Humor, pop culture

TAYLORGATE: KIM KARDASHIAN IS THE INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST OF OUR GENERATION

Written after a nearly 13-hour workday. So tired I didn’t even consider writing “werkday.” That’s a lie. I thought about it.  

S/o to my coworker/friend/workout buddy Melanie (I’m too tired to think of a real pseudonym) for our extended work day. Also s/o to my other coworkers Lazy-Eye, Thinks She’s Pretty, Mittens, Tonya Harding, Voldemort, Real Housewives, Hot Sauce, and Rumplestiltskin. You guys are awful, but also hot?? I can’t figure it out.

I eventually want to address more serious topics, but the thought of exercising my brain in that direction is too much rn, so we’re going to move onto something that LIGHTS MY FIRE.

So much has gone since 2009 that I can’t even begin to recap it, but I’ll try to do my best. 2009 VMAs, Taylor Swift wins Best Music Video or whatever, over “Single Ladies.” Kanye storms the stage and says Bey deserved the award—true. Taylor gains massive popularity—kind of rightfully. Kanye is totally besmirched in the press—kind of rightfully. Both stars continue on their way, making a tentative peace the same way two rival prides of lions make a tenuous alliance.

All is relatively calm until Kanye releases “Famous” off the album The Life of Pablo. The lines “I think me and Taylor might still have sex; why? I made that bitch famous” strike a fire in Taylor, and she says in a later speech not to pay any mind to people who will try to “undercut and make claims to your fame.” V relatable.

giphy4

Source: People // GIVE US THE FACTS, KIM.

Kanye lashes back and says that Taylor knew and gave consent for the lyrics. Kim K concurs. Taylor basically calls Kim a brainwashed Stepford wife. Kim K says, “Rlly bitch?? We got video, hunty.” Taylor shits her pants but does not back down. The ruckus simmers. Recently, Calvin Harris and Tay broke up, then Calvin badmouthed Taylor (called her boring, again—kind of rightfully) and Taylor leaked that she wrote Harris’ summer Rihanna anthem “This is What You Came For.” Tbh I could take or leave the song. But that’s neither here nor there.

People are calling Taylor a snake, and Kim K—in time for the airing of the KUWTK episode that deals with the “Famous” drama—decides to pull out her fucking Sherlock Holmes cape and SnapChats the entire video that shows Kanye on the phone with a very-on-board Taylor Swift, thus apparently proving that Taylor was a tay-liar, and her high-waisted jorts were v much on fire. Kim showed the world the other side of Tay, and thus proved that she is more influential than Woodward and Bernstein combined. Kim makes Watergate like a middle school rumor mill. Bow down.

Taylor says the part she has an issue with was the “I made that bitch famous,” which she claims Kanye never cleared with her. But from what I glean from TayTay, I doubt that she was fine with “I think I could have sex with Taylor Swift” and not fine with “I made that bitch famous.” Seems like you’re upset about the wrong apart, Tay.

After this—a scene that makes Cersei Lannister blowing up King’s Landing with wildfire look like a FUCKING PLAYGROUND FIGHT—Selena Gomez decides to stop trying to revive her career and tweet on Taylor’s behalf. “Let’s use our platform for real issues,” she said. EXCEPT she has never tweeted about Alton Sterling, or Philando Castile, or any Black Lives Matter movement, or anything of that ilk. She tweeted about Orlando. But when t comes to defending a white woman, suddenly everyone wants to focus on “real issues.” Chloe Grace Moretz concurred with Selena Goawaymez, but she’s tweeted more about shoes than she has about social issues. Khloe got involved and tweeted an unfortunate picture of a girl she thought was Chloe, but it wasn’t. A for effort, Khlo, but no dice.

Part of me thinks this is a conspiracy concocted by Kim K and Tay—the witches of Macbeth—but that seems very extreme, given the excessive vitriol being lashed at Taylor. I think this because it’s very unlike Kim, who keeps everything in her queendom neat and ordered, to go off script like that and show something as messy as unveiling Tayliar Snake. Also, there is the whole “Search” aspect of the Taylor Swift note, which suggests that it was previously written and recalled for the occasion.

I would like to take a line from the Taylor Swift Instagram note. “I would very much like to be excluded from this narrative, one I never asked to be a part of, since 2009.” Most of me thinks that this proves that Taylor Swift is just like everyone in the entertainment industry—largely concerned with projecting their own narrative. Which is fine, dude, but own up to it. Don’t try to destroy other people to protect your own image. Taylor Swift has included herself in that narrative, making herself the victim of Kanye West. She chose to indulge in that dialogue, to make herself a character in that storyline. She is the one who wrote a song about it, who kept bringing it up, who allowed it to buoy her. Don’t throw stones at the glass house you just walked out of. Don’t burn bridges that you might need to cross over again.

Taylor has made bank off of being the victim, playing off the racism in America that allows us to come to the defense of a white woman who is the “victim” of a black man, even when that black man has  done nothing wrong. He wrote a lyric about her? And what has she made her career off of if not writing about other people? Kanye West is not perfect, but stop pretending Taykor is. And this is not a dig at her relationships, or an attempt at slut-shaming. That should not be important to the conversation. What is important is that Taylor Swift is a pop powerhouse and media mogul. She is every bit as powerful as Kanye. She is not the underdog any longer.

And shockingly, I found myself agreeing with Selenirrelevant Gomez—celebrities, use your fucking platforms for something actually constructive. I was grateful for this welcome distraction from issues such as the Dallas shootings, or the Baton Rouge shootings, or the mistreatment of Leslie Jones, or the still prevalent restrictions of abortion—WHICH IS LEGAL—or the still discussion of same-sex marriage, or the fact that Trump made Mike Pence—who LEGALIZED queer discrimination in Indiana—as his VP. Sometimes we need something dumb to give us a breather, and to make us realize what is really important.

We need to care more about social justice issues than social media. I think that the Tayliar situation reflects a lot of how our society thinks, but we need to focus on issues that require real, dynamic change. I’m a complete pop cultural anthropologist/junkie/apologist, but even I understand that this debacle is PENNIES compared to what else is going on. I wish the people I see in my life and on social media who are as fired up about taking sides in the Kan-Tay-Kim fight would be as passionate about other issues. No tea, no shade, but we need to pour our influence towards real change.

And lastly, remember that Beyoncé’s sheer greatness created a feud between two of the most powerful alphas in the entertainment industry. She did this by accident. Imagine what havoc Queen Bey could cause on purpose.

The moral of this article is: Buy “Lemonade” on iTunes. You don’t want to know what might happen if you don’t.

Standard
Humor, Mental Health

SELF-CARE: SOME TIPS, TRICKS, AND WHY IT’S IMPORTANT

Written after eating Talenti coffee gelato and trying not to hate myself. 

See that right there, that “trying not to hate myself” was a great act of self-care. I’m already off to a fantastic start. Go you, me!

Monday I wrote about my anxiety-ridden weekend, so I thought it would be nice to write something medium-positive to take the sting out of pouring my emotions out for the homies. It was either this or go in the complete opposite creative direction to make you forget completely that I can ever be a sensitive human/sentient robot.

So I was doing my daily ritual of light incense, meditation and cleaning out my “YouTube Watch Later” playlist, which at some points is longer than my list of friends (short list of friends or long list of to-be-watched videos? You be the judge), and I watched a video of Tyler Oakley’s called “Five Easy Ways To Self-Care” or something like that—idk I’ll put it below, don’t make me look it up rn—and that triggered/inspired/thinspired me to do something similar, but a little more…me.


A lot of times when I see self-care things, they’re by “nice” people and all of the suggestions are helpful but not very appropriate for someone who spends as much time praying that “vibing” people with negative thoughts will make their lives worse.

See I also just watched the season two premiere of Difficult People, which if you’re not watching, you should be, and if you are watching, stop taking my thing, and that’s much more me—a couple of 7/10s running around, being mean/funny to people. For a lot of people like me—hot but mean—we can’t really identify with traditionally “nice” people. So here is the self-care guide you need if you’re a little bit of a dick and a lot of a mess.

Obviously there are the obvious things—obvi duh—like exercise (because exercise releases endorphins, endorphins make people happy, and happy people don’t kill their husbands, duh!), drinking lots of water and eating healthily, and getting plenty of sleep. But you didn’t come here for a regular self-care guide—you came here for the Naomi Campbell of self-care guides (dangerous, beautiful, unpredictable).

1). Scream so loud: This is actually (semi)therapist approved. I once had a therapist who suggested that, as a way to get out my deep-seated anger, I get into my car and scream. Loudly. For as long as I could. When I, repressed as I am, finally did it, I was amazed at how good I felt. The primal and visceral reaction of screaming out loud, or into a pillow, or silent-screaming, is shockingly effective. It releases tension, it untwists the anger coils in your chest, and it’s so flagrantly weird that you have to laugh. At least, that’s what it makes me do. Alternatively, you could fake-laugh-scream at something, which always makes me actual laugh. Because I can find nothing real-funny until I find it ironic-funny. I’m a millennial.

2). Throw out your scale (or if it’s expensive just don’t use it): Seriously, if it’s money, just put it out of sight. I’m on a budget too. When I was at school, I didn’t have a scale and it actually really improved my mood. I know this because when I got home for the summer and discovered our fancy digital scale, I became obsessed with weighing myself. A lot of the anxiety-driven part of my depression manifests in body obsession and that translates to needing to know how much I weigh at any point. So I decided to stop weighing myself again and just let myself live. And it really helps. Numerical weight is such a scam anyway; a number can’t tell me how I feel about myself, or how the weight carries itself. I can be at my heaviest, but if I feel good, then that number is irrelevant.

A lot of self-care is cutting out unnecessary stress and stressors in your life, and trying not to give a shit about your weight—within reason—just seems like a no-brainer.

3). Pep talk: I don’t know how most people think, but I don’t think in words as much as I do in images and visceral emotions. Like, I don’t think, “Oh I’m nervous about work.” I feel it much more deeply and see it play out before me. And because of that, I don’t really have any sort of internal dialogue with myself. So when I’m feeling like I need to self-care, I’ll have a pep talk for myself, out loud in the mirror. In his video, Tyler actually said to treat yourself like your best friend, and that means to be nice to yourself and to lift yourself up. Alternately, I constantly sing out loud to myself. I’m not a good singer, but I do it when I walk, or do dishes, or fold laundry. Singing is a good, very healing thing to do. Emote, bitches.

4). Unfollow unhealthy social media accounts: I talked about this a little in my last post, but I can’t stress enough what a difference it has made. I’m not just talking about unfollowing boyz who you think are out of your league but are actually too emotionally withdrawn to like you; this totally works for cleaning out your social media followings. Unfriend that person you haven’t seen in forever; don’t force yourself to click through the Snap story of a colleague from four years ago who you only follow in the faint hopes of a shirtless moment. A lot of self-care is surrounding yourself with positivity and people you love; ditch the acquaintances.

 5). Watch videos of people falling: Funny as shit.

There are other, simpler things—good music, time spent outdoors, snuggling with cute animals. Then are other, more extensive things—a good therapist, self-reflection, journaling. It all depends on what you need. Also always remember to try to look on the positive…is the most annoying thing that anyone can ever say to anyone, but it’s honestly true. Even if you don’t have depression, it’s so easy to be stuck in the rut of negativity; taking active steps to appreciate things around you—nice eyebrows, the sunlight effusing a green leaf, old people holding hands—can change the roadways of your brain and rewire you for a happier outlook. Idk if that’s true; I read that somewhere.

If all else fails, start small. Smile. Take deep breaths. Close your eyes and just sit. And then read through all of my blog and tell me how smart, but how humble, and how funny, but how unintimidating, I am. Also someone sponsor me!!! Give me that $$$ so I don’t have to write “60 Ways To Get Your Sexy Back” listicles for the rest of my life!

Also I’ve been frequently changing up my header image to convince myself that I have some semblance of control over my life. What do you think??

Screen Shot 2016-07-13 at 10.41.30 PM.png

Source: Danny McCarthy via The Wunderkindof

Standard
Humor, Life, Rambles

RIPPED UNDERWEAR AND THE UNCOMFORTABLY BREEZY DERRIERE

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.

tumblr_mwlia5tnO11r32spfo1_500.gif

Source: Bust.com/ 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?

SHAME: Who?

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.

tumblr_n9y42dtab81r32spfo8_400

Source: Rebloggy

Fin.

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.

Standard
Humor, LGBTQ, Love & Romance

IT WASN’T HARD TO TELL I WAS GAY, I PLAYED WITH POLLY POCKETS

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.

6af0b52bf507795720e1ba4d70b37b89

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.

Standard
Humor, Rambles

I BUILT A GAY ARMOIRE AND MY DOG THINKS I’M DYING

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.

Standard
Humor

HOW TO BE A NARCISSIST AND GET AWAY WITH IT

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).

Standard
Humor, Life, Rambles

I’M CHRYSALIS-ING

Do you ever do that thing where you let yourself get as unkempt and scraggly as possible, and then when you finally take care of yourself, you get to treat yourself to a The Princess Diaries movie montage makeup transformation? That’s what I’m doing now.

tumblr_n66ihizn0i1sg01v3o2_1280

Source: hercampus.com. A) How weird is this gif? B) I am more befores and none of the after.

I haven’t shaved since last Wednesday (it’s Sunday). Normally I shave every other day, but I’ve been putting it off because I want to Princess Diaries myself. Also, apparently, despite shaving for five (nearly six) years, I still have no f*cking clue what I’m doing because I’m constantly dealing with razor burn. And lately it’s been particularly bad, so maybe I’m shaving even more wrong?

In addition, I’ve been having a Prison Break-out of acne and I have not been feeling cute.

Side bar: I just Googled Prison Break and saw that Wentworth Miller was in it, and I always, for some reason, thought that he was in that other prison show, Oz, which I always thought was ironic because he’s gay. And Oz…Never mind, I might’ve just hate-crimed myself.

Side bar side bar: Once my mom and I were talking about Wentworth Miller—I’m not sure why/how—and she was all like, “Oh he’s so handsome,” and I told her he was gay, and she just sighed, like she hadn’t been married to my dad for almost thirty years. Also, it was one of the first moments where we actually talked about the gay thing, without skirting around it.

Side bar side bar side bar: Now my parents are convinced I have gaydar. They think that David Muir from ABC is gay and that he’s dating Gio Benitez because someone told my dad and my dad told my mom and then my mom asked me for confirmation. Apparently Gio Benitez just got married to his boyfriend, so I texted my mother to let her know and all she responded with was, “I think he was too young for David Muir,” as if we know anything.

FullSizeRender

Source: Danny McCarthy

Side bar side bar side bar fun fact: Gio Benitez and his boyfriend (husband, whatever) met via Instagram, which is the gayest/most millennial thing ever, and this was reported in The New York Times.

Side bar conclusion: I think David Muir is hot.

However, I recently got in a fresh batch of acne medication—you know, sometimes I think my life is boring, and then I write blog posts where I say things like “my mom asked me if David Muir is gay” and “fresh batch of medication” and I know that actually my life is the most interesting ever—and I’ve been giving my skin a break from constant chafing…from shaving, not something weird.

In nature (I almost put that in quotes, like it was contested), the caterpillar goes through the strenuous process of becoming a butterfly by wrapping itself in a cocoon of silk. That cocoon is called the chrysalis, and that’s what I feel like. I feel like I’ve wrapped myself in a cocoon of reddish stubble and acne cream, and I’m patiently baking—I’m mixing metaphors, but who cares—and soon—probably tomorrow—I’ll shave and slap on a fresh coat of aftershave and I’ll emerge from my chrysalis as a sexy, sexy butterfly.

Or I’ll turn out like Heimlich the butterfly from A Bug’s Life and emerge from my chrysalis just as fat and busted as before, but with a pair of ineffectual wings.

Side bar: I chose to call it “chrysalis-ing” as opposed to “caterpillar-ing” or “cocoon-ing” because “chrysalis” is a prettier word.

I was so worried this would be a sparse blog—the subject matter can only go so far—but I should’ve known that my rampant tangents would fill space. My inability to really focus on anything truly serves me well when I’m writing a blog, but shoots me in the kneecaps when I’m trying to write a paper. Technically, you could consider this entire blog post a rampant tangent from the paper that I should be writing. But where is the fun is writing without an impending deadline and a cartload of stress?

Side bar: Do you think anyone in this library suspects that I’ve written an entire blog post about chrysalis-ing, or that I’ve made two Twitter polls in the last two minutes?

BYE.

Standard
Humor, Life

HOT IN A PATRICK BATEMAN KIND OF WAY

Wednesday, March 2nd

After I spent two hours writing vaguely pornographic essays about film theory—spoiler alert, everything is about manipulation and penis envy—I unfurled my pen-holding claw. The entire side of my hand was stained deep, sheeny cobalt from my pen. I had just used the word “edging” in an essay—yes, in that context—and couldn’t shake the feeling that I had either passed with flying colors as a pervert or failed miserably as a prude. Either way, I was proud of myself for refraining from using “blue balls” while discussing the culture industry. Small victories.

It was the kind of final where you are so unprepared that you’re almost excited to start it, where the only apt response you have to its eventual arrival is, “Alright, let’s see what you got! Hit me, bitch!” It was one of those.

joker-yelling-hit-me-the-dark-knight

Source: Gifrific.com

I don’t know what it is, but I always feel the need to call my mom immediately after getting out of a big final or a test. I don’t think it’s because I think she cares; I think it’s just I have this deep desire to be like “Hi look at what I’m doing with the small fortune you’re spending on me! I’m taking tests!” And she’s like, “Good! You’re not squandering everything!”

After I finished having a conversation with my mother—which was five minutes of talking and five minutes of going, “Huh? What? No, I didn’t say anything.”—I met up with Shelby at Starbucks before my next class.

I’ve been slowly building up a relationship with the barista. She’s not always there, but she’s almost always there when I have my five-hour block of class. Sometimes I’ll go before the block. Sometimes I’ll go in the middle. We crack jokes, and I subtly push the limits and going right to the edge without actually asking, “So do I have to pay?” I know that I do, but I always have to test that boundary.

We’re so close that she already began to write up my order before I even got to the register. Granted, it was on a cup for iced coffee, when I only order hot coffee, but still the thought was there. Frankly, she’s one latte away from being my emergency contact.

Our relationship is exactly the amount of intimacy that I want. We don’t know each other’s names—we exchanged them once, but they didn’t stick—and she’s learning my coffee order and I break up the monotony of her day. After I got my latte and put an unhealthy amount of sugar into and settled back down into a conversation with Shelby, who was drinking Dunkin Donuts in a Holy Place, I realized that Barista had written “Friend” on my cup. Babe!

tumblr_n94ucain5p1qduh7lo1_500

Source: Tumblr

I didn’t write a post on Tuesday. I don’t feel bad. I was completely drained of ideas, and I had gone from gym to class to interview to editing and uploading that interview to library to event to home at 10. So I forwent—forwent doesn’t seem like it should be a word—writing a post. But now, two days later, I feel a little guilty. Not majorly guilty. It’s on par with what I imagine the guilt of a mother who accidentally leaves her kid at a WalMart but realizes before he does because he’s engrossed in looking at toys. A silent, niggling, not-really-there guilt. But still, a little guilt.

Now I’m on a train going home for spring break. Midterm week was so crazy-hectic and gross, that I’m so excited to be a vegetable floating for a week. I’m currently sitting alone in the “Quiet” car—my seatmate left at Providence—and I’m praying to whatever god I haven’t offended yet to let my solitude last all the way to New York. With my luck, it won’t happen. But I’m manspreading and keeping my fingers crossed. Every time someone passes by me, I involuntarily clench up.

I worked out three times this week instead of five—gasp—but every single time I was at the gym, I saw the same guy. Okay, so I, like, “know” him but he definitely wouldn’t know me. I’m the friend of his (ex?)-girlfriend’s costar and I saw them all in a play once. He’s hot in a skinny, straight, Patrick Bateman kind of way—which is to say that he’s hot but I could totally see him skinning someone and wearing it as a cape. Is that weird? Anyway, he’s strong, but wiry, but has a head of hair that’s very “hottest kid in Calculus in 1998.” Which—if you know me at all—isn’t not my aesthetic.

tumblr_m7er1ueuvg1rtkcfwo3_r4_500

Source: Rebloggy.com

We seem to be on the same cycle when it comes to working out, so whatever I’m doing, he’s doing, but because I’m lazy, he’s usually doing it with more intensity and a higher weight. So not only am I at the gym, but now I’m at the gym and being intimidated by hot scarecrows.

Anyway, in my Wednesday night class, I was sitting waiting for everything to begin—and by “sitting waiting for everything to begin” I mean “screenshotting Kris Jenner’s Instagram”—and suddenly Patrick Bateman walked into class.

“Is there a class in here?” he asked me, and I just stared at his sexy mouth. Time stretched into taffy, and then it snapped back together.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“And there’s not any extra computers?”

And I said, “No…” because I was like, ‘Scuse?

He gave a half-smirk that I later described to my friend Mitchell as “the half-smirk, half-smile, half-laugh that is born out of a confidence where you have never had to worry about discrimination” because he was a straight, white male. It’s the kind of confidence that only straight white males and cats seem to possess—pure, unadulterated confidence that the world was built exclusively for you. Patrick Bateman left the class, and I immediately told Mitchell about it.

And so on this train, I’m trying to recuperate from a week of pyschotties, pervy film theory, and the struggle of trying to word something that I’ve already said slightly differently to beef up my word count. I overpacked for spring break. I know that I’ll be wearing exactly the same outfit every day—lethargy and track pants—but somehow I’ve crammed an entire Fashion Week into one small suitcase. I’m ¼ into a book that I Amazon Primed this week, but forced myself to abstain from until the work was done. Usually that doesn’t work—usually I’m super-shitty at restraining myself. I have poor impulse control and a knack for rationalizing a lifestyle of “Netflix now and stress later.” But I managed to do it and now I’m reading it. It’s I’m Special (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves) by Ryan O’Connell who is sort of my writing role model. But it’s actually kind of dark because he’s talking about “getting a job” and maybe it’s the millennial in me, but I’ve just always kind of run on the assumption that I’m hot shit and everyone will want me to write pieces about stalking hot boys in CVS and pay me handsomely.

So I decided to take a break and write a blog post. I was going to give myself some time off, but then I remembered that death is inevitable and I might as well write before arthritis sets in from chronic knuckle-cracking (my mother swears it’s going to happen to me). The train is either still in Rhode Island or Connecticut, but either way it’s way depressing. Once, going home for Thanksgiving, the train broke down in the backwoods of Connecticut and I swear to God I thought we were going to be Walking Dead-ed. Gilmore Girls taught me that Connecticut was charming and winsome, and being white taught me that Rhode Island was the chic, New England equivalent to the Hamptons. But three years of riding back and forth and all I’ve gathered is that they seem like prime locales for dropping a body sans questions or making citizen arrests.

Byee!

Also this gif was too real not to include.

Standard
Humor, Life

A MILLENNIAL’S GUIDE TO FRIENDSHIP IN THE DIGITAL AGE

Growing up as a millennial can be a unique experience. You have the constant fear of someone bringing up a bad photo of you from seventh grade, or your mom trying to friend you—my mom does not because she “doesn’t want to see what’s on my page”—or your crush reading a message you sent but not responding.

There’s a lot of articles online about dating in the digital age, or doing your taxes in the digital age, or applying for jobs in the digital age. But there’s really nothing dedicated to being friends with someone in the digital age. And not capital-f Friends. We’re not talking Facebook friends—the idea of Facebook friends overlapping with your actual friends is basically an urban myth.

So since I have to guide you into the light—not in an angel-y way, but in a cool way—on other issues—race, gender, what to order at McDonald’s—then it’s only fitting that I guide you through this process. So are you ready? Are you ready? Let’s go!

Here’s rule number one, right off the bat. Group chats are literally Satan’s asshole, but they’re a necessary evil. Just, for the love of all things holy, put it in Facebook so I can at least mute the conversation. I’ve turned a deaf ear to at least half of the groups I’m in.

Rule number two: Do your civilian duty and take yourself off “private” in your social media. The very fact that you’re on social media implies, at least a little bit, that you’re a fame monster (Buy ARTPOP on iTunes). We live in the age of media-stalking, so just assume that someone wants to get a cute look at you.

In fact, the Golden Rule of Social Media: Do unto your social media as you would wish others to do unto theirs. I.e. if you’re stalking, you better open up the digital gates so people can return the favor.

Rule number three: Follow people back on Twitter and Instagram. The only time it is acceptable to not follow people back is if they’re strangers or if you’re a celebrity. If you’re not a celebrity, and I follow you, it’s because I know you. Don’t throw shade and not follow me back. That happened to me once. I met a really cool girl, had a good conversation with her, and then followed her on Twitter. She didn’t follow me back, and now she is on my List. You’re not Madonna. You can afford to alter your ratio. I’m stretching out an olive branch.

Rule number four: But conversely, don’t feel obliged to Favorite, Like, or Retweet everything I do. Sometimes I have an off day and my tweet is a little sloppily crafted. You don’t have to placate me with a flurry of Likes. Save those for when I’m really funny (which is 99 times out of 100).

Note: This does not apply to Instagram. Like my Instagram or I will hunt you down and gut you like a fish.

Rule number five: I will allow you to crop me out of photos if you look really good. I don’t anticipate it happening often, and be careful how you crop. If it’s a simple group chat, go nuts. But if we’re entwined in some sort of gymnastics, and you crop the living sh*t out of the photo to the point where if you click on the photo, it’s just a small square of your face surrounded by black, then we have a problem. I understand that good photos are like shooting stars—they happen only ever so often. But have some sense of decorum.

Rule number six: Landscape, never portrait. Don’t play with fire.

And because I need to preserve my sanity, rule number seven: keep conversations to one medium. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a conversation with a friend in Facebook, and had a separate, distinct conversation with the same friend over text. Okay, it’s only happened twice. But still, it’s a thing.

Rule number eight: Ghost with integrity. If and when you decide to stop being friends with someone, it’s a little harder than just ducking or avoiding them on the street. No. Now that we’re living in an age where nothing ever dies online, you need to learn how to ghost with grace. Ghosting is basically—it’s a trend, and I’m hopping on the trend—when you slowly slip out of someone’s life. You take longer to answer texts. You can’t FaceTime anymore. You “forget” to tag them in your popular blog posts that everyone loves but is too afraid to say that they love, so they ask things like “What’s the Wunderkindof?” and “Oh, I didn’t know you blogged” and—oh, I’m projecting. It’s fine when you want to ditch people. We’ve all done it. Just be smart about it.

Rule number nine: Tag me, but don’t drag me. I look good from approximately two angles. So I can’t tell you how visceral the fear is when I see that little notification pop up in the “Photos of You” tab in Instagram. You can tag me in your photos—actually, please do—but realize that if it’s an unflattering angle or me doing something “hilarious,” that you are putting your life, the lives of your future children, and the life of your iPhone at risk.

Also side bar: No one ever looks good in “funny photos.”

And lastly, rule number ten: social media isn’t a substitute for quality time. Yes, I love tagging Jenny in funny Instagrams, or texting Shelby whenever something salacious happens in the celebrity world, or g-chatting (gay-chatting) with Marco, or sending ambiguous emojis to Mitchell. But that is just a complement to being with them. So rule number ten-b: don’t let social media rule your life. Let me rule your life. Through social media. I understand how confusing this might be. Just give me your Social Security number and everything will be okay.

Living in the digital age is hard; everything should be quicker and more immediate, but it often ends up lost in a haze of misinterpretation. Did he mean to send me that winky emoji? How long is too long for me to return someone’s text? What is “fam” and how is it being used in the vernacular? All of these things are questions that I know that I have.

Ew, bye.

Standard
Humor, Life, Rambles

CATCH-UP AND MUSTARD

I ordered a tapestry off Amazon. It’ll be here tomorrow. Who am I?

68177e04da7c32ed09d66efa1edeea52594c67fbbcd136af1e2263344ddbe0f5

Source: Disqus.com

I realized, looking through the last few posts of my blog, that I’ve done a lot of promo for other people. And if you know me, you know that I like attention. So instead of giving more blog-space to any of those wannabes, I figured you could use some catch-up on the haute-dog of my life. Because I’m the real queen bee.

Today I woke up before 10:30 in the morning, and as such, I am exhausted and it’s only 7:30 p.m. My sleep schedule has become so erratic that the Courts are considering taking me out of its custody. There, I did a bad joke. See? I’m so reliable. I went to meet people at the gym at 9:15, rolled in at a hard 9:20 and realized that no one was there and I had gotten up for nothing. I did fifteen minutes each on two different types of elliptical machines before chatting for twenty minutes with my friend Thea while she exercised and I lounged on the machine.

All in all, I was at the gym for almost two hours, and did approximately 35 minutes of cardio in that time. I think that’s an improvement. My ratio is getting much better.

My family was over this weekend, which meant that my sisters nosily poked around my stuff and noisily made comments about the décor and size of my apartment. I decided to order two tapestries off Amazon—I lied before—and some of that colorful washi tape to get all DIY. I’m thinking of putting “FUCK OFF” in washi tape over my toilet. Also how many washi tape demonic pentagrams is too many washi tape demonic pentagrams for a space? I feel like, just in case I’m not in good with God, I might try to hedge my bets and get in Satan’s good graces too. My mom told me it’s never bad to be over prepared. She wasn’t speaking specifically about devil worship, but I’d like to think that her sentiments still apply.

These last four days have been a whirlwind of weather. The weekend was into the double-digit negatives, then it snowed yesterday, and today it was 45 degrees and rainy. My body doesn’t know how to cope, and my wardrobe is suffering. There is only a limited number of times I can wear L.L.Bean boots before the Lumberati—the outdoorsy cousins to the Illuminati—convert me to a full-time heterosexual. Lately I’ve taken to putting a picture of Lady Gaga in a locket and wearing it close to my heart. Wearing lockets is very gay, so I think at the very least, the two extremes will balance me into a mellow bisexual.

I’ve already tweeted about this (follow me on Twitter, you peasants), but I downloaded Tidal. I didn’t really mean to, and I don’t really actually know how it happened. I heard, through the Tumblr grapevine, that Beyonce was releasing her song for free. I Googled it, followed a trail of links and somehow tumbled down the rabbit-hole. Suddenly, I had the Tidal app on my phone. I got the Beyonce song and 90 days of free Tidal, but I worry. I worry that, somehow, since Tidal now has access to my Facebook, that they now have access to my entire life. It’s only a matter of time before they trap my soul using old profile photos and some serious Picture of Dorian Gray-voodoo magic.

I’ve listened to Kanye’s new album, and I like it, but I don’t know if it’s worthy of his accolades. Also, accolades tend to not mean anything when you give them to yourself. It’s like being valedictorian of your home-school; it doesn’t really count. Also I’m not sure if you guys are following him on Twitter, but he’s saying some crazy stuff. Treat yourself.

Somehow I’ve slipped into the pop culture promo, so I’ll stop. I’ve started writing for The Odyssey Online again, so click here for a link to my author page. Y’all, I’m like famous.

Side bar: my last few articles for the Wunderkindof were more like “legit” so I couldn’t use wacky gifs, so I’m making a promise to myself that when I format this post (I write in Word, not online, if you cared at all) I’ll use ~~wACkY~~ gifs.

Standard