, I didn’t get it sweetened because I firmly believe that if your order requires three specifications or more, you’re outing yourself to the world as a potential serial killer. I also put “three” because I’m trying to conceal the fact that I’m a potential serial killer for as long as possible.

I had my first “Zen Meditation” class today, and besides the mortal fear of farting into the silence, I actually found it to be a really interesting experience. We sat like pretzels—srry for appropriating dough culture—we laid down and listened to music, and we talked about shit like “being okay with mental discomfort” and finding more value in the “question, rather than the answer.” Because once you have an answer, you put yourself into a tiny little box and you die.

As I was telling my friend Shelby—remember that salty old bitch?—I feel like a lot of things in my life are getting together and producing a cosmic neon sign about my life. That’s such a millennial thing to think, by the way, that all the forces of the universe are cooperating to send some dickhead blogger a message about his post-graduate aspirations (asspirations, amiright hahaihatemyself). But let me back up.

Here are the signs the universe has been sending me (at the low low cost of $0.99 per text).

DO YOU THINK THE UNIVERSE HAS AN ANDROID OR IPHONE: 

1). Zen Meditation: Our teacher (professor? Shaman? Medicine man? Witch?) told us a lot of mdeditation is not following every thought and letting ourselves immerse in the murkiness of the unknown. He didn’t say it as eloquently as that, but I’m embellishing. So much of life is unknown, but the more you worry about it, the more you suck away at the present and lose life. Rough. Rough stuff.

2). Chelsea: I’ve been watching a lot of Chelsea Handler, and she was interviewed by Ashly Perez of BuzzFeed (wow, Microsoft Word recognizes “Ashly” but not “BuzzFeed”), and basically just talked about pursuing what you’re passionate about. That’s an easy thing for a multimillionaire to say, but she brought up Sophia Amoruso, the founder of Nasty Gal. Amoruso started out dumpster-diving for vintage stuff and selling it on eBay. She followed her passion for vintage clothing and it led somewhere lucrative. Doing things purely for money leads you to glassy-eyed, dead-souled hell.

As a graduating senior, the idea of following your dreams is scary as hell, and often gets masked by the need for “job security” and a “healthy income” and a “401k” (idk I think there’s a period in there somewhere but who knows?). our parents want to see returns on the investment they made, and so we feel this pressure (external and internal) to prove that the last four years have resulted in something.

3). Blerg: I’m taking a beat reporting class, and we had to do “mock-interviews” with a partner, research that partner online and then turn that interview into a 100-word profile. Mine was fucking well-written, and my partner discovered my fat whale of a blog. When people discover my blog, I treat it like an entertaining, but stupid, child of mine. Like I’m proud that it’s made you laugh, but I don’t want you to delve too deeply into it and see what I’ve done wrong. In the profile done on me, my interviewer said that I was “hesitant to label myself a journalist” (true) but that I had a lot to say (very fucking true). Part of my weirdness about school is that I’m not a very “journalist-y” journalist. Unbiased reporting bores me. I like drama, I like weirdness, I like being funny. I have no interest in being impartial, or ferreting out the “story.” So to have someone see my blog, arguably the most raw/polished online representation of myself, and ask what I wanted to do for a career, felt a little bit like someone bursting into me taking a shower and asking me what I planned to do about my problem areas.

FUCK IF I KNOW.

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The interview thing happened before the Zen thing, so I feel like the universe heard my question of “Da fuck am I supposed to do” and answered with “idk but chill out dude.” Technically the question is supposed to be more important than the answer, and I’m not supposed to be comfortable in answers, so maybe the universe actually didn’t answer me, or it was a wrong number. But I’m going to take it as my own.

I don’t have any direction. I don’t have any goal. But I know what I’m good at. And if the universe/Chelsea Handler has made one thing clear, it’s that that’s what I should focus on. Following what drives my passion, what I’m good at, and finding solace in that. And trusting in that.

Did this make any sense? Should it make any sense? Maybe I should pretend that the reason it’s all rambling is because it’s actually elevated thinking and it’s not supposed to make sense and then it seems like I’m smarter than you. Yeah, I’m gonna do that. Just ignore that train of thought and focus on the fact that I’m smarter than you. Much smarter.

In related news, what do you think the Universe thinks of the iPhone 7? Do you think it’s a matte-black or jet-black kind of bitch? What kind of bitch am I? Will I ever be confident enough to get a jet-black phone? Or will I forever float in the safety of silver?

Also I can’t wait for all the horrible monster-gays to decide what phone means what sexual preference you are. I don’t even know if they updated the chart (cuz there’s definitely a chart) for the inclusion of Rose Gold. If anyone says the gays are beasts, they’re totally fucking right.

Omg I just saw someone I have a crush on and I need to look hotter but I don’t. Fuck my life.

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