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.

Life, Rambles

“NEVER TOO OLD FOR ONE DIRECTION” IS WHAT I KEEP TELLING MYSELF

Wednesday, September 30th.

“I smell like a gym locker,” I scream over One Direction.

Jenny laughs and motions that she is, too, afflicted with this condition. We’re perched like birds in the upper echelons of the O2, a stadium that is currently filled with five thousand screaming girls, two thousand screaming women, one hundred adult men, and me and Jenny clutching each other whenever Liam, Niall or Harry pop up on the big screen.

Screen Shot 2015-10-01 at 6.26.53 PM

From our nosebleed seats, One Direction looks like a cluster of beautiful, tiny Polly Pocket dolls, but their visages blown up onto the two massive screens on either side of the stage cause us to go into literal fits of passion.

The mix of screaming and deep, chesty gasps is making the oxygen thin in the stadium, and the temperate is rising, making me steam like a lobster in my—very attractive—Zara, olive green bomber jacket that I had bought two hours previous.

As I hoarsely screech out the words to “Through the Dark,” I can’t believe that I’m actually here because who the fuck would’ve thought that I would buy tickets to a One Direction concert?

Answer: probably everyone. Except for…me.

It was a very spur of the moment, “I’m in London once why am I not going to seize this great experience by the balls” decision to purchase the ticket and even more of a spur of the moment decision to buy a $60 jacket to go along with my outfit. But I looked FUCKING AMAZING so really I think the decisions proved to be good.

We are easily older than everyone else in our area—barring moms—by at least four years, and while that fact would’ve made me feel embarrassed in a normal situation, apparently this One Direction concert veers into the fantastical because not only did we not give a flying fuck, we also danced like maniacs and screamed a multitude of sins towards the boys that were not appropriate for our surroundings but are perfectly appropriate to discuss right now:

Can you guess which one is mine? Does it even matter? Both are cries for help.

And also if you’ve ever read 1D fan fiction, you know that me screaming, “Liam, murder my vagina!” is definitively not the worst thing that these kids have ever heard. Oops, I gave away which one was mine. Now the mystique is gone.

Also I wanted to name this post “Murder My Vagina, Liam Payne,” but I feel like that would be a “negative” in the vast Internet presence I am trying to cultivate.

One Direction is so good that it hurts and I took, like, a 100-second Snapchat story, which I cannot confirm because of the Snapchat update making the actual number-count obsolete. Once again, the new Snapchat update is getting in the way of legitimate journalism.

I felt more like a local navigating the tube after the concert, switching between different Underground lines. Nothing makes you feel like more of a goddamn badass than making a successful transfer. Coupled with my sleek, chic outfit and glasses, I felt like I looked like a local. Until I open my mouth and my American accent comes squawking out, I can—almost—pass.

Afterwards, Jenny and I went to a bar and danced with other people in our study abroad program until I finally went home at around 2 am, having gone on a muthafucking BUS and not getting stabbed. I don’t even use buses at home. I don’t even know if I know how to use the buses at home. I am truly a Londoner and will not accept any claims to the contrary. Or any clams.

All in all, One Direction was a total win and I’m so glad I got to go and I even spent essentially the entire day with Jenny—well, like fourteen hours—and I didn’t want to stab her by the end or anything! Which is…progress? It means I’m a maturing human?

BOOBS.

Essay, Life

FERRERO ROCHER

I’m a creepy person. I hope that by admitting that upfront, you will judge me less harshly. Also it’ll make me seem “self-aware” and “relatable,” which in turn makes you more likely to accept what creepiness I’m about to write about with more geniality.

One of my most cringe-worthy romance sagas involves someone who I don’t think reads these blogs, so I guess it’s okay to talk about him? Fuck it. He’ll have a pseudonym. I briefly considered switching the gender and writing about him as a “she” but I don’t think anyone would believe that.

It all started in a large lecture hall. I was late to class, so instead of sitting with my friends in our customary spot in the left wing of the auditorium, I just grabbed a seat towards the back.

My mind begins to wander and my eyes drift from my screen to the laptop of the person sitting in front of me. He’s doing a quiz about Legally Blonde. From the angle, he looks cute. He’s muttering with his seat companion, a girl who to this day scares the shit out of me. I don’t know why, but she looks like she could beat me up. It’s something to do with the way her mouth is.

When the class ends, I’m trying in vain to shove my laptop back into my backpack, and I see Legally Blonde’s face as he walks out with his friend.

Fuckin’ shitballs. He’s cute.

Legally Blonde pops up in my social periphery over the next few weeks, and I begin to watch for him in our class. No one I know knows him, so he takes on a host of nicknames. My friends start to notice him too, after I point him out, and we trade stories of seeing him like Yu-Gi-Oh cards. That’s not that creepy because we do it with everyone’s crushes. Legally Blonde isn’t the only one.

One day, I’m leaving the library when my friend texts me.

“LEGALLY BLONDE IS IN CVS. HE’S WANDERING THE AISLES.”

I don’t know what possesses me, but a gleeful claw grips my stomach and I’m suddenly running down the street, backpack swinging from one shoulder and legs churning as I dash across the street and tumble into CVS.

I find my friend and we “casually” peruse the chip selection. Every other second, my heart gives a powerful throb, sending icy oxygen into my fingertips. I feel adrenaline in a very particular way: cold chest and fingers that are pumping and sending off sparks.

Suddenly he’s in the aisle that we’re in and we’re drifting towards each other with the slow momentum of planets caught in each other’s gravity. He’s grasping a box of Ferrero Rocher. I hate Ferrero Rocher. It’s too fancy, too chocolate-y.

I fix him with a highbeam smile, the kind I use when I’m being especially nice to bank tellers because I want them to like me. “Hey, you’re in my BLAHBLAH class, right? Tuesday mornings?”

He looks a little startled that I’m talking to him. “Yeah, I think so,” he says. His voice is slow, deep, soft.

“Cool,” I’m scrambling for words that are suddenly floating out of the open hatch in my head. “I’m Danny.”

“I’m Niall,” he answers, and the name is a lilt on his tongue.

“What’s your major?” I ask. He answers. “Oh, Ferrero Rocher, how fancy,” I say. He looks at the box in his hand.

“Yeah, I’m gonna eat the entire box.”

The conversation ends soon after that, but I feel electric.

Then, little pins start dropping in the map. As I make more friends, I notice the more mutual friends we have in common. I see him around more often. Then I find out that he and my roommate work together. I ask my roommate about him, and he says that Legally Blonde is straight. I’m crushed. But I don’t know if I fully believe him. He ends up being in the same club as me, which I find out when I finally end up going to a meeting for it and see him there.

I find out that he’s funnier than I am. Sardonic and cynical, but funnier. And smart. I find out that he’s quiet but quick.

The semester starts to wind down and the weather drops. It snows more. I’ve debated whether or not to say anything else to Legally Blonde—Niall—and his potential heterosexuality puts a wrench in my planning. Finally, we have our last class together.

I sit with my stomach in knots all class. All too soon, it’s over, and people start to dissipate. He’s walking out with Scary Mouth Girl. “What do I do?” I fret to my friends. “Go!” they say.

I start running through the swirling snow. “Hey!” I half-yell after him. He turns around. Scary Mouth turns around too.

“Um.”

He’s staring at me and I’m aware of everything, the snow catching on my hair and face, his dark eyebrows quirked upwards, the way my heart is forcing its way up my throat and lodging in my mouth.

Scary Mouth leaves us in the snow, going into the building we’re standing outside of, where their next class is.

“Um, do you want to hang out?” I ask around the heart in my mouth.

“Um, sure,” he answers, and some of the pressure in my chest leaks out.

“Cool. Cool. Do you like movies? Have you ever seen Sharknado?” WHY THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY THAT.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh. Yeah. Me neither.” WHAT.

He pulls out his phone and I get his number. “Um, I’ll text you. Bye.” He says bye, and we separate. I walk, hood down, to my next class, the snow collecting in my hair. I don’t know if I just asked him out. I don’t know what just happened. But it happened.

We make a plan to see a popular children’s movie two days from now. Thursday. In a panic, I invite six other people and throw everything together to make it seem more casual.

My fingers are sparking as he walks over to me and my friends. We walk to the movie theater. The conversation is stilted, mostly me jabbering and him answering. When I’m nervous, I talk more, and when people don’t talk, I make up for it. In the movie, I nudge him at the especially funny parts.

After the movie, I offer to walk him back to his dorm. He says that’s not necessary. I passive-aggressively insist. He asks me more questions when it’s just the two of us, but he’s still soft and quiet. If he were a fabric he would be velvet, and I would be sandpaper. Finally, we get to the entrance of his dorm.

“Maybe, we could do this again,” I offer. My throat constricts. “Just the two of us?”

He nods, his eyes flicking to the side of me. My throat constricts even tighter, a fucking python ringing around me, resting in the hollows of my clavicles.

The moment is painful, and—wait for it—I offer up my fist. “Bye.” He fist bumps me.

“Wait, we forgot to explode out,” and I make him fist bump me again. After he goes inside, everything starts to unravel and the icy static my brain was under melts and suddenly I’m remembering every fucking dumbass thing I just did in the last two hours.

My anxiety clamps onto my head, making me relive every moment in excruciating detail, and I begin to dissect every small moment until I’ve desecrated the altar of our hangout.

This story doesn’t have a really happy ending. The semester ends, and I have one of the hardest years of my life, battling depression. When I get back in the spring semester, I feel so embarrassed by our “date”—in my anxiety-warped brain—that I don’t even make an attempt to talk to Niall.

I doubt he reads this, so I feel like I can actually be truthful and not bite my words. I really fucked up. I don’t have a lot of regrets in my life because I think it’s pointless to replay the past, but I regret how I handled things with Niall. I don’t know what could’ve been if I had been able to say something.

Other things happened after that, things that fell solely on my shoulders, and our rope became more frayed. I think every connection starts out strong as a rope, but negative outcomes mangle the rope more and more. I don’t know if we even have a rope anymore, or if I can handle having a rope with him.

I don’t know what it is about romance that makes me weak. I can talk to anyone about anything. But I can’t ever garner the courage to take the leap. So take that leap.

There’s an awesome quote by writer Augusten Burroughs. “Just say, “Hi.” They may ignore you. Or you may marry them. And that possibility is worth that one word.” I think that’s something we should all carry with us. I’m always frozen by embarrassment. And if I had burned through the embarrassment, maybe Legally Blonde and I could be friends by now. Maybe our rope wouldn’t be as frayed.

Everyone has a rope. Don’t fray.

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?

Humor, Life

BRASH AMERICAN

I have been in the UK for almost three weeks and I still have no idea whether Brits hate Americans or love Americans. I keep getting conflicting reports. I met this guy at the gym and he was British and said that everyone would love me, but people keep looking at me with thinly veiled disgust like I’m a toddler screaming in an Italian restaurant. I also don’t think my inability to read the denominations of coins works in my favor. The other day, I just held out my wallet to the cashier and she picked out the correct change.

My frequent refrain is: “I am a dumb American.”

It works roughly 60% of the time.

There are two major things I have noticed about Londoners, and both relate to voice. Firstly, they whisper everything. I shout everything. I am an exclamation point next to their ellipses. Before I learned to adjust my volume, I was easily the loudest person in any given room at any given time. In the entire country. When I went to Copenhagen (I’M INTERNATIONAL, BITCH!) over the weekend, the title of loudest creature in England probably went to a literal elephant or something like that.

The other thing is accents. Obviously I am aware that there are different accents. But I wasn’t prepared to hear them full-time and for the first forty-eight hours, I swore that every British accent I heard sounded faked. Also, in comparison to the soft English roses and lilting accents, my voice is a nasally nightmare. It sits thickly in my mouth, flattening every vowel like a steamroller.

In the States, I am used to be slightly superior to everyone else. In England, I am essentially a Beverly Hillbilly.

I have a newfound appreciation for Americans. I love our bold, brusque and loud ways. I like that we’re too blunt and awkward and funny.

Also OMG SIDE BAR: I have had multiple British people warn me that British people have a much more sarcastic, cunning sense of humor, as if I have never come into contact with that and that everyone in America is still laughing at anvils falling on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

Granted, that’s still fucking funny, but we have progressed a little. Give us some comedic credit, Britain.

But I also like things in London. I like how the rain feels quainter here. Like, it’s still rain, but it’s British rain so it’s slightly more polite. And I love the mews. They’re these little cobblestone offshoots from roads with houses converted—I think—from old stables or garages. And I like how there are green spaces everywhere. It feels more fresh than New York, but it still has that buzz that I like.

I feel distinctly American as I walk the streets, and I wonder what people see. I’m mostly of European descent—Irish (is Irish European? Or UK-ian? What?) and German and Austrian—so do I look like I fit in? Or does the American eek out of me? I walk like an American, sturdy and clomping and not at all graceful. And as soon as I open my mouth, I get clocked because I bray like a donkey.

But I’ve had two separate occasions of people asking me for directions—wait, three!—and that must signify some level of looking like I fit in. The first one was a woman asking me for directions to Heathrow Airport—Piccadilly Line westward—and someone else asked me where a certain tube station was. Also someone asked me for directions to a building and I gave them to him before realizing that I didn’t actually know where the building was. So two out of three isn’t bad.

Once I was on the tube alone—also no one talks on the tube, it’s so weird—and I wondered if people thought I was a ~hip~ Brit boy. They probably just wondered why I don’t brush my hair.

I’m learning to soften my voice, but I found that I can work the “charming American” angle very infrequently and sometimes it really works and other times you get that weird British stare that’s all “This idiot dropped tea into Boston Harbor” and there’s nothing worse than that stare. Also British people do not get my throwaway weird off-brand humor. So it’s a learning curve for both of us.

I’m also really good at looking to the right for oncoming cars and saying that cars here drive on the “left” side instead of the “wrong” side, because I realize that that’s a tiny bit xenophobic-sounding.

Side bar: Zenonphobia—fear of Zenon, Girl of the Twenty-First Century?

There’s really nothing more to say other than that I’m really enjoying scones and clotted cream. Well done, England. Truly.

Humor, Life

THE DEFINITIVE RANKING OF TAYLOR SWIFT MUSIC VIDEOS, feat. THE INFAMOUS SHELBY

Sometimes when you’re writing blog posts, it can get a little tiring. And also, there’s only so much I can write about myself before I start to hate myself. So I’m changing the tempo, switching the beat, and doing a different kind of blog.

I’ve teamed up with one of my best friends to bring you the definitive ranking of Taylor Swift’s music videos. Acting as a guest editor, the lovely Shelby will be helping me to decide what’s hot and what’s not in the Taylor-verse.

Side bar, this is not a little of every Taylor Music video because I’m only one fucking person, you guys. I can’t do everything.

LET’S TAKE IT FROM THE TOP!

1). Shake It Off

Shelby: I remember where I was when this single dropped.
Danny: The perfect “Fuck You” without being a “fuck you.” The beginning of a new era of pop.

2). Teardrops On My Guitar

Danny: This will forever be one of the greatest songs of my childhood. But Drew is not
Shelby: Why is she lying in a bed with rhinestones on her face?

3). Blank Space

Danny: A+ story. A+ visuals. And a little voodoo realness for your pleasure.
Shelby: I am distracted by the cat.

4). Picture To Burn

Shelby: Remember when that “I’ll tell mine you’re gay” line was controversial.
Danny: Omg yeah. Also this is giving me Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats” realness.

5). Bad Blood

Danny: I’m only mad because this is not a full-length film. Although when they all clumped together at the VMAs, I was rolling my eyes a little.
Shelby: Too many ppl.

6). The Story of Us

Danny: I feel like I can see a glimmer of future feminist Taylor in this and I love it.
Shelby: Excellent use of a library.

7). Begin Again

Danny: I LOVE THIS. HER LIPS. HER HAIR. PARIS.
Shelby: The story and the plot aren’t matching up. But I like the color palette.

8). Love Story

Danny: I don’t hate this. Why don’t I hate this?
Shelby: Wait this boy is Miley’s ex? The underwear model?

9). Mean

Shelby: They ran too hard with the vaudeville theme.
Danny: I hate this but it’s like “a good message” for the “youth” so I like it.

THE MEH-DIUM

10). Back To December

Danny: Beautifully shot. Love the scarves. Scarfs? Scarves?
Shelby: But what REALLY happened between Taylor and Taylor?

11). You Belong With Me

Danny: I don’t even notice how cheesy this is. I’m lost in Lucas Till’s dimple. Don’t send help.
Shelby: Lucas Till = 2010 #baegoals. Fun fact: That shirt was really Taylor’s and so were the glasses. Those dance moves were also really Taylor’s.

12). We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

Danny: I like the song, I just wish she would chill a little bit.
Shelby: The whole band wishes they weren’t there.

OUCH.

13). 22

Shelby: This looks stupid. We get it Taylor, you’re quirky and you bake a lot. Your whole life is an Instagram photo op. We get it.
Danny: The “vintage” photo border is very Microsoft Word 2007.

14). Our Song

Danny: Why is she writing on the mirror? She’s just gonna have to Windex that later.
Shelby: This rose bed looks like a Faith Hill video.

15). Everything Has Changed

Danny: I hate it when they use kid actors to represent the singers? Idk why. I hate kids. I guess that’s why.
Shelby: What the fuck kind of class are they making cookies in?

16). White Horse

Danny: I hate close-ups of mouths. It’s disgusting.
Shelby: WAIT THIS IS CLEARLY JOE JONAS BC HE BROKE UP WITH HER ON THE PHONE.

17). Change

Danny: She looks very “hottest girl in your Bible study class” here.
Shelby: It’s literally just spliced footage of one performance.

18). Fifteen

Shelby: This looks like someone discovered iMovie and was like, “ALL the effects!”
Danny: It looks like she’s in a bad teen movie’s idea of heaven.

19). Style

Danny: Too “artsy.” This song by itself is okay, but I just can’t with the video.
Shelby: 9-1-1! Taylor is touching chests and she’s only wearing a nightgown. That’s only 1 LAYER OF CLOTHING between them.

20). Wildest Dreams

Danny: Scott Eastwood is the only reason this video is not last place. Too problematic, and that wig is unforgivable. But I like her as a brunette.
Shelby: Ooooh my God. I’m moist.

21). I Knew You Were Trouble

Danny: What the fuck is the storyline? You might need rehab.
Shelby: The only good part of this video is that it led to the goat meme.

Truly this is a list for the ages. I actually really enjoyed doing this. Special thanks to Shelby and her roommate Melanie for helping me out with this post! You ladies really murdered my vagina—in a good way! Thanks!

Humor, Life

LADY LOVE

“I just don’t think that ‘first love’ has to mean ‘only,’ you know?” I said to my friend. We were twelve, sitting on the camp bus. I was deciding to break up with my summer love, my first girlfriend, and I can’t even take this post seriously.

At twelve, I believed I had found true love. I was feeling the Seven Year Itch, about fourteen years early, and didn’t want to be trapped in a committed relationship. Again, I was twelve.

At twelve, I thought that the feeling of “needing to escape” and not be “caged in” were related to the “serious” relationship were in. I was a man who needed to be out on the prowl. Obviously, it took a few years for the reality to sink in. I wasn’t afraid of commitment, I was just into dudes.

But at twelve, in the flush of romance, I did not even think about boys. Much. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

My first girlfriend—my only girlfriend—was also my first (heterosexual) kiss at twelve years old. We had dated for two weeks before we kissed. It was in the camp mess hall, at the end of the day. It was our “two week anniversary present.” I told her to close her eyes, and I kissed her. I remember the warmth and softness of her lips and sinking into the well of prickling, pleasant emotions from being close to someone. I scurried away as her eyes opened and we went to our respective buses, which were next to each other.

“Did you like it?” I mouthed to her, separated by two windows and empty space. She nodded, and I remember how bright her blue eyes seemed, searing like stars into mine.

We dated for two months before eighth grade and two months the next summer before ninth grade. She was always pretty when we had dated, but she became beautiful after we broke up and both went through puberty; so whenever I show people her picture as a fun little, “look what I did in the closet!” trip down memory lane, they are very impressed.

I actually saw her recently. I was at the train station that serves as our local Amtrak station, going back to school from a break, when I walked past her and a male I’m assuming is her hot boyfriend. They were waiting for a southbound train that was delayed, and I was heading back up north.

I walked past her and only noticed her coiled up on the floor, long legs tucked underneath her, as I was on par with her. I felt my spine stiffen and wondered if I should stop. But what would that conversation be like? Let’s imagine, shall we?

*****

Me: Oh my god, Darcy?

Darcy: Danny?

Me: How are you? It’s been so long. You look amazing!

Darcy: Thanks! So do you. Um, this is my boyfriend.

Boyfriend: Hey, man, how are you doing?

Me: I’m doing well.

Darcy: Danny and I went to camp when we were youn—

Me: We dated when I was in the closet!

Boyfriend: What?

Me: What?

Darcy: What?

Me: Anyway, great seeing you!

*****

Like, I don’t really imagine it going amazingly. So I kept walking. Because I was unshaven, wearing a baseball cap, and roughly seven years older and a foot taller than when we had last spoken, Darcy didn’t recognize me.

I don’t think of Darcy often, but when I do, I wonder what she thinks of me. I’m incredibly narcissistic, so obviously my only thoughts are self-centered. I often wonder what made her decide to “date” me all those years ago. This was largely before I was gripped by crippling insecurities—LOL—so I was free and uninhibited. I know what made me fall for her; she was tall and beautiful and dorky—she loved horses—and we really got along.

In fact, we got matching military dog tags that said our “ship” name. But this was before “ships” were really a thing, because it was 2007 and we didn’t really have the same Internet culture—that I was aware of. I also can’t write out our actual ship name because that would give away her name—Darcy is my blog name for her—so I guess it would be “Darny” which is lame. Not that our actual ship name wasn’t lame. Anyway, the dog tags both said, “Darny forever,” and we wore them.

My dog tag is stuffed in a tin pushed into the far recesses of my closet—ironically enough—but every so often, when I’m cleaning out my closet, I open up the tin and look at it, along with other relics of my life, mainly a Polly Pocket—in a cloth dress I made—and some ceramic mice. I have led a weird life.

Depressingly enough, Darcy remains my longest relationship, but that’s less to do with my amazing looks and more to do with my self-sabotage and fear of commitment. And my personality. And my narcissism. But did I mention my amazing looks? I did? They’re amazing.

P.S. I tried to find a picture concurrent to the time I’m talking about, but just looking through my old Facebook pictures is making me want to lowkey snap my laptop in half. So I don’t think I will.

Life

LAST AMERICAN POST FOR A WHILE

I’m sitting in my bed. Soon I’ll be in the car. Then I’ll be at the airport. Then I’ll be on an airplane, over the vast Atlantic Ocean. Then I’ll be in London. It breaks down quite nicely.

As I’m typing this, I have this balloon in my chest and it’s half terror/half exhilaration, because I’m about to leave the comfort of my American bubble. And I can’t even fully wrap my head around it.

I’m so anxious, for so many reasons. I’m anxious that I’ll be anxious, that I’ll mess up such a great opportunity. I’m anxious that I’ll fail at cooking. I’m anxious that I won’t make any new friends and I’ll have to resort to being fake and non-authentic.

But I also know that the hardest times in my life have pushed me into being stronger. So that’s where the exhilaration comes in. because even though I’m shitting myself, I can’t imagine myself not coming out of the other side as a stronger, more independent person. And that’s really fucking cool.

I’m always so bad at taking leaps. I was the kid who had his toes curled over the edge of the diving board, and spent so much time looking down into the air. But my body sometimes overcomes my mind and forces me to jump.

So I’m jumping. I’m fucking LEAPING. And it’s scary but I have to remember that it’s okay to be scared shitless. And that these three months are a gift, and I have the power to take that gift in any way I want. I can do this, I can do this.

So send me all of your happy thoughts and good vibes, and I’ll send them back. And they’ll meet in the middle of the Atlantic and mingle and brush against each other and then go on their separate ways. Stronger, vibe-y, happier.

Oh my god, I’m about to do this, aren’t I?

Also, my posts for the next month (the Mondays and Thursdays) are all pre-written, but I’ll be uploading sporadically within those scheduled days with current content. So don’t worry, because you’ll have enough Danny for your pleasure.

I don’t want to end on a clerical note because that’s so lame. I have a bunch of songs that I’m gonna be playing on repeat, to make me strong and fierce and cool and wild. A lot of them are from drag queens. I’m not even sure anyone is surprised at this point. Okay. I think I’m done.

Thank you, I love you, stay perfect, you American flops. This American flop is about to fly across the ocean and see if he can show the British that Americans really are as trashy and perfect as our Real Housewives franchises portray us to be. You’re welcome, Obama.

WHAT A WAY TO END MY LAST AMERICAN POST FOR FOUR MONTHS. YOU’RE WELCOME OBAMA. YOU’RE WELCOME, CHER.

Life, Rambles

THE 2K15 VMSLAYS

I feel like I’ve been writing nonstop for the last three days, so this post is going to be a goddamn WALK IN THE PARK.

The VMAs were last night. I literally gagged on her eleganza when I saw on Tumblr that Violet Chachki—the winner of RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 7—was there, and she is now the background picture of my laptop. To pay homage to other idols of mine, my lock screen is Gigi Gorgeous and my home screen is my husband Nick Jonas. They’re all so beautiful I could die.

Later on, when Miley Cyrus performed with a coterie of drag queens—

Side bar, I love the word “coterie.”

—I kept pausing to scan the faces and find my favorite drag queens. Pearl was there. And I saw Willam Belli’s full-on asscheeks. It was such a moment for the whole community. AND the Happy Hippie campaign people introduced Miley, which makes Gigi’s presence there a lot more understandable, but also Brendan Jordan was there in a stunning off-the-shoulder top.

I really enjoyed the drag queens and the Happy Hippie people, but I felt like they were used as props a little bit by Miley. Her performance was weird as hell, and not in a good way. I almost would’ve preferred—actually, definitely—if the drag queens just performed by themselves. Like, they just acted as jumped-up backup dancers for her. They are titans of performance. The whole thing just seemed like a victory lap for Miley, who has been very problematic lately.

Before and during the release of the Bangerz album, which I loved, Miley amped up the sexuality and the nudity, but it seemed to have a purpose. She was making a statement about how we view women and how we view artists. She was pointing out the underlying misogyny in her industry. It all made sense, in a roundabout way.

But right now I don’t really know what Miley is doing. On Jimmy Kimmel, when he was blushing like a fourteen-year-old as she was only wearing a cape and pasties, she made the point that boobs were okay to show on television but the female nipples were something to be censored. It’s a really interesting point and shows how we still sexualize women’s bodies and take away their autonomy while also expecting them to police themselves so as to avoid stirring men’s lusts.

She’s smart and aware, but I can’t understand the dreadlocks. I don’t know the full history of dreadlocks, and I’m white, so I can’t speak fully about it, but it seems like cultural appropriation at its finest. And when Nicki called her out during her time at the mike—I died—Miley answered with a blasé tone about her.

And it goes right back to the Amandla Stenberg—Kylie Jenner situation. White women appropriating black culture are seen as “hip” and “on-trend,” but black women are penalized for utilizing the same aesthetics. And even as I’m googling Nicki’s name, all of the photos for the articles are Nicki growling, face contorted, at a ditzy, smiling Miley.

Black women who speak out, like Amandla and Nicki, are painted as the Angry Black Woman, which then allows media to brush them aside as “overreacting.” Even as I Googled Amandla’s name to find an appropriate article to link, there was an article about Amandla’s “feud” with Kylie Jenner. Amandla was pointing out Kylie’s cultural appropriation; she wasn’t slinging mud in the middle school playground. She is eloquent and aware, but classified as “feuding” and “angry” and a “jackhole,” according to Andy Cohen (who has since apologized, but it still happened).

I don’t know everything about Nicki and Miley and Taylor, but I feel like Miley is not understanding fundamental things about why Nicki Minaj might be upset. The reason Nicki lashed out at Miley is because Miley believed Nicki was wrong in the great Nicki-Taylor Twitter-feud, and was “Nicki should be more polite. It’s all about openness and love,” and that is so fucking frustrating because, I’m not black, but I can imagine that it must be frustrating to be a woman of color in the entertainment industry who is sexualized and demeaned and forced to watch as a white woman gathers laureates of praise continuously, when you’re both equally successful.

Miley’s answer betrays her privilege because she was born in a world where she was given the option of being nice and polite and open. Nicki had to fight for her place in the industry, and she’s allowed to be angry at the system that continually puts her down. Ugh, I don’t understand enough of this to really be eloquent but it just sucks and Miley is really annoying me right now.

This post wasn’t meant to be a rant about Miley Cyrus, so I’m going to change topics.

Because I’ve been stockpiling posts that will be scheduled to post for the first few weeks I’m in London, I’ve been writing a lot and it’s very emotionally draining. Firstly, it’s hard to think of things to write about because I’m always inside my house—so zero inspiration—and my life is not that interesting. But I’m trying to get the first month—ish—done so that I have regular content for Mondays and Thursdays and I can feel unencumbered to write about London when I want, without scrambling for a full-fleshed post.

tumblr_m24p4ovuQJ1qc487lo2_4001

Also I have been saving this gif for three days because it very much describes my life right now. Also because Diane Keaton!

That is all—omg, Meryl Streep.

Humor, Life

SISTERS, NOT TWINS

I just plucked my eyebrows and as per usual, I don’t know if I’ve done well or made a horrible mistake. I just kept repeating to myself in front of the mirror, “They’re sisters, not twins. Sisters, not twins.” So hopefully my eyebrows end up being Kendall and Kylie, rather than Jan and Marcia.

I’m officially twenty now, and I say “officially” because for the last month before my birthday I always lie about my age. It’s not a vanity thing; it’s just easier to say, “I’m twenty” rather than “I’m nineteen but I’m not a new nineteen, I’m an old nineteen because I’m about to be twenty, if you get my drift.”

I also went to the dentist this morning, so my teeth ache. I have no cavities, but my dentist really goes to town with the scraper, and now my teeth feel like they’ve been stripped of a layer. Also, the idea of “teeth” is kind of weird. Like, you have these parts of your skeleton that stick out of a hole in your head, fall out, then grow back stronger. It’s very “Alien v. Predator.”

I had a Skype interview with a potential internship this morning, so obviously from the waist up, I was casual-cute, and from the waist down, I was in the gym shorts I’ve been sleeping in all week. It ended up that I didn’t even need to wear clothes because it ended up being an interview sans video, but I wanted to check the lighting of my room before the interview, so I opened up the Photo Booth on my Mac and took a photo. This is that photo.

As per usual, I look manic.

But then I scrolled through the photos that I’ve taken in the Photo Booth, and there’s not a lot. But one of the first photos was this gem:

Is this fedora a fedo or fedon’t?

And all I can say is that I’m sorry and I understand that this is painful for everyone to look at. I don’t know the exact age I was when this was taken, but I’m going to hazard a guess and say that I was probably around fourteen or fifteen. There are probably a number of questions you have for me, so I’ll just go ahead and answer before you even say it. Yeah, I’m that good at anticipating other people’s needs.

Yes, I still have that fedora.

Yes, I thought I looked good.

No, I did not get any dates that year.

Sometimes I just look at old photos of myself and it makes me want to rock back and forth and say, “I’m not that person anymore. I have blossomed,” because that kid was wannabe-scene and wore AVIATORS. I’m sorry, but he didn’t understand that WAYFARERS SUIT HIS BONE STRUCTURE MUCH BETTER. I can’t. I’m too emotional. I can’t do it.

I would write more but I honestly forgot that A) it was almost six o’clock, B) it was Thursday, and C) that I was human. Also my mouth feels really weird still from the dentist and I have Part 2 of the Real Housewives of New York City Reunion to watch. And my sister says I don’t have anything going on in my life!

P.S. I’ve realized that I’ll want to have some posts waiting in the wings for when I’m getting settled in London, but fuck all if I’ve started writing those things. So text me if you have any post inspirations or ideas for me. Thanks.

The Wunderkindof

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

Category Archives: Life

ARE YOU BRITISH? LET’S BE FRIENDS

“NEVER TOO OLD FOR ONE DIRECTION” IS WHAT I KEEP TELLING MYSELF

FERRERO ROCHER

MUSTACHES

BRASH AMERICAN

THE DEFINITIVE RANKING OF TAYLOR SWIFT MUSIC VIDEOS, feat. THE INFAMOUS SHELBY

LADY LOVE

LAST AMERICAN POST FOR A WHILE

THE 2K15 VMSLAYS

SISTERS, NOT TWINS