Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up feeling dead, go back to sleep, and then finally feel like you can cope with humanity? Yeah, me neither. Today I feel awful, and my sweatpants prove it.
Don’t get me wrong—I love wearing sweatpants. As soon as I get home after class, the jeans come off and the sweatpants come on. But whenever I wear sweatpants outside, know that it’s a cry for help. I wore sweatpants today. And even the cool ~edgy~ snapback and chic new sunglasses couldn’t make up for it. Also I wore fuzzy socks. I’m unclear as to if that’s a cry for help or a victory. Maybe only time can tell.
I rarely have days where I completely surrender, but I think that they’re healthy sometimes. Like, some days, all you can do is heat up last night’s spaghetti, curl up under your blankets, and watch TV Land. No, I’m not making that up. Yes, that is what I did today. I watched this show, Teachers, where they said that “mimosas where a way for you to justify drinking in the morning.” They said this to schoolchildren. It is very much a show that I connect with.
Ugh, do you ever have times where you don’t have any original stories? That’s me. I mean, I have stuff that I could write about, but that would be putting my personal life on blast, which, until I write my tell-all memoir, If The Police Ask You Anything, Claim Plausible Deniability: A Tell-All Memoir, isn’t something I’m comfortable doing. I’m not at the point yet where I have enough friends to torch certain relationships for clicks and shares. Close, but not yet.
Lol I’m just trying to fill space. I reblogged a Tumblr post that I’m gonna try to include that was SO true about LOL. Hold on. Also, while we wait, consider how odd it is that “lol” is fun and flirty, but “LOL” is mom-ish and serial killer-y.
Okay, I’m done. Not done with you, but done with this post. I’ll be better on Tuesday. Maybe something ~crazy~ will have happened to me by then, that I can cannibalize and put into a succinct, hilarious post. Yet again, my main goal in life is utilizing my life for clickbait.
I didn’t blog this week, and I feel its absence like a physical itch in the back of my head. I don’t think I realized how much I liked having that outlet; I would see something in the news, or think of something funny, and immediately think, “Oh, that would be a good post,” or “I should write that down.” But I forced myself to take a break, which was probably the best thing because now I’m ready to get back into blogging.
Spring break is over, and all of a sudden, the end of the semester seems impossibly close. It’s not fair—I just got back, and now it’s halfway done. When did I become the kind of nerd who wants more school? Or maybe I’m a self-preservationist who knows that after this semester, I only have a year left of being a literal child. It’s so weird—I bought pants (J.Crew) over the break and it struck me that I’ll probably have these pants well into my first working years. EWWWW.
Total side bar—I’m on the train coming back to school, and I’m using LTE because Amtrak Wi-Fi is a joke but the little “Are you sure you want to use up your data?” asshole pop-up keeps appearing every time I switch songs on Spotify. So, out of desperation, I decided to join the Amtrak Wi-Fi because I’m not really using data anyway. And now it’s taking forever to connect. Like, are you serious? You been begging me to use you and when I decided to throw you a bone, you’re slow?? Explain.
I’ve been watching a lot of YouTube tours of “tiny houses”—it’s more common than you might assume—and I’ve been really into this one particular channel—Nelson Tiny House. And I’m so over technology that I can’t even explain how appealing the daydream is of giving up everything, heading to British Columbia, and build some tiny f*cking houses. I could grow a beard, wear those cargo pants with the zip-away conversion to shorts, and use a—gulp—flip-phone.
What have I been doing this week? I watched some TV, and I read a book, and I edited articles, and I saw ppl I love, and some ppl I h8.
I’ve been in a very distinct music groove right now, very clean, a little Phoenix-inspired and an organic, early pop sound. I finally downloaded Carly Rae Jepsen’s Emotion album (I don’t know how to do the little dots to separate it like on the album, so I won’t) and that, combined with Foxes’s new album All I Need, Sia’s This Is Acting, and this new band that I’m very into, Cruisr—which gives me major Phoenix vibes, which is what I listened to when I was, like, fifteen and living for pop—has made me have the feels. That’s what I love most about music—it really affects me. It sinks into me and really shapes my mindset. So right now I’m feel a little early ‘00s hopeful and shiny, if that makes sense.
Also did you know that Elle King’s dad is Rob Schneider?? That’s completely unrelated to what I was talking about, but “America’s Sweetheart” was next on my Spotify and I remembered that I had looked her up and found that out. Kinda crazy, right? Definitely did not expect Elle King, who is so grungy and hot and cool, to have a dad like Rob Schneider. Fun!
I’m over Halsey at the moment. I was into her in the summer, but I’ve overplayed her music, and I’m not connecting with some of her album, so I’m gonna take a break from her. I hope she understands. I always do that with music. I play it ragged and then I toss it aside. Or I’m so impatient that I’ll skip through songs I like because I’m positive that there’s one song that perfectly fits my current mood if I could just find it.
Two questions:
One: Why did Snapchat change its font? I first read about it through an article, because I do not check Snapchat regularly, but then I did and I hate it. I shouldn’t have as extreme a reaction to it as I do, but here we are and there it is.
Two: Should I be watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta? I currently don’t, but I watch Beverly Hills and Potomac—idk, don’t ask me why—and when OC and New York come back, I’ll add those to the roster too. When did I become the kind of gay who watches four different versions of the Real Housewives? Anyway, Atlanta seems like it’s interesting, but I wonder if I’m too far gone already. Like, is it a waste to start now? Is the drama good now, or is there a backstory I’ll need to know to be interested? Like, I could never have started watching Beverly Hills this season if I didn’t know last season’s history, because this season is boring and no one has smashed a wine glass in a restaurant (yet).
Does anyone remember when Aviva Drescher threw her prosthetic leg across the table at Sonja Morgan’s “Team Sonja” party on RHONY? Even typing that out makes it seem fake, but that was so real.
Oh, there’s gonna be a Real Housewives of Dallas! Who wants to bet that someone will say, “Everything’s always bigger in Texas,” at least once every episode, and at least one Housewife will have some variation on “The higher the hair, the closer to God,” in her tagline? Anyone?
I’m on the train, and I’m afraid to check, but I think we still have more than an hour and a half left. So I’m literally just writing down anything that comes to my head. It’s a way of essentially writing Tweets without wasting data.
Would you rather have a ghost haunting your house or a human person stalker? There are obviously pros and cons to each, so I won’t rush you to any sort of decision right now. Get back to me. I think I would rather have a human stalker. At least he can be arrested. I’m not sure how I would get rid of a ghost, without having to find a medium, and who has séance-money these days? We’re coming out of a recession.
Side bar: do you ever get so bored of a song that you check and see that it’s only halfway through, and all you can think is, “What else could you possibly sing? I feel like you’re done?”
I really like reading reviews of TV shows. Before, I was like, “Ew why is this a thing?” but now it’s one of my favorite things to do. I follow a blogger who writes the most sickening reviews of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and even though some of her other stuff makes me cringe because she’s mean, I kind of adore her reviews. I think it’s fun because you get to see what other people think—it’s entering into a tacit dialogue.
Should I do more reviews of TV shows? Chic or not chic? I understand that it could be polarizing, but surprisingly my review of the Kocktails with Khloe premiere was one of my more popular posts. I’ve obviously since given up on Kocktails—as has most of America, I’m assuming—but there are other shows I could do.
Imagine this: I love this show called The People’s Couch. It features five-or-so “couches” (families or friends) who watch the most recent episodes of popular shows. It sounds so f*ckingboring, but the couches are so funny and it’s cool to see someone reacting to shows that you might not see otherwise. What if I did a review of that show? It would be a blog review of a show where people review and watch shows. Too meta? Probably.
I need to stop writing this ramble of a post, but I just have one more thing to say.
I find Daylight Savings so weird. The days were going to get longer again anyway, because, like, nature, so I just find it peculiar that the government decides to give Nature a little helpful shove by turning up the clocks. Or turning back the clocks? I can never get it straight. I think it’s turning up—heyoooo—so don’t bug me about it. I could do a full rant about Daylight Savings Time—am I even writing it correctly?—but I’ll spare you. Send your gratitude by way of some crisp twenty dollar bills; there are some shoes I want to buy.
Whew! It feels good to be back. I know that you missed me. We should get together sometime! You want to pick the date later? Okay, that’s fine. Just text me.
I realized, looking through the last few posts of my blog, that I’ve done a lot of promo for other people. And if you know me, you know that I like attention. So instead of giving more blog-space to any of those wannabes, I figured you could use some catch-up on the haute-dog of my life. Because I’m the real queen bee.
Today I woke up before 10:30 in the morning, and as such, I am exhausted and it’s only 7:30 p.m. My sleep schedule has become so erratic that the Courts are considering taking me out of its custody. There, I did a bad joke. See? I’m so reliable. I went to meet people at the gym at 9:15, rolled in at a hard 9:20 and realized that no one was there and I had gotten up for nothing. I did fifteen minutes each on two different types of elliptical machines before chatting for twenty minutes with my friend Thea while she exercised and I lounged on the machine.
All in all, I was at the gym for almost two hours, and did approximately 35 minutes of cardio in that time. I think that’s an improvement. My ratio is getting much better.
My family was over this weekend, which meant that my sisters nosily poked around my stuff and noisily made comments about the décor and size of my apartment. I decided to order two tapestries off Amazon—I lied before—and some of that colorful washi tape to get all DIY. I’m thinking of putting “FUCK OFF” in washi tape over my toilet. Also how many washi tape demonic pentagrams is too many washi tape demonic pentagrams for a space? I feel like, just in case I’m not in good with God, I might try to hedge my bets and get in Satan’s good graces too. My mom told me it’s never bad to be over prepared. She wasn’t speaking specifically about devil worship, but I’d like to think that her sentiments still apply.
These last four days have been a whirlwind of weather. The weekend was into the double-digit negatives, then it snowed yesterday, and today it was 45 degrees and rainy. My body doesn’t know how to cope, and my wardrobe is suffering. There is only a limited number of times I can wear L.L.Bean boots before the Lumberati—the outdoorsy cousins to the Illuminati—convert me to a full-time heterosexual. Lately I’ve taken to putting a picture of Lady Gaga in a locket and wearing it close to my heart. Wearing lockets is very gay, so I think at the very least, the two extremes will balance me into a mellow bisexual.
I’ve already tweeted about this (follow me on Twitter, you peasants), but I downloaded Tidal. I didn’t really mean to, and I don’t really actually know how it happened. I heard, through the Tumblr grapevine, that Beyonce was releasing her song for free. I Googled it, followed a trail of links and somehow tumbled down the rabbit-hole. Suddenly, I had the Tidal app on my phone. I got the Beyonce song and 90 days of free Tidal, but I worry. I worry that, somehow, since Tidal now has access to my Facebook, that they now have access to my entire life. It’s only a matter of time before they trap my soul using old profile photos and some serious Picture of Dorian Gray-voodoo magic.
I’ve listened to Kanye’s new album, and I like it, but I don’t know if it’s worthy of his accolades. Also, accolades tend to not mean anything when you give them to yourself. It’s like being valedictorian of your home-school; it doesn’t really count. Also I’m not sure if you guys are following him on Twitter, but he’s saying some crazy stuff. Treat yourself.
Somehow I’ve slipped into the pop culture promo, so I’ll stop. I’ve started writing for The Odyssey Online again, so click here for a link to my author page. Y’all, I’m like famous.
Side bar: my last few articles for the Wunderkindof were more like “legit” so I couldn’t use wacky gifs, so I’m making a promise to myself that when I format this post (I write in Word, not online, if you cared at all) I’ll use ~~wACkY~~ gifs.
So I didn’t write a second blog post on Sunday (my typical writing day) and I was really busy today, and also I’m a rag. A complete and utter rag—wrung clean of ideas.
So I guess instead of not posting, and missing out and being old and bitter and full of regret, I would just post a little smidge.
I find gum really weird. Like, who thought of making a non-edible, tacky, plastic-y material that makes your breath smell good? It’s the same reason why I think that cologne is weird: who smelled something and then went, “I’m gonna rub this on my body.”
Valentine’s Day is coming, and I’m FULL OF LOVE but mostly for John Krasinski and Texas Toast, so I’m really excited to celebrate in my own way—binging on pictures of John and eating a lot of toast.
Omg I literally have no ideas. Omg. The other day someone asked me how I always have material for blog posts, and I answered: “Um cause I’m always living,” so apparently I must be a ghost today because I have nothing.
I’ve really been enjoying this gif and have been using it in multiple instances.
Also I got a haircut today—“Why?” my mom asked; and I responded with “MIND YA BUSINESS” (No, that’s not true)—and my hairdresser complimented my boldness on wearing a light-wash denim, and we promptly discussed New York City and Beyoncé in the Super Bowl Halftime Show. It was probably the most meaningful conversation I’ve had all week.
Also I made the most epic lunch today. Usually I sleep so late that I brunch it out and make eggs, but today I had breakfast, then class, then the gym, and then I had a decent chunk of time before my next thing, and I was hungry, so I really went all out. I did a toasted ham-and-chorizo sandwich and as a side (i.e. another entrée) sautéed kale and peppers with a fried egg. I was so full and it was so good.
It was one of those lunches where you’re like “Omg” like Rachael Ray when she eats a total bitchin’ brunch on $40 A Day. That kind of exaggerated, “OMG STOP FOOD IS SO GOOD” face.
Wow okay I need to be done. I need to watch a movie. Or more realistically, YouTube videos. Bye.
The title isn’t rhetorical or one of those self-help ads. I don’t have an answer, and I would really like someone to give me one. But I feel like it’s one of those annoying things where I have to “discover” my “answer” for myself. Just once I wish the hard questions in life, the ones that actually mattered, were the ones that I could copy someone’s answer. We live in a cruel world where I can cheat on a test—which I’ve only done once when I didn’t know the last kind of “volcano” in seventh grade—but no one can tell me how to find inner peace.
I feel like I could laugh from how tightly wound I am. There must be something animalistic about it, the desire to let out some sort of loud howl—disguised as a laugh—when everything seems like a big ole bag of shit.
I also wish that I were stressed with big things. But instead it’s like a sandstorm; small, separately inconsequential nuisances that together can bury a car under a dune, or, more importantly, get in your mouth and you can’t really get rid of it. But it’s just been little things: I sent a paper to the wrong printer, and ended up late for a class that I’m always late for, and it’s beginning to get less charming when I walk in after the start. My buzzcut has stopped being G.I. Jane and started being G.I. Plain—nothing good rhymes with “Joe” so we all make sacrifices. I had to buy a domain. And then I had to cancel it. And then I had to buy another one. And cancel that one. And then buy a third one, and finally that stuck.
And then just a bunch of other little things that, added together, make me want to do that charming and cute thing of punching a wall. Also the hallway outside of my apartment smells like cheese. And not in a good way. Or in a Gouda way. Am I right??
Maybe I’ll start meditation. I always try to say that I’ll start meditation, and then I do two minutes and think of something funny on YouTube, or I’ll get a text, or I’ll want to Tweet about meditating and all of a sudden my focus is broken and it’s twenty minutes of blue screens.
And I don’t like being stressed. I know that’s a total duh but for me it’s particularly negative. I find it so hard to write and be creative and focus when I’m stressed, and since that’s, like, ninety percent of what I do as a student and a writer and since I’m God’s gift to the world—very Kanye West of me (speaking of which, have you been following the Kanye-Wiz-Amber feud? So fascinating. I’m on Amber’s side.)—when my work suffers, the entire world suffers.
And since I live alone, I don’t really have anyone to vent to at the moment when I’m feeling super stressed, and stressed-out Danny tends to be withdrawn Danny, or “tries to trip others” Danny, and that’s gonna land me in a whole heap of trouble on top of everything else.
So I guess what I’m saying is…any tips? Stress is hard, and I feel like it’s one of those things that we dismiss or try to minimize, like it’s such a little problem to have that we almost feel guilty admitting that we have it. But it’s big and weighty and it affects how you act and treat people.
Lastly, I don’t think I can stick behind Kocktails with Khloe any longer. I’ve made it through fifteen minutes of episode two, and it’s so painful that I’m jabbing fingers into my eyes because even that’s less awful.
Maybe I should start snapping pencils as a way of release. Somehow that seems like the most depressing option, even more than binge-eating Oreos, which is what I’m on the road to doing.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
This will be short because it’s a holiday and everyone’s in a food-coma by now anyway. For me, this is technically Black Friday (after midnight) but actually Black Friday now starts at, like, 3 pm on Thursday, so Lorde knows!
I did a Friendsgiving with my flatmates and it was super cute! I was a little bit disconnected because of stressors about travel that are a little anxiety-inducing, but our Friendsgiving was actually super nice and profesh. We had a rotisserie chicken because even the idea of cooking a full turkey makes my heart hurt. We had delicious sides and good wine and good laughs (courtesy of me).
And I made everyone go around the table and say a) What they’re thankful for and b) What they’re looking forward to in the coming year. I know that the latter is definitely more of a New Year’s Eve thing, but I decided to forge ahead like the pioneer I am.
And being allergic to authenticity, I said that I was thankful for my friends, my family, and the E! Network for bringing me the Kardashians. Which is true.
But I’m also thankful for a lot more. I’m thankful for my parents who love and support me even though I’m the midnight sheep of the family (it’s a deeper shade of black). I’m thankful for my sisters because they’re as psychotic and emotionally manipulative as I am, which reaffirms my belief that I’m not a complete serial killer in the making. I’m thankful for skinny jeans. I’m thankful for my role models who—from writing to being a good human to comedy—make me strive to be better.
I’m thankful for my mental health. I discussed a lot with my boss and coworker today, and I realized how far I’ve come in the last year. Mental clarity isn’t something I take lightly, and I’m in a good enough place now to realize that I have such a good life. and it’s beautiful and painful and chaotic, but it’s immensely gratifying and satisfying. So I’m thankful for the last year, which has shown me the vigor of life.
I’m thankful for my blog, for allowing me to exorcise all my crazy, all my love, all my hurt, all my funny, and let it exist on the digital ether forever.
I’m thankful for boys with cute butts. I’m thankful for queer icons like Laverne Cox and Janet Mock and Caitlyn Jenner and Ross Mathews and countless others who inspire me to be my best every day and educate others. I’m thankful for WiFi. I’m thankful for the chance to live in London. I’m thankful for having a beautifully bonkers friend group and collegiate home-away-from-home waiting for me when I get back from London. I’m thankful for my dog, who reminds me that I’m just human garbage and he owns me.
And I’m thankful for you. Oops, no, not you. Behind you? The guy with the scruff? You’re so cute! Are you single? What’s your inheritance like? No older brothers? Nice. Only child?! Even better. Cool. I’m Danny. Let’s talk. You’re cute. Haha you’re funny. Omg stop!
Oops, got off track. And I’m thankful for you, reader. For coming back post and post and indulging in my crazy, but I don’t know/can’t decide/don’t want to know if it’s because you identify with me, you think I’m The Voice of Our Generation, or it’s one of those “Can’t look away from this trainwreck” situations where you’re afraid something really juicy is gonna happen and you don’t want to miss it.
Regardless, I’m thankful for your loyalty, your pageviews, and your (ahem) promotion of my blog, my Twitter, and my Instagram! Follow @thedanosaurus across all social media!
Thank you Oprah for giving me this life. Thank you Khloé Kardashian for creating the earth in seven days. Thank you Nick Jonas for your butt. Thank you, the Dalai Lama. I haven’t met you, but you seem chic.
Peace, love, and turkey meat!*
*But not the dark meat. Because who eats the dark meat?
Do you ever have one of those days where your head is in a fog and you can’t seem to step above it? That’s me. I woke up with a clogged, runny nose and a cottony head. I decided to wear a cute gray, distressed sweatshirt and jeans to work because I wanted to be as close to pajamas as possible, but I put a button-down underneath the sweater to take it to workplace appropriate. No one noticed. No one cared.
The first thing I think of when I have a head cold is a story a teacher told me in high school. He had a penchant for tangents, and this particular one was about as tangential as you could get. He told us about—decades earlier—when his wife was pregnant and had a head cold, they went to this Eastern European holistic doctor. The doctor swirled a Q-tip in cocaine—I might be remembering this wrong—and swished it around the wife’s nostrils. Then, he took a metal rod, shoved it up her nostril, and cracked it against the top of her nose. I guess the mucus collects there in a head cold, and that got rid of it. I have literally no idea if this story happened, or if I’m even telling this story correctly.
Side bar: this teacher had a hot son who went to school with us. That’s not really necessary, but I wanted you all to know.
So armed with that tertiary knowledge, I…I didn’t really change any of my habits. I didn’t snort cocaine or shove things up my nose except vast amounts of toilet paper because I’m too poor for Kleenex. And I popped a decongestant, a painkiller, and a mucus thinner in a Holy Trinity Hail Mary in order to knock this bitch out of my system.
I’ve been ill more times in the span of three months in England then I’ve been in two years in America. I’m not saying that England is making me ill. I’m just saying England is slowly killing me by mucus overload.
*****
I bought Adele’s new album. First, I was disappointed that it wasn’t on Spotify. Second, I decided I would download it illegally. Then I decided to support my R&B pop goddess and I bought the album. Rather, I bought the album with my mom’s credit card. But still, I supported the artist. And 25 will be my theme-music for the fake television show in my head for approximately the next week. All I need is an Adele Christmas album to really make 2015 end in a win. We could call it Jingle Adeles or We Wish You Adele-y Christmas.
*****
I watched The Way We Were because I’ve been watching Sex and the City and the season two finale ends in essentially an homage to The Way We Were. And I really enjoyed it, and not just in a “I have to enjoy this because it’s a cinematic classic” way, like the way I liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Omg, Breakfast at Tiffany’s stans, you better not come for me. But The Way We Were was great because a) Barbra Streisand’s nails are fabulous and her acting is superb, b) Robert Redford is a total babe, and c) it doesn’t end in necessarily the contrived “boy and girl end up together happily ever after” way. It ends beautifully and more realistically, and it also allows for a female lead to not have her ending dependent on happiness with a male lead.
*****
Alright, I think I’m gonna go make tea and watch more Sex and the City. I don’t even really enjoy it that much. I don’t know why I can’t stop watching it. What’s happening? Is this Stockholm syndrome? Am I okay? Send help if I don’t Tweet within 12 hours.
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 40th 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)
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.
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.
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.
Do you ever have one of those days where your head is in a fog and you can’t seem to step above it? That’s me. I woke up with a clogged, runny nose and a cottony head. I decided to wear a cute gray, distressed sweatshirt and jeans to work because I wanted to be as close to pajamas as possible, but I put a button-down underneath the sweater to take it to workplace appropriate. No one noticed. No one cared.
The Wunderkindof 