Humor, Rambles

HOW DARE YOU CALL ME “RELATABLE”

For an hour, I’ve been sat, on my floor, wrapped in a sweatshirt—hood up, like a drug dealer or a celebrity buying Pepto Bismol at the pharmacy—watching late night talk show clips on YouTube and lazily throwing my dog his toy and pretending that I’m about to start writing a blog post.

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Yesterday I didn’t write a post because I was packing/in a bad mood, and I almost didn’t write one today because I was packing/watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills/feeling like I need to put out a quality blog post. I try not to let the “how many people read this post” numbers—omg is the word “statistics?” I couldn’t figure out the word but it’s statistics, isn’t it, and why don’t I just backspace this entire tangent and take out “how many people read this post” numbers and put in the actual word? I won’t. I would never. Never disrupt the process—and when I do really well stats-wise—there, I used it—I feel like the critic in Birdman who hates Michael Keaton and talks about how gritty and raw her writing is. And when I don’t do well stats-wise, I feel like the critic in Birdman who hates Michael Keaton when Michael Keaton tells her that her writing is shit and she just lives to take a crap on other people’s art.

For no real reason, I will be using Lisa Vanderpump gifs exclusively for this blog post. You’re welcome in advance.

So I’m constantly fighting between putting out content that’s rambling and funny and might not have the catchy titles like “My Anus Has Prolapsed” or “Ten Reasons Why Russia Needs To Take Back Alaska”—both potential articles that I am now considering writing—but having that content be consistent or wait until I have—what I think is—a really good idea (a medium idea for most people) and getting in those dope skrilla views.

So obviously to combat that I decided to write a post about writing posts with quality but this post will have no quality.

In my binge of watching late night show YouTube clips of Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer, I have decided that when I become famous—either for being a writer/comedian/talk show host, or—what I fear is most likely—being on an episode of My Strange Addiction—there is one thing that I will not stand for. Ever.

I never, ever, want anyone to call me “relatable.”

Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer are prized for their abilities to remain “relatable” and “in-touch” while balancing their insanely famous lives. And while I feel like there is a subtle amount of sexism in play—men are almost never asked to be “relatable”; no one cares if George Clooney or Eddie Redmayne can host a barbeque before the Emmys, so why is it so important that female celebrities are required to remain humble and down-to-earth—I won’t go into that much more. But, regardless of personal feelings, I still watch interviews of J-Law and A-Schu.

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They’re funny and cool and just the “next door neighbor who rules the world” and that is never something that I want to be when I am famous.

I want to be so unrelatable, so completely alien to the regular Joe Schmoes that they think I’m either some sort of alien doing a passable job at pretending to be human or a sex doll who has come to life via a misguided hex, a la Life Size. I want to drip diamonds, drape myself in rare mink furs, and be carried around on a hoverboard so that I don’t have to step on the “ground” in between my Rolls Royce and the La Scala restaurant.

I want my family and friends comment in the E! True Hollywood Stories episode about my life how much I’ve changed since I “hit it big.” I want to have a Katy Perry-style green room list where I demand that the couches be re-upholstered in clouded leopard-skin and then put into a room that I have also demanded be just for my dogs to pee in.

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I want to show people pictures—just kidding I would never touch a physical photograph, I would give out individual mini-iPads—of vacations from islands so elite that afterwards I either get to give them a lobotomy or put them on some sort of Scientology-style kill list.

I also read an article that when Adele was about to go to some huge award show—that she later completely swept—she went back to her old nail salon in her London childhood neighborhood to get all did. Like, excuse me? Fuck that. If I ever go to a big award show, you won’t see me slumming it at the Central Avenue Supercuts. I will have a team of stylists whose names I will never learn but whom I will identify by their most defining characteristics and who will make me look completely unrecognizable for my appearance at the 2038 Grammys, where I will host alongside Saint West, and we will honor Kim Kardashian West and Kris Jenner, who—thanks to modern science—will look roughly the same age.

And so these are the things that I think about while watching Amy Schumer tell a story on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon about prank-sexting Katie Couric’s husband. I think about when I’m famous enough to throw a glass at someone and have it be “a personality trait” and not “a felony.”

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What kind of celebrity do you think you would be?

Oh, I should clarify—when I say these questions, they’re rhetorical and just for me. I’m not expecting/anticipating any of you peasants become a celebrity. So just ignore the above question. Here, I’ll write a question just for you guys:

What age do you think you’ll be when you lose all your teeth due to excessive Mountain Dew drinking?

Between eating, watching YouTube clips, and watching The People’s Couch, this took me like four hours to write. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be a “serious” writer unless I also gain the ability to freeze time, or go back in time like Hermione Granger in The Prisoner of Azkaban.

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Essay, Humor, Life

I WANT THEM AND THEY WANT ME TO LEAVE THEM ALONE: RUSHING A FRAT

Alternately titled “But All of the Boys And All of the Girls Are Begging To…Get Me Off Their Property.”

I have bad luck with guys. I think, by now, that’s probably a well-established fact. There was the guy who never texted back. The guy I asked out three separate times. The guy who skipped a threesome for a date with me—and probably regretted it.

But even for me, there has only been one instance where I was collectively rejected by an entire group of men. I once rushed a fraternity.

It was the beginning of sophomore year of college and, in the midst of serious depression and anxiety, I attempted anything to distract me. I did multiple different newspapers; I became a hardcore Christian; I did backstage work for a play. But the most out of character for me was rushing a fraternity.

The idea sparked inside of me when the formal rushing season for males began in the early months of the semester. I had eschewed Greek life as vapid, shallow, and heavily hierarchical. I was both disappointed and relieved that it wasn’t anything like the show GREEK, which, if you’re looking into Greek life, is not a good indicator. But I saw myself as a Rusty Cartwright, but gay and hotter—a social outcast of the Greek world who would eventually rise up to the highest echelons of red-cup culture.

I was kind of desperate to break into an already established group of friends, and figured that I could fit the role of “funny, quirky out-of-the-norm frat bro” and maybe convince some of my brothers to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race with me.

With some friends, I went to the massive fair of all the frats and sororities. Decked out in J.Crew blazers and Lilly Pulitzer prints, everyone is somehow more coiffed and polished than I could ever hope to be. I had dressed as “heterosexually” as I knew how, so I was in a sweater and a beanie. Actually, that’s how I always dress. I’m breaking down stereotypes and defying your expectations.

There were the Delta Iota Kappas (DIKs), the macho, ‘roided out typical fratguys. There were the Gamma Epsilon Epsilon Kappas (GEEKs), where I was pretty sure I could get into because I was probably the coolest person they’ve ever known. There were the Douches, who I’m not even going to give a punny name to, who were the unofficial leaders of the Greek world and had the hottest trust-fund babies and future corrupt Senators.

I was too skinny for the DIKs, too social for the GEEKs, and was too recently emigrated—only four generations—to America to fit in with the blueblood Douches. Then, I stumbled upon the Sigma Mu Deltas, the SMDs.

They were smart but not too alienating; social without being fratty; and ambitious without being too “Congressionally Nepotistic.” The lead guy at the table was a hot redhead—one of my personal vices—and had already volunteered on a campaign. A cute ginger with political aspirations and—I’m assuming—a hefty inheritance? Sign me up/marry me right now.

I have no idea what this is from but it is crucial I find out.

I signed up for their mixing events and quickly made acquaintances with the only other homosexual I had seen in the vicinity of the fair. We clung to each other and bolstered each other up. I was better at breaking the ice, but he was better at not having excessively sweaty palms. Together, we made one complete human.

The first rush event I went to was held at a local fast-food burger place—not McDonald’s, but I wish. Dressed in a non-confrontational plaid button-down, I walked into the meeting spot and immediately started sweating.

Unfortunately for my glands, rushing involves a lot of hand-shaking, and since this was a fraternity, handshaking is roughly the barometer for judging someone’s manhood. It’s the acceptable equivalent of a glorified pissing contest. I have a relatively strong, solid handshake, but combined with my genetic anxious pore-crying—sweating—the result for the recipient is getting a sensation similar to a lamprey. Not enticing unless you are a lamprey looking for a mate.

“So how long have you been involved with SMD?” I asked a senior.

“Actually, since it reformed a few years ago. It was disbanded but we brought it back to campus and I was one of the first in the new class.”

“Wow!” I say “Wow!” a lot when I don’t know what else to say. It’s meant to be disarming and meaningless. But even if I had given this guy a $20 bill, nothing would distract from the intense discomfort of what I would say next:

“So you’re like the Founding Fathers of your frat! Except, unlike the actual Founding Fathers, you probably didn’t also own slaves!”

He looked at me, head at an angle as if I hadn’t just cavalierly brought up one of the darkest memories of the collective American historical memory.

“Hahahahaha,” my rush-wingman loudly cackled, drawing attention away from me and onto more PC topics. From there, the event was more or less the way you would imagine. I spent ten minutes talking to a guy about “biology.” Trying to have conversations with these guys was like pulling teeth. Not just because they were big sports-fans and were really into “engineering”—unclear—but also because I thrive when there are no expectations put upon me and we have a common ground. Our common ground was the fact that I was desperately trying to bind us together in institutionalized brotherhood and they were very desperately trying to make that not happen.

When I’m forced to perform, I—like any other serious actor—freeze up completely. Instead of acting like myself, I get a starring role in Awkward: A Play, in the part of Unconvincing Totem Pole Dogs in Trench Coat Pretending To Be Human. I get awkward and weird and standoffish, (but I win a Golden Globe). And my quietness and razor-wit are mistaken for a misanthropic sarcasm and possible devil worship.

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Most people rush as freshmen, and I was one of the very few sophomores attempted to breach the club. These were fresh-off-the-boat former football heroes and lacrosse princes. You know how white racists say that other races all look like each other? White people, PSA, we all look alike. And these dudes all looked strikingly similar: square jaws, Patagonias, pert butts in khaki pants, and thick Senator-parted hair. I was slim, twiggy, in a slouchy cardigan and artfully styled auburn hair to hid the pimple on my forehead. I stuck out more than a minority on The Bachelor.

(Hey, that’s a problem with mainstream broadcasting.)

It was so clear that genetics had blessed these boys with fraternal acclimation abilities, whereas I was skittering across conversation topics with the grace of a deer on a frozen sidewalk.

For the last hour of the burger boys’ night—not the name they chose for the event, but what a missed opportunity—I was talking to two SMD brothers who were sophomores too. I nudged into their circle and attempted to strengthen a connection. They weren’t bad, but one of them had a wispy, douchey mustache that immediately told his entire history and future. Private school, fraternity, business school, Wall Street, brunette wife, two sons. It’s disconcerting to see someone’s entire life wrapped around a vaguely pubescent piece of facial hair, but it was there and I saw it and I hated it.

Also he was kind of a homophobe, but it was the mustache that really made me alarmed.

I was glad when I was able to slip away from the forced friendship-making and began to walk home. I was replaying how I had acted, seeing me in my mind’s eye and watching Frat Danny—Franny—lose the colorful characteristics I had so lovingly cherished and become a bland, palatable fraternity lackey.

Despite the skeevies from Meat Meetup: The Boys of SMD Welcome You To Babble and Burgers—not the name, but come on people, I wish—I decided I would do another rush event. I mean, I skipped one of them because I was busy (read: lazy), but the next event (the last event) was at a Mexican restaurant. How could I pass up tortilla chips?

Dressed in my best Relaxed Business—the same cardigan and button-down from my previous two interactions with SMD—and black skinny pants instead of brown skinny pants (read: classy) I soon discovered that this was a more formal “informal get to know you” session, and that everyone else had apparently gotten the Brooks Brothers memo. I also learned that I would have to choose between eating and talking. Never, if you want me to be productive, force me to choose between food and people-interactions.

Placed in a precarious position, I just held onto a plate of chips while making awkward conversation with a guy with superb eyebrows about his future career. I was learning that, for the SMD guys, you needed to know not only what you wanted to do after graduation but what path you would be taking to Congress and which seat you were taking. Safe to say that these guys weren’t grabbing Democrat seats. Is that how Congress works? Idk, clearly I’m not in SMD.

After failing at trying get Eyebrows to disclose his grooming regimen—not in the manscaping region, just his eyebrows, you pervs—I moved on to someone who talked to me. About sports. I know nothing about sports, except that the Mets are in New York and a guy was kicked out of a Dolphins game for wearing a speedo. I couldn’t even tell you what sport the Dolphins play.

He was boring and talked about a sports internship and I made witty comments about hockey—probably? Frankly, I blocked this out from my memory—but given the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to shine with any previous interactions, I was going to make this frat bro my frat babe. And by “frat babe” I mean “best friend” and I was going to ride his coattails into SMD.

I scrounged together my minimal knowledge of sports and cobbled together a conversation. It wasn’t hard; he loved talking about himself so essentially all I had to do was be his combination Hype/Yes man. It’s a very easy job; I think I could do it professionally. After literally an hour of nodding in a platonic, heterosexual manner, the mixer came to a close and it came time to say goodbye.

I had wiped my hand against my cardigan precisely for this moment and gave Sports a firm handshake, looking him in the eye and, in the style of Wiccans and followers of The Secret, said, “See you soon.”

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I didn’t see him soon. Spoiler alert, I had come across weird and yes-man-y and too interested in Eyebrow’s eyebrows to be a friendly frat bro. The next step in the process was to receive a personal invitation to be interviewed one-on-one by the brothers. I waited the obligatory week before getting my hopes sky-high and then waited another week before crushing my hopes beneath my heel.

A few weeks later, I saw the chief pledge, the Optimus Prime of Square-Jaw Football Senator boys, leading a merry gang of future Congressmen on some sort of soft fraternity hazing adventure. I had not made it into the exclusive club. I had been, frankly, stood up.

After the sting went away, I realized I was grateful that I had been rejected. It was one of the less painful rejections I had ever gone through, despite it being collectively from upwards of forty guys at once who decided that I was “a total grenade.” And I was glad that they had preemptively prevented me from quitting. Because, you better fucking believe, I would’ve quit when the euphoria had faded and I realized that I was knee-deep in straights watching football.

I know now that I was not made for a fraternity. I am made for small groups of people who look at me like an alpha. I am not made for interviewing, which means that I will be impossible to hire but impossible to fire, and I’ll eventually either become my own boss or die on the streets.

I like being weird and sweaty and wearing flannels and skinny jeans. I don’t like wearing blazers or talking about football. It makes me think I’m back in high school, and that deathtrap has seen the last of me.

But rushing SMD taught me a very valuable lesson. No amount of built-in support system is worth me not being myself. Or me paying dues, because frankly that money could be going towards flannels. Frats, and Greek life in general, are really excellent for a certain type of person. But I’m not that type of person. And once I had finished contorting myself into a palatable pretzel shape for the boys of SMD, I realized that it wasn’t worth it, and that my foot had fallen asleep. And I think if I had gotten into the frat, I would have realized that I would need to act like Franny—bland, amiable Franny—all the time, and that’s way too much. I only act unlike myself on two occasions: when I’m talking to a cute boy, and always.

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Humor, Life

THE HAIR AND NOW

Should I have named this post, “Buzzcut Season”? Is that a missed opportunity?

“Maybe a 2 all around?” I suggest. “I don’t want it to be see-through, you know? Like, I don’t wanna see my skull.”

She looks at me dubiously. “You know it’s gonna be short?” But she’s Hispanic, so her accent swallows up the t in “it’s” and makes “You know” into a purring Juno.

“Yes, yes, I know.”

She apparently sees the quavering resolve in my eyes and says, “Okay, I’ll do a 3, and we can go down from there.” She clicks the razor clip into the hard, molded black plastic of the buzzer and slicks up my sideburn.

Fuck.

At first, when it’s still an undercut and I have a thick sheath of hair of top, I am calm. Then, with one swipe, she cuts across my bangs and reveals the scraggly hairline underneath. Now, I’m not quite certain what happened next, because I blacked out for roughly five minutes.

This is from Photobooth, because I don’t trust myself to take a non-duckface phone selfie yet. Also my eyebrows look great and I look halo-y.

The hairdresser, after buzzing away roughly 90% of my hair and doing the whole “Let’s pretend that we can make your sideburns symmetrical” bit, flashes a mirror showing me the back of my head. Like any well-meaning hairdresser, she wants to show me what is happening on the back of that shizz. And like always, I don’t know what the fuck to say. It’s not as if I can take a look at the back, ponder for a moment, and respond with, “Actually, I’m not happy. Could you put the hair back on?”

So I nod and smile and say something generic like, “Looks great!” or “Awesome!” when on the inside there is a 12-person heavy metal orchestra of just screaming as I pick my way across the auburn shag carpet that used to be on my head.

I keep looking at myself in the reflections of shop windows, car windows, and my rearview mirror, and alternate between squealing with joy, wiggling my eyebrows, and trying to control the icy grip of panic.

My haircut is almost universally hated by my family and friends, but weirdly it makes me like it more? My sisters said, and I quote, it makes me look “like a dickhead.” Like, a literal penis-head. My mother literally grimaced—like actually couldn’t control her facial muscles moving into a half-snarl—and then later denied that. But I try not to let that bother me. Like, nothing means that I’m doing something right more than when everyone thinks it’s wrong. I’m positive that there is some psychiatric reason why I’m programmed to be the black sheep, but I only have a certain amount of minutes in therapy.

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And frankly, being a dick-head isn’t that different than me saying that I look like a thumb, so I guess I haven’t really gone up or down in the hotness scale. Maybe a lateral move, if anything.

Screen Shot 2016-01-05 at 7.01.20 PM Someone asked me if it was an impulse decision, and it was and it wasn’t. At the end of sophomore year, I was kinda drained—emotionally. It had been such a year of change, and as I was walking out of my last therapy session of the school year, one hand on the doorknob, I turned back and said, “I think I want to shave my head.”

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hands down my favorite respond- from Jenny

My hair is very much a part of my aesthetic, and what I think is part of my charm. It’s thick and shiny and auburn, and can realistically attain—as I have written before—a pretty excellent swoosh when needed. It was part of my look, and, also, a complete security blanket.

The idea of shaving my head hadn’t even occurred to me before, and it was kind of a whim, but once I had the idea in my head, it never left. So it was an impulse, but I’m lazy and vain, so I didn’t do anything about it. First because I was like, “oh, it’s the summer, I wanna look cute,” and then I went to London and I was like, “oh, it’s London, I wanna look cute and not regret that haircut in photos,” and then it was the holidays and so on. So after New Year’s, I was working out—I’m so swole—and pushing back my sweaty bangs for the millionth time, I just decided to fuck it and make the snip.

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I keep having flashes of realization where I look in the mirror, don’t see my old hair, and realize that I’m stuck with this until it grows out. And unlike when I bleached the absolute living daylights out of my hair, I can’t throw some CVS brown dye over it and make it look okay. But that’s kind of what I love about it. It’s so unapologetic.

My hair was completely a security blanket, and I shaved it off—besides the reckless impulse—was to shock myself out of needing it. I completely feel underdressed without the thick swoop of bangs, but I want to push myself out of the comfort zone. I’m completely ruthless sometimes when it comes to my own comfort. I went to London when I have issues with new places. And now I’ve shaved my head to stop being so vain. I swear to god, I have self-destructive tendencies.

It sounds silly—“I want people to see the real me”—but I want to see if I can exist without this security blanket. I want to see if I can enjoy myself and love myself with this stripped down, spare aesthetic I’m living.

When I look in the mirror at 2 am, which I did because I was suddenly convinced that it was actually a much worse haircut that I had originally thought, I really like it. My head is—slightly lopsided, I’ll admit—but much more smooth than I thought it would be. And the short hairs are soft and feel like the back of a deer. It doesn’t feel quite like me, but there’s something almost enticing in the alienation. This is so outside of what I ever do. I usually build fades upon fades upon fades, and I’ve just demolished everything with one buzzing razor.

But, like every amazing celebrity, I have to have a short-hair moment. John Krasinski, Andrew Garfield, Joseph Gordon-Levitt in 50/50, Miley Cyrus, Rose McGowan, Halsey, and obviously the queen of the shaved head—Britney Spears. All of your favorites—me especially—have to have a shaved head moment, and you can’t deny that from us. This is my Britney time.

I still have moments of “Oh my god, you stupid dum-dum” and wonder if this was the biggest fucking travesty since I thought baby-blue workout pants were my aesthetic, but right now I’m feeling my GI Joe fantasy. I feel like it would look so good with like a denim shirt and my glasses. Maybe that’s less GI Joe and more GI Hoe. It’s very “masc 4 masc.” Like, I finally look butch enough to write that on a Grindr profile!

Anyway, I’m back with the non-holiday posts! I feel like I’m back, on track, and in style!

Humor, Life

I’M YOUR PROBLEMATIC FAVE—LISTENING TO CHRISTMAS MUSIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever. Idk. Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Humor, Life

THE ONE WHERE I WRITE LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW

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

Okay, now onto the Bradshawisms!

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

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

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

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

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

Anywayanywayanyway.

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

*Not to be confused with The Real World.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Closes eyes and walks into closed door*

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

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

Me @ myself

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

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

Humor, Life, Rambles

FRATTY FIFTEEN

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

“I am in my costume,” I stare at him.

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

I wordlessly scream at him.

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

Really, I’ve never looked better.

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

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

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

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

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Danny + Jenny 4NEVER

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

*****

white ppl, amiright?

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

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

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

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

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

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

—and it really depends on my mood.

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

*****

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

*****

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

Okay bye!

Xoxo Gossip Squirrel

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

Humor, Rambles

“WALKING ON EGGSHELLS” IS A DUMB SAYING—ME BEING MATURE

Over the last week, I have made several questionable decisions. Here are a few of those decisions:

I finally had to Google “spoopy” today, like a forty-year-old. After two weeks of seeing it on Tumblr and reading it on my friend’s—Shelby—Twitter, I was like, “Okay, I need to know.”
I cut my bangs with scissors in the bathroom sink.
I bought a large jar of chocolate icing and proceeded to eat it. Just the icing.
I dropped some butternut squash on the kitchen floor while I was cutting it, and for multiple milliseconds, I was like, “Oh that’s fine,” but then someone walked in while it was on the floor, so I had to pick it up and throw it out.

I also waited until two days before it was due to start reading a 500-page novel for my English class, but that’s not so much a questionable decision as it is a manifestation of my crippling laziness.

*****

Okay, I’ll level with you guys. My last post—“You’re Bad At Picking People”—was—wait, lemme just do all the shameless self-promotion while I’m at it (Twitter: @thedanosaurus, Instagram: @thedanosaurus, Tumblr: thelastdanosaurus.tumblr.com) Follow me—kinda emotional and it got a lot more traffic than the regular, non-emotionally psychotic posts do, and it was weird because I wrote that post in twenty minutes and published without really thinking about. I used “You” as the primary subject, but—spoiler alert—it was about me.

And whenever I post emotionally charged articles—i.e. every other week—I always feel like I need to do a cheerful post to even it out and make me not seem like a sobbing, quivering mess. I’m not a quivering mess.

Like I feel like I have to walk on eggshells a little, but I’m a goddamn bull in a china shop, so that doesn’t really work. Also, no one can walk on eggshells without breaking them. Is that what the saying is supposed to mean? That everyone attempts to tread lightly but they end up fucking everything up? And also, why are there eggshells all over this floor? Whose chickens are cracking their eggs all over the floor? Or is this a “peeling the hard-boiled egg” situation? This idiom is idiotic. And what’s it all meta-for anyway? AYOO.

I apologize. But didn’t I neatly distract you from the emotional hurricane I was in last week? How slick! How sly!

Side bar: I had to google “walking on eggshells” to figure out what that thing is called when it’s like a saying, but also a meaning? I thought it was colloquialism but it’s not. It’s an idiom.

What if I literally spent this entire blog just putzing around and not writing about my life or anything? Haha wouldn’t that be so spoopy. That’s not how you use that word. But that’s how I use that word. I tried to capitalize “I” to give it inflection but it doesn’t really have the same effect. I suppose I could’ve italicized it. I think that’s a good idea. Meh. Not that effective.

*****

I’m trying to do that thing where when I disagree with people on things, I don’t immediately try to sock them in the face. I’m trying to be able to “agree to disagree,” which is not as much fun as hitting people in the nose, but earns me less strikes on my personal record. Like, the other day, someone—let’s call them Wrong—said that Taylor Swift did not have a good singing voice.

I gripped my knuckles, and dug my fingernails into my palms. “She. Is. Talented,” I hissed through clenched teeth, enamel flaking off with the force of my jaws clamped together.

Like, I don’t understand how people can’t think Taylor Swift has a good singing voice. I’m not asking you to love her. I’m not asking you to hold her hand while she gives birth. I’m not even asking you to pick her up from the airport. I’m just asking you to admit that—objectively, you fuck—the woman who is a megamillionaire due to her singing has a good singing voice. Is that so hard—you abominable nosepicker—? Isn’t it plausible—even for your tiny, idiot brain to comprehend, you poopyface—that the woman who has built an empire might not have “tricked people” with voodoo but might ACTUALLY POSSESS TALENT? IS THAT SO IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE?

Side bar: *takes deep breaths*

But yeah, anyway, I’m really trying to be more mature. I only threatened to punch someone in the face once today. Well, I guess twice, since I just wrote about wanting to punch someone in the face a few lines above this. Your Honor, I’m not a threat.

*****

I’m thinking of doing something ~fun~ and ~crazy~ and ~ambitious~ for the Christmas season on my blog this year, to celebrate the end of The Wunderkindof’s—follow me on Twitter—first year online. But I’m not going to write it out because if it doesn’t pan out—i.e. if I get lazy and/or eat more icing—I don’t want evidence of my shame living on the Internet forever. Speaking of shame living on the Internet forever, I was thinking about AIM today and wishing I could read archives of old AIM conversations I had in the “good ole days” before I came out of the closet and discovered a decent acne cream.

Spoiler alert: it’s not this.

*****

I’m being Bob Belcher for Halloween. I figured since I’m not going to a gay club for Halloween—a.k.a. Gay Christmas—I wouldn’t need to dress sexy. So for my costume, I’m wearing gray sweatpants and ugly man clogs. I love it. But since I’m going “out” on a “pub crawl” on “Friday,” I need to come up with another costume, and I want to be something both sexy and grotesque. Maybe a sexy standardized test? Slutty office supplies?

*****

Okay, so bye? Maybe I’ll do a bonus post detailing my Hallowieners experience and if I score some boy-on-boy hand-holding? Unlikely, but not impossible.

(What’s that?)

Sorry hold on.

(Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Okay.)

I’m getting confirmation from our source on the ground that it is, indeed, impossible that I will get boy-on-boy hand-holding this Halloween season. Back to you, Rick.

I’m nothing if not a law scholar.

*****

Bye! HAPPY HALLOWEEN! SPOOKY SPOOKY!

Humor, Life

SAD STRIPPER

I’m sure there’s some deep, psychologically scarring reason for this, but I completely bro out whenever I talk to Straight Guys. And I’m not talking straight guys. I’m talking “Loves Golf, Will Date A Blonde But Marry A Brunette, Lunches At The Club and Knows What A 401(k) Is” capital Straight Guys.

Side bar: I had to look up how to write 401(k). Apparently it is not 401K. Who knew?

Case in point, whenever I see the Straight Guys on my floor, I immediately bark, “Sup, bro?” and my internal monologue is just, What am I doing? Why am I fist-bumping him right now? What’s happening? And it just spirals from there.

*****

Last night, I went out to the local university’s bar because I thought there was going to be a cute boy there but there wasn’t, and instead it was just me and people and Jenny and Jenny’s new friend who is the cooler, gayer version of me, right now to the fact that we wear the same model and brand of glasses. Anyway, we were all dancing and 2.0—the Cooler Gay Guy—was doing that dance where it’s like a sexy librarian, all smooth hips but classy and restrained.

And I tried to copy him a little because I actually can’t dance, so I just imitate whoever I’m dancing near, but my moves are generally so malformed that the two dances don’t even resemble each other.

The Sexy Librarian isn’t working so I switch to an Ole Faithful.

“Watch me do the Sad Stripper!” I scream at Jenny and 2.0, and begin to dance provocatively, all while screwing my face into a baby bawl. As my face violently sobs, my booty drops it low and picks it back up again. And again. And again.

Big finale!

Keeping my legs in a triangle, an Eiffel Tower if you will—

Side bar: Not the sex act.

—I bend into an acute angle, my face roughly level with my ankles, and all of a sudden I slip in a puddle of beer and my right foot rockets away from the rest of my body. My legs go so far apart that they’re not even separated, they’re divorced, and I topple forwards, landing hard on the ground.

“Was that part of the dance?” Jenny asks.

“Um, no, that wasn’t,” I confirm.

My toe rapidly swelling inside my Vans, I decide that this night has been long enough and I decide to trek back home.

As I reflect over the night, while limping slightly and powerwalking to Kanye West’s “POWER,” I think that I maybe should’ve been nicer to 2.0. I wasn’t outright rude, I was just a little frosty, and asserted my dominance like a dog peeing on a lawn. In this case, Jenny is the lawn, and I am peeing on her. I’m sticking with this metaphor.

He’s just a little too similar to me, but in the worst ways. Like, I bet he never falls down the stairs while Tweeting. Or has back sweat that could solve California’s drought. Or pulls clothes out of the hamper and gives them a whore’s bath—spritz them with cologne—and wear them out to Da Club. It’s like what I imagine having an older brother to be like. I only have sisters, and I’m the favorite out of the three of us.

I’m sure that if I actually knew him, I would like him, but I’m immature and he’s a poopyface so I think I’ll pass. Also I look better in the glasses. I’m kidding. Actually I’m not sure.

*****

I really don’t know how to interact with other people in social settings. It’s weird, because sometimes I completely nail it like a carpenter or a nail technician and everyone loves me and other times it’s like the Hindenburg had a social media account and no social cues.

See, that was offensive. To blimps. I’m not winning anything today.

Bye.

P.S. I’ve been reading a lot of “fashion” blogs recently and they’re very ~professional~ and don’t curse nearly as much as I do and that’s very ~unprofessional~ of me so can I do anything right? Or will I be forever destined to be the Sad Stripper at dances?

Humor, Life

ARE YOU BRITISH? LET’S BE FRIENDS

Do you ever have one of those bad days where it’s not really a “bad day” bad day, like you don’t have a plunging depression, and you don’t get knocked over in the supermarket, and you don’t rip your pants in front of that really cute boy with the half-moon smile? You just feel generally grumpy and want to trip someone.

Yeah, me neither.

JUST KIDDING, I’M DEFLECTING. I’m having one of those days now.

I’ve had “bad day” bad days, and today is not that. I’m in a mood that’s teetering over disgruntled and into “bah humbug” sans Christmas and three ghosts.

Last night I went to a bar—the bar of the college associated with Fictitious University’s study abroad satellite campus—with Jenny and Sebastien—are you happy? Now you know your name. Knowing you, though, there’s a good chance you might hate it—and friends of Jenny’s. It was really fun. It was also full of freshers—UK first years—and we largely spent our nights hovering around British people and whisper-arguing about how best to break into their conversations so as to make British friends.

One of Jenny’s friends and I decided that we would use the “Do you have a lighter?” ploy to hijack the conversation of a group of three boys and a girl. We decided that that was a good ratio of peens-to-vajeens because it was obvious that the girl was just friends with the guys and it was not a Mormon Situation.

“Do you guys have a light?” Ainslie asks, holding a cigarette between her fingers.

The tallest boy—hook nose, but in a cute way, and a beanie covering sandy blonde hair—shakes his head. “No.”

“Wait,” I say, shouldering Ainslie aside. “Are you guys British or American?”

“American,” Hook says.

“FUCK,” I say. “Bye,” and half-jokingly begin to walk away. Obviously the joke is hilarious and everyone laughs and we begin to chat.

They’re all from Malibu—which is…no comment—and they’re all blonde and laugh at me when I do the “cool brah” hand thing where I stick my thumb and pinky out like a dickhead and shake it like a maraca.

Eventually, we get onto the topic of travel, and one of the boys—who is cute with glasses and is the definition of “Did I meet you before, or are you just a generic white boy?”—says they’re going to Sweden. Stockholm.

“Oh, you’ll have to listen to “Stockholm Syndrome” by—”

“By One Direction,” he finishes my sentence. How fucking cute. “I love them. I just went to their concert.”

“ME TOO,” I flirt-yell. “The Wednesday one.” He went to the Monday one. I’m planning a summer wedding. The groomsmaids will wear champagne.

Side bar: Once my older sister told me that she would refuse to be in my wedding party if the genders on both sides of the wedding party were not balanced. We both know that’s false, because Margot will grab at any chance to stand in front of other people in a fancy dress.

Long gay story short, he’s not gay. We found this out when Jenny said, loudly, “I don’t even like One Direction that much, I just want to have sex with Harry Styles. Which one do you want to have sex with?” and Stockholm just answered, “Um. None of them? I just like their music?”

NO ONE JUST LIKES ONE DIRECTION’S MUSIC.
I don’t want to paint with a broad brush, but no straight males should ever like One Direction because then you should be gay and in love with me.
EVEN IF YOU’RE STRAIGHT, THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS LIAM PAYNE.

So other than the feeble attempt at romance with Stockholm, I didn’t meet any cute boys who like boys. I just talked to “straight” people about “England” and “nuclear weapons” and “cricket.” I have a wide breadth of conversation topics. I can discuss nuclear weapons almost as easily as I can discuss the pros and cons of Khloé Kardashian being classified as the “hottest Kardashian” while Kim is pregnant. Also I binge-read multiple articles about what Kim will be naming her son. Some sources are saying Easton but that hurts me, so I’m gonna veto that one. My vote is still on Ocean. Or Second Coming of Christ West.

And I hate being that person who’s like “Oh I didn’t meet any guys tonight, so the world is a black, swirling void and nothing matters,” because I hate that person but I just want to meet a cute boy. Or I want to pet a cute dog. These are simple requests. I’m a very reasonable person. I’m like the most low-key celebrity ever.

So after a night of eating ramen, drinking beer at the university bar, and finishing off with my very first Burger King, I woke up today feeling about as good as roadkill. I didn’t shower before class, so as usual I was sweaty and uncute.

After going to the gym, showering, singing to “Shake It Off” and eating stir fry—and watching Miranda—I feel a little less grumpy and a little less frumpy. And now I’m sitting on the floor and my butt hurts but I’m talking with my friends. Charlie and Millie. Idk if you’re gonna like those names but I chose them already. Deal with it, kittens.

Humor, Life

MUSTACHES

I’m at a crossroads. And no, I’m not referring to the 2002 Britney Spears movie, although, frankly, I understand why that might be the first thing you go to. But I’m at a real-life, hard-hitting, dramatic crossroads.

I really want a mustache. Let’s back it up like a dump truck.

STORYTIME

In my freshman year, I did No Shave November, a.k.a. Beard-Gate, where the day after Halloween, deep in a hangover, I stopped shaving. For the first week, I just felt sweaty—big surprise—and greasy. For week two, I felt like I had ants crawling under my skin. For week three—Thanksgiving—my family threw serious shade at my beard. My sister screamed. For week four, I was sort of living for it.

After November ended, I decided to shave. Obviously I played around with different beard styles in between the various stages; like when will I ever have muttonchops again? But when I got down to the mustache, I decided to keep it for a day. I named it, but I no longer remember its name.

Arnold. His name was Arnold.

And for one glorious day—December 1^st—I walked around with a mustache and not a care in the world. Until I realized that people’s eyes lingered on my upper lip for 0.02 seconds more than usual and I shaved it off at the end of the day. Also that semester I had a professor who had a mustache, and when I went into class that day, we shared a look and I couldn’t tell if he thought I was mocking him or honoring him.

But now I kind of want to grow a mustache again. But here are the dilemmas, listed out in a neat list for your consumption pleasure:

THE LIST I MENTIONED FROM BEFORE:

I don’t feel like looking like a pedophile—a stereotype, I know, but one I feel like a lot of people aren’t contesting because, again, pedophiles.
It’s really awkward to have a hairy lip for two weeks before it becomes full enough to be a mustache.
I’m in London, and I don’t feel like looking back on my photos and cringing when I look like I’m at Woodstock.
Fear of mortality: this isn’t related to mustaches. It’s just a dilemma I have.
I feel like I don’t actually know if I pull it off or not.

Luckily—unluckily—I have a picture of me and Arnold in our heyday.

I don’t know what this face is. Maybe I had just peed myself (again)?

I think it suits me. I was going to show a picture of me with the full beard, but the pictures I found were kind of creepy, although my jawline looks incredible. Truly.

When she’s serving it.

I’m also inspired by Dillon from 1Girl5Gays, which is in the top ten of my favorite shows. It’s a Canadian question-and-answer show with a rotating panel of twenty gay guys and a female host, who was from Degrassi. She knew Drake, you guys. Anyway, Dillon is really hot and he had a mustache and it werked. But then again, I don’t know if I enjoyed the mustache or was just in love with Dillon. Very up in the air.

Side bar, 1Girl5Gays is also responsible for one of my all time favorite gifs.

Maybe I’ll wait until spring semester, when I’m not being constantly bombarded by European paparazzi. Although—hair flip—when I arrive back in Boston, I’m expecting it to pretty much be a media frenzy. Just the life of a pop star.

But seriously guys, will I look like a ‘70s gay porn star?

Also, side bar, I don’t know if that’s technically a bad thing. It’s just not entirely my ~aesthetic~.

Further side bar, mustache or moustache?

The Wunderkindof

Too good-looking to be this funny. Politics. Pop Culture. Millennial Ramblings.

Category Archives: Humor

HOW DARE YOU CALL ME “RELATABLE”

I WANT THEM AND THEY WANT ME TO LEAVE THEM ALONE: RUSHING A FRAT

THE HAIR AND NOW

I’M YOUR PROBLEMATIC FAVE—LISTENING TO CHRISTMAS MUSIC

THE ONE WHERE I WRITE LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW

FRATTY FIFTEEN

“WALKING ON EGGSHELLS” IS A DUMB SAYING—ME BEING MATURE

SAD STRIPPER

ARE YOU BRITISH? LET’S BE FRIENDS

MUSTACHES