Life, Rambles

YOU’RE BAD AT PICKING PEOPLE

You have a crush on someone. You fantasize about the way they say your name, the way it lingers on their lips and the curve of their tongue. You think of silly ways to bump into them. You count the moments you spend together. Every word is a story; every pause is a space to drop your coat and bask in them.

You create a version of them that is so complete and full that it’s impossible to realize that it’s not them until you are confronted with two people with mirrored faces.

And then small reasons crop up. They’re too good-looking. They’re too good. They’re too nosy. They eat in a weird way. You stop yourself from leaping. You retreat. You pick people that you don’t have to leap for.

You pick people that come with instruction manuals and lists of reasons why they can’t love you. They’re tens and you’re sevens, and you’re bad at math. It’s a fraction that won’t balance. It’s them too smart and you too dumb. It’s them too goody and you too damaged. It’s them fractious and you whole. It’s a litany. It’s a memoir of reasons and buts and if only and when and then you’re alone in your room and you’re breathing a sigh of relief for having avoided the chasm and that deep descent.

You pick people who have reasons baked into them, so that when it falls apart and they can’t commit and you can’t leap, you are able to validate what you felt all along. You are not enough. You are not good enough at math to bridge that gap. Sevens are prime; they cannot fit with anything. They are the lowest. Tens are whole and bendy and bouncy. Sevens are prickly. Sevens are unlovable. Sevens are sharp.

You pick people that are mountains, and you try to scale them in flip-flops. You set yourself up to fail, and when you’re lying at the bottom of the mountain nursing the bloody smiley scrapes on your arms, you bask in the pain. You bask in the safe comfort of knowing that you are fractious. That you are a bomb with no pin.

I have no answer. I don’t know why we—me—pick people that come with bibles of reasons. Holy, unanswerable, unmovable reasons. I don’t know why we are programmed to self-destruct. I’m sure if I had a few hours on a couch in the click of a therapist, I could figure it out. I don’t know why we crave dysfunction, pain, negative validation. I don’t know why we—me—crave the inverse, crave the dark, crave the fall. But I know that there is something satisfying in the fall. In the pain. It is finite. It is common. It is known. It ends and it begins in cycle, but it ends. For a while.

You need to pick people who don’t come with reasons. Who are void of self-destruction manuals. Pick people that are grossly ready for you. Pick people who are unassuming and prime numbers. Pick tens who are grounded. Fuck math. Math never got you anywhere. Leap into primes and fractions and fuck everything and everyone that tells you that some things will never add up.

But you need to stop trying to scale mountains in flip-flops. Because you’re better than the fall. You’re better than blood and scrapes. You need to believe that. Because until you do, you’ll be stuck picking defective relationships. You’ll be stuck in a cycle of negative validation, swirling until you’re too fucked up to function.

Pick people that smile at you slipping. Pick people that make you feel comfortable enough to eat in front of. Pick people who don’t make you collect words in your mouth like marbles. Pick people that make the words fall out onto sun-warmed stone. Be sun-warmed stone. Be soft. Be mutable. Be fluid. Pick yourself up. Pick yourself flowers. Pick yourself.

Stop picking pain over pleasure. Stop picking the finite of your own fucked-up-ness. Stop stopping yourself. Leap. Fly. Fall. But do it for someone who has the capacity to leap too. I don’t know how to see that person. I’m fucked up. But I can hope that one day I won’t see the reasons not and start seeing the green lights. I can hope that one day we can figure it out and not wish for the fall and the pain.

That’s the hope.

Standard
Life, Rambles

SPOOKY SPOOKY

So technically it’s past midnight here in the UK, which means I’ll be posting this on a Tuesday technically but the majority of my audience is American so really I didn’t miss anything and you’re welcome.

Today was a bit of an odd day. I woke up at eleven, wrote an exam paper, ate chicken nuggets and then watched Halloweentown. I also changed the background on my laptop. And along the way, I discovered myself.

Screen Shot 2015-10-12 at 2.30.22 PM

Just kidding, but I did realize these things.

1). Halloweentown has a number of alarming plot holes that I didn’t realize as a twelve-year-old.

2). I wish I were a kid again and not overanalyze old Halloween movies.

3). I am incapable of being cute in front of cute boys.

4). I can’t wall-twerk. But I guess I could figured that out on my own.

Okay, end of blog.

Just kidding, I’m going to explain. First, why did Agatha not put the sorcery orb thing into the pumpkin first? Also why if Marnie didn’t become a witch, does that mean that she would live only to like 80 years old, unlike her grandmother who is like 1000? How old is Marnie’s mom? Is Sophie possessed by the devil? Why is it a goddamn bus that takes the people from Earth to Halloweentown? Are there other Halloweentowns? Is it a full world? WHY DID THEY REPLACE MARNIE WITH SARA PAXTON? NEVER FORGET.

As a twenty-year-old watching Halloweentown on a Monday night while eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton with a large tablespoon, I guess I wasn’t as mesmerized as its target audience: twelve-year-olds. But I wish I was as easily entertained as I once was. I want to relive Halloweentown and not immediately think, “Hallowieners.”

I was writing my exam paper in the school library, so after writing 1000 words, I decided to reward myself with some tea. While I was leaving, my new friend—hmm—Jess told me that there was free pizza in the lounge. I shoved her out of my way and stormed up the stairs.

One hand holding my tea, I unhinged my jaw and stuffed two slices of pizza into my mouth. I decided to go back to the library, so I walked slowly down the stairs and ate my pizza. However, I wasn’t done when I got back to the library, so I hovered outside for a second gnawing on my food before eating enough of the pizza to kind of hide it behind my phone. I have the iPhone 6.

Once past the librarians, I stuff the pizza back into my mouth, one hand holding tea and the other hand holding my phone. Just as I cram the pizza into my fat slob mouth, I walk past a really cute boy. Let’s call him Patagonia. He is very white.

“Hi,” Patagonia does that almost silent hi.

I grunt around the pizza in my mouth a word that was supposed to be “Hi” but really ended up sounding like “Gugghsh” like a seal gulping down a fish at the aquarium.

Screen Shot 2015-10-13 at 12.21.17 AM

Like, there are days when I shower and shave and pick out an outfit and comb my hair—okay, that part is a lie, I don’t comb my hair—and wash my face. I never see cuties on days like that. No, it’s days when I haven’t showered for 36 hours or shaved in four days, and am wearing a Beyonce lyric sweatshirt and a beanie and have pizza sticking out of my mouth that I run into anyone remotely hot.

Lastly, I twerked against the wall to the Halloweentown ending credits. I’m not proud, but I’m also not not proud. It took me SO long to figure out how to get you guys the video, so hopefully the link below works! And werks! And twerks! And I’ll stop now.

[Twerking to Halloweentown]

Finally, like Norman Rockwell always used to say, “I really want a hot dog right now.”

Lol this post isn’t great. But who cares. It’s free content, fuckers.

BYE! HAPPY HALLOWIENERS!!

Standard
Rambles

THIS IS NOT FAMILY-SIZED

The other day I was in Tesco Express (it’s like 7-Eleven but with more food and less homeless people outside) and I saw a bag of Maltesers. They’re like Whoppers—a.k.a. malted milk balls—but Maltesers is the British version. Anyway, I grabbed the bag, and after it was in my clawed grip, I saw the smaller, more traditional box version.

I look at the box. I look at the bag in my hand. I look at the box. I keep the bag.

Later on, after I have ripped open the bag with the grace of a lioness tearing into a deer carcass, I noticed writing along the tear. Mouth full of Maltesers, I put the two flaps back together and read the words:

More to share!

And hey, Maltesers, let’s stop with the fucking Judgment Train. We both know that the people buying your hefty size of Maltesers are not going to “share.”

Ripped apart like my dreams.

Ripped apart like my dreams.

I resent the implication that by buying the larger size, I will be sharing. I will not be shamed into gifting away my candy. There’s a reason I bought the big bag of Maltesers, and that’s because it was easier to hold them in the hand that wasn’t holding onto two chocolate cheesecake slices and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. You’re lucky I’m not pouring those Maltesers into a bowl and drowning them in milk. Actually, wait that sounds pretty good. I might do that.

*Leaves*

*Returns with a handful of mini Babybel cheeses*

I didn’t do the Maltesers in milk thing because A) I have class and B) I didn’t feel like opening up my milk. So I just ate two mini Babybel cheeses. I am mildly paranoid that one of my floormates will steal a cheese, which is a weird thing to be paranoid about except that I used to steal my sister’s mini Babybel cheeses when she wasn’t home ALL THE TIME. I think I ate more of them than she did. Sorry, not sorry.

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Halloween is coming #spookyspooky

Back to the Maltesers. This bag is not a goddamn cornucopia. This is not a Horn of Plenty. You won’t find this slightly larger than average bag on my Pilgrim table. So I feel justified in not sharing these malted milk balls. Additionally, sharing malted milk balls seems very Norman Rockwell, very Good Ole American. Like you and your high school sweetheart share a bag of Maltesers before you go off to World War One and she goes into some secretary work and suddenly it’s 2015 and you’re dead (?) and nothing matters and everything is darkness.

That’s what the idea of Maltesers makes me think of. So really, me not sharing my Maltesers is my way of keeping a little less nihilism in the world. Because, trust and believe, if I wanted to, I could REALLY GO THERE.

So besides veering dangerously towards diabetes, not much has been going on in my life. I went to Brixton this weekend—slay queen—and wrote 3000 words of a paper in two days only to find out that the due date is not this Tuesday, but NEXT TUESDAY. My eyes were bleeding at the end of the second day.

There are cute boys that I have my eye on—just one, because I’m cross-eyed (I’m not, cute boys, I just said that for comedy’s sake, 😉 so don’t worry)—but I’m really bad at flirting and it just ends up with me talking about snake penises. They have two.

I really want a pop queen album to look forward to. Last year around this time, I was preparing my body for 1989, and it’s been a very long time since I was excited for a pop album. I mean, Adele is supposedly coming out with a new album, but I’ve been burned by her before, so I’m not gonna believe that until it’s in my claw. Again, cute boys, I do not have a claw. It’s for comedy. I am single. I am available.

I just looked it up and apparently Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato have albums coming out in the next month-ish. I stand by my previous statement awaiting the album of a true pop queen.

I have nothing else to say. Maybe I’ll do, like, a personal essay for my Thursday post. I’m just not very interesting. That being said, hire me!

Standard
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:

unnamed

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.

Screen Shot 2015-10-01 at 6.24.57 PM

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.

Screen Shot 2015-10-01 at 6.25.55 PM

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.

Standard
Rambles

TELL ME I’M PRETTY

I have a fundamental problem with those t-shirts that say, “Feed me and tell me I’m pretty.” Not because I have a fundamental problem with those two things. I love food and I’m extremely insecure. I just have a problem with you needing me to tell you that. Fuck, if I have to buy a shirt in order for you to satisfy my voracious appetite for food and self-esteem boosters, then we have bigger issues.

I need to make a shirt that says, “If you haven’t told me I’m pretty by now, it’s already too late because—” and then one of those boxing gloves attached to the springs comes popping out of my shirt and clocks you right in the kisser.

tumblr_mbbpuyPyld1ql5yr7o1_400

I just tried to find the Honey Boo Boo quote about being pretty and quickly fell into a black hole of Honey Boo Boo gifs. I also found out that Mama June and Pumpkin (the older middle one) have both come out as bisexual. I am really happy because I loved that show while it was on. I wrote about it a couple of times on my old blog—which was a trainwreck (in a good way).

I think we should tell each other that they’re pretty more often. Like, how hard would it be to go up to our friends and tell them that? Not hard. Now, I’m not saying just validate someone’s appearance, but I don’t think we can ignore the confidence boost it gives. And sometimes it’s just nice to tell someone that their niceness glows inside-out.

tumblr_npusjma17R1ql5yr7o1_500

I feel like this is a topic I write/think about a lot, and sometimes even I can’t handle the sappiness. So let’s take the sappy out of this. Love the fuck out of yourself, you assholes. I’m sorry if that’s a little abrupt, but I’m simultaneously writing this and watching The Real Housewives of New York City and it’s the episode where EVERYONE HAS DRAMA WITH EVERYONE so I’m a little bit heated. A little hot and bothered.

I feel like Honey Boo Boo and the Housewives give me the same level of satisfaction in the fact and it’s very relieving to see/hear that other people who are equally as fucked up/dysfunctional/rude as me can be successful enough to have a television show.

tumblr_nputtj4JRC1ql5yr7o1_500

I really think that for my emotional wellbeing, I need year-round seasons of the New York, Beverly Hills, and Orange County Real Housewives. Like, that would really be great.

This post has no real meaning. And the best part is that I wrote this like three weeks in advance. I’m just very emotionally drained. I might write something else. But whatever. Yolo. Now I’m just writing random things to get the word count to 500. It’s so close you guys.

giphy

ALSO LuAnn de Lesseps has had three songs released, and all of them are milestones in her and my life. Also I hate LuAnn de Lesseps.

This post has really done nothing except waste five-ten minutes of your life, depending on how slow you read. But if it’s taking you ten minutes to read this, then I think we need to buy you some “Hooked On Phonics.” Text me. I’ll hook you up.

BYE.

honey-boo-boo-and-family-are-trying-to-make-a-reality-show-again-but-the-mark-mcdaniel-business-may-be-holding-everything-back

Standard
Rambles

IT’S MONSOON SEASON

Sometimes I look back at my blogs and realize I look like a narcissistic, sweaty psychopath, and wonder if that’s what any potential cute boys would see. And I realize that I’m probably shooting myself in the foot—romantically and literally—with this blog. But that’s fine. Plenty of people are single—Jesus never had a bae. Oh my god, I just compared myself to Jesus; I am the literal Anti-Christ. I’m Sweaty Betty.

Segue!

Anyway, onto swamp-ass!

tumblr_nedqzkaPiT1tmne7yo1_500

*****

I feel like I’ve mentioned it before, but I am a very sweaty human. I don’t think people expect it of me, because with this face and this body-ody-ody, I don’t think people expect much of anything from me.

But I’m so sweaty.

I’m sweaty but I’m also a nervous sweater. So whenever I feel awkward or uncomfortable, especially about sweating, I sweat even more. It’s really quite a problem.

The other day I went on a run, and I had to walk at multiple points, but at the end of the run, I was so sweaty that when I leaned against my kitchen table, I lifted my arm to reveal a smear of sweat. I looked like I had just done an Iron Man, with my bangs flopping against my forehead, but I had barely jogged two miles.

This post has no real point to it—spoiler alert, I guess—but I just thought of it because I was lying in bed—literally not moving at all except to drag my hand across the mousepad—scrolling through Tumblr and I sat up and I was so sweaty from scrolling through Tumblr that I reapplied deodorant. I also wear deodorant to bed. I didn’t realize that wasn’t a thing until I was in a hotel room with my parents and they were like:

*****

Parents: What are you doing?

Me: Putting on deodorant, duh.

Parents: People don’t do that.

My Armpits: THIS BITCH DOES.

tumblr_inline_mmepwmyoxJ1qz4rgp

*****

I’m also a handshaker, which leads to uncomfortable amounts of “Let me just wipe my hands on my pants first” jokes, which are jokes but also truths. However, I pride myself on my handshake. My mom once told me that there is nothing worse than a limp handshake, and I figured that if I already had one moist strike against me, it’s best not to add another one. So my handshake is firm but wet.

Side bar: “Firm, But Wet,” is the title of my directorial debut into pornography. Hitting Brazzers this spring! The TV adaptation will follow soon afterwards.

Jinkx_Monsoon-_Water_off_a_duck's_back

I have this theory that I’m a more highly evolved human. Wait, don’t click away. It’s just a theory. But I have a theory that I’m more highly evolved because I don’t have wisdom teeth. Well, I do, but they’ll never drop down into my jawline. Wisdom teeth are, like, a holdover from when our jaws were wider so as to better mash food into our prehistoric maws. As the human race has evolved, our jaws have become smaller, making wisdom teeth not such a ~smart~ decision. That was a joke. It flopped. Much like my career. Anyway, we don’t have a point for wisdom teeth anymore. So obviously, because mine won’t drop, my body recognizes this fact, ergo I am further along in evolution than you.

But the sweating thing kind of throws off my theory. Apparently while my jaw thinks I’m some sort of post-human, my sweat glands think that I’m a Neanderthal chases a moose across the vast swatches of forest in Canada or whatever.

So I guess this post does have a point. I’m half super-evolved and half not-evolved, so I guess that makes me…regular-evolved. Fuck.

635675130662123010722511717_tumblr_miuuoxdHCN1qdqllqo4_400

Standard
Rambles

KYLIE’S KRAZY WORLD

OH MY GOD I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT MY BLOG.

You guys, omg I’m so sorry. This was not in God’s cards. I’ve been packing and running around and doing a bunch of inane, annoying tasks, and then I just started watching Gilmore Girls and then a rush of ice fell through my stomach.

Is that how anyone else feels sudden realizations? I feel like as a tumble of ice cubes that pass through my stomach. Not down, like through the throat, but through—front to back. It’s a very particular, peculiar feeling.

I have no real idea what to write about. My goodness, I’m so unprofessional.

OH MY LORDE. Kylie Jenner dyed her hair blonde, and it really is the only thing I care about in this world. She looks amozzing. I feel like just when I’m thinking, “You know what, I don’t need the Kardashian-Jenners,” they do something and it sucks me right back into their world.

tumblr_nmym4evKbW1t090qqo1_1280

Weirdly enough, I also introduce myself as Kylie Jenner.

Kylie is so pretty, but it’s also kind of gross. Have any of you seen that Tumblr post that says, “Kylie looks like the 23 stepmother of Kendall who married her dad for money”? That is very much a real thing.

Also Kylie Jenner is doing this thing on her Instagram where she puts up a picture of a person who inspires her and through that inspiration shows her that she is more than x,y,z, like sexuality, or her body, or her…forehead. It’s kind of awesome but also kind of weird because I feel like she’s not really “celebrating” these people but redirecting it back to herself, and that’s a little gross.

I can’t decide if I like Kylie or not. I feel like she’s one of those teens who is so “#overit” and I hate people like that, who never get excited about anything. But then again, if my life was krazy as Kylie’s, I don’t know if I would be doing backflips either. Actually, fuck that. She wears Balmain and Saint Laurent; she can do a backflip.

I would cut all of you for some Saint Laurent. Is that something I should’ve just said in my head rather than type out for everyone to know? Maybe. But I already did.

Sometimes I think we forget about Kris Jenner. Not in like a “Oh, who is that?” kind of way. But I think we forget that she birthed an empire, both literally and metaphorically. Like, oh my god.

Also Kylie’s name on Instagram—not her username—is “King Kylie” and Kylie’s boyfriend Tyga has a son named King Cairo. Is Kylie trying to induct herself into that family? Illuminati or Illumi-not?

kylie-jenner-plumped-lips-denial-8

In this gif, I am both Kylie and Kendall.

This post has literally made no sense but I feel like it has cleared up many things for me.

1). I need to stop looking at Kylie’s Instagram.

2). Kylie is definitely a part of the Illuminati.

3). Illuminaughty is a great name for an elite, high-class strip club with a password to get in.

*****

That is all.

I lied. It’s not all. Did I just write an entire post about Kween Kylie? What has my “journalism” come to?

Also, side bar, I hate the new “Google” font. It looks dumb.

Standard
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.

Image

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.

Screen Shot 2015-08-31 at 7.27.15 PM

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.

Screen Shot 2015-08-31 at 7.36.51 PM

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.

tumblr_lrkzmpYEyf1qh2o7zo1_500

Standard
Humor, Rambles

THIS POST IS OAKY

I can’t really think of anything to write. I briefly contemplated not posting at all, but I’ve been doing a really great streak of having something up every Monday and Thursday and I know that I’ll feel bad if I don’t.

So here are a random string of paragraphs based on things that I’m thinking with my brain.

Someone went to the urinal next to mine in an otherwise empty bathroom. I don’t understand why people do this. Like, I get weirded out if someone parks next to my car in a mostly empty parking lot, but this involves my privates. I also have a shy bladder so if I had not already been peeing when he sidled up next to me, I would’ve done the urine version of a deer in headlights.

All of my friends are starting to go back to school and I’m going abroad so I leave like two weeks later than everyone else, and it’s not that I don’t want to go abroad, it’s just that for this brief amount of time when I’m stuck at home and they’ll all be with each other, before I go off on my Big Gay European Adventure—title pending—and do a bunch of stuff that’ll make them jealous, I’m the one that’s jealous. Some would say that this is a psychologically revealing moment for me where I come to terms with jealousy and blah blah blah, whatever, I’m a sociopath, get over it.

Can I have an open conversation with whoever designs menswear for J.Crew? Because we seriously need to talk about how there are no options for men, but the women have chic as fuck things year round. If I buy another cute flannel, I think my head might explode. Give me bold patterns, give me rips. Give me glamour, give me ass, give me love.

I’m seriously wondering if London has Panda Express. Like I know that there are better restaurants with better food that won’t do terrible things to my insides, but what will I do when the craving strikes across the pond if there’s no Panda Express? Like, I guess I could Google the answer but I prefer to live in ignorance.

I really miss Game of Thrones.

I have nothing else to say. I’m in the weird limbo of wanting to simultaneously be in Boston and be in London. I think once I get to London I’ll be better because I’ll be all British and hot as fuck and living my dream and walking around in Hyde Park. But it’s still rough. I hope I meet some cute boys there. And people who aren’t interested in partying until our brains leak out of our ears. Sometimes that’s fun, but I also need someone to veg with me. Who will be the carrot to my broccoli?

This blog is weird. That’s okay. I misspelt “okay” as “oaky” and that makes me think of how people use the weirdest adjectives to describe wines. BYE.

Standard
Rambles

GO-GURT

Sometimes not every post gets to live a full, fleshed-out existence. This is one of them. These are their stories, *Law and Order SUV dun-dun*. 

The other day I was getting a yogurt and I suddenly thought of Go-gurt and why on Earth would anyone ever think of it as an idea?

Like, it’s amazing and I cherish all of my memories involving Go-gurt but I wonder who was the first person to pitch “portable dairy products” and how was it received? And oh my god, I just reread “portable dairy products” and realized that there are so many portable dairy products. Cheese sticks. Go-gurt. Mini Babybels. Tiny coffee creamers. Why is the ~government~ so eager to make sure that we can have dairy on the go?

OH MY GOD ICE CREAM CONES ARE PORTABLE DAIRY PRODUCTS. There is literally no escape.

I just did some research on Go-Gurt, a.k.a. portable Antichrist yogurt, and apparently it’s known as “Yoplait tubes” in Canada and “Frubes” in the United Kingdom. Go-gurt is a clever name, the other two are not. Yoplait tubes is a little too on the nose. And I can’t even begin to deal with Frubes.

I don’t really have a broader point with this blog post, I just have the question: “Why Go-gurt?” Why was yogurt something that people decided that we needed to have on the go?

I tried to think of other foods that I would want to be portable-ized, but most of the things I love are already portable. Pizza becomes Totino’s—also, like pizza—I’m sure that there are some sort of waffle sticks on the market, and pudding comes in cups now. So this might be the pinnacle of humanity. It wasn’t the Space Race. It’s Go-gurt.

Oh my god, I just Googled “Who invented Go-gurt?” and found a Go-gurt hate forum. It’s literally just these endless messages of “Oh look at me, I’m yogurt in a tube!” Like, I thought I was weird for just thinking ambivalently about portable yogurt, but I guess it’s weirder to be thinking malevolently about portable yogurt? Is that the line?

I’m not gonna post the link to the Go-gurt hate forum, because they don’t deserve my promo, but if you’re really curious, you’ll find it. And you’ll definitely know it when you see it.

*****

I hope you enjoyed this little bonus post!

Standard