Rambles

TRADE

I’m clickety-clackety-writing fervently away because today is Thursday and my blog goes up on a Thursday and usually I write my blogs a day in advance to do the whole “Oh, is this shit?” thing that writers do—do they?—but I don’t have time because last night—Wednesday—I went out with my coworkers for a coworker dinner and that takes precedence.

MY SISTER: Why didn’t you write it on Tuesday then?

ME: *shoves her*

So don’t judge me for posting this late. But honestly this blog is free and you guys are vultures. Just kidding.

I keep having weird dreams. Last night, I had a dream that I hit on a guy who ended up being a girl and then we started dating and she started getting too clingy but I was friends with her friends who made me feel guilty for wanting to break it off, so I just hid under a bed. Literally. My dream-self is not great at breaking things off.

My coworker just got a tattoo and it’s interesting because I feel like this week has been all about tattoos for me. Like, Tyler Oakley—YouTuber and gay icon—just posted a video about getting his first tattoo and then I was talking to my best friend—Marco—while on my way to a pedicure with my other best friend—Spencer, let’s call him, because once when we were like sixteen, I wrote the beginning of a young adult novel with characters based off the two of us and I think that his character’s name was Spencer—and we discussed Harry Potter tattoos.

And I’ve told my parents that once I’m 22, I’m getting a tattoo, because they technically won’t be paying for my schooling anymore, but they have enough emotional baggage to manipulate me until my late forties at least…so, unclear. I lost my train of thought.

I found it again.

So I’m going to try to convince them to let me get a tattoo at 21 instead of 22 so I can get one with Marco. I’ve known what I’ve wanted for over a year, and I feel like they should trust me enough to allow me to get one? I mean, they trust me to leave the house every day.

I also may have discovered my perfect drag name. A drag name is a name for a drag queen, and while I am not a drag queen, I have been building up an arsenal of mental tricks of the trade—

Side bar, a “trade” is a masculine-looking gay guy, and now I can’t stop thinking of trade. Also it makes me think of my old AP Macroeconomics class.

—and have been brainstorming drag names. Brainstorming drag names is possibly the most fun thing ever. It can be a clever mix of dirty puns and double entendres. Here are a few of the names I have thought of:

Anya Cox, Tatya Well, Tux Titely, Rita Prescription, and Misty Meaner.

I’m not going to say the drag name because like the thing with the tattoo, I don’t need copycats. Or anyone digging up this old blog post when I’m rich and famous.

Oh! Nadia Head!

Anyway, this blog has gone on as long as it really possibly could for just me rambling, like really rambling. Like, you guys, normally, I just sort of rambling, but this time it was—well, how do I say this—like that video of the Gloucestershire cheese rolling competition? Have you ever seen that?

Humor, Life, Rambles

AN ASS LIKE A THROW PILLOW

I have this theory that I only look truly hot in my bathroom mirror.

And if proven to be true, this theory is quite unfair to the other (seven billion minus one, I can’t even begin to do that math) people on this Earth because (seven billion minus one) people cannot fit into my bathroom all at the same time to witness me looking hot. And even if we scheduled out a time to get roughly six people into my bathroom to witness me looking hot, it would take a billion (is that right?) trips to show everyone how hot I looked.

How much “more info” could I possibly want?

Adding in the time required for each person to adequately drink in my beauty, and I’m looking at 32 years—at least—of being in a bathroom with six other strangers, and that’s just if each group gets a one-second viewing, which is unlikely and—frankly—unfair to them. But by even doubling the viewing time—64 years—or tripling it—96 years—it still seems impossible to do.

So the moral of the story is that you’ll have to just take my word for it that I’m hot.

End of post.

Just kidding. Could you imagine? That was basically a math class.

Side bar, I was lying on my front lawn with my laptop—to be artsy, obviously—and I had to give up because I was getting uncomfortably moist. Which got me thinking, is that redundant? Is there a way to be “comfortably moist?” It doesn’t seem like it.

I’ve been wearing a lot of short bathing suits and watching a lot of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, which obviously has led me to thinking about my ass a lot. I’m long and lean—with a 10/10 face, in my bathroom mirror—so while my butt is cute and perky, it doesn’t pack a punch.

So today—Sunday, today, not Monday, today, when you’ll be reading this—I did squats and lunges. I put on “The Night Is Still Young” for some Nicki Minaj inspiration. And while doing that, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—the mirrors at my Planet Fitness gym might be a solid second for how hot I look—and saw my profile. And my little tush wasn’t Kardashian-esque but it was cute in profile.

I was listening to Ross Mathews’ podcast Straight Talk With Ross—

Minute—minute as in “very small” and not as in “a measurement of 60 seconds”—side bar, I never know when to italicize and when to put things in quotes. Like, if it’s apart of a greater piece of work, you put in quotes, I think, but what is a podcast? Very unclear.

—and one of his cohosts was giving advice to a caller. She was nervous about bringing a guy back to her house because it wasn’t all Pinterested out and she was worried he wouldn’t be (P)interested in her if her house was subpar. And the cohost said that most people don’t notice the décor if the ambience and the host are warm and inviting.

“He’s not going to notice your throw pillows,” she—the cohost—said. “He’s going to notice you.”

And so, in a roundabout—“rounded butt” more like it—way, my ass is like a throw pillow. It’s nice that it’s there, but it’s not crucial to the party. But then, also, in a later episode, Ross said that he has roughly forty throw pillows in his house and he rotates and swaps them out, so maybe throw pillows are important? I’m getting very mixed signals here. What does that mean about my butt?

I’ve been reading a lot of BuzzFeed articles about how to “dress for your curvy body,” and while that sounds odd, because I’m not a voluptuous woman, I’ve discovered a ton of curvy women role models who totally embrace their body. Add that in to Ross Mathews, who is the poster child (man?) for loving your body, and that’s really what I want to get into. Loving my body. Living for it. Thinking that it slays. Because body confidence is sexy and refreshing and wholly too uncommon.

I have a small but perky butt. I have long eyelashes. I have good hair. I have nice lips. I have shoulders that have potential, a little tummy poof. But I have killer thighs and calves. That can be enough for now. I still slay. I’m still making people gag on my eleganza, live for me, die for me.

P.S. I saw this commercial for a medicine that combats foot fungas and it had an anthropomorphized foot playing tennis. This is not Don Draper’s dream.

There are no words. This is pedi-ful. Get it? Like “pitiful” but “pedi” because of foot.

Rambles

FATHEADS

^This is a great example of why real writers don’t think of funny clickable titles before actually writing their articles. But I’m not a real writer, so FUCK ‘EM.

I just erased about 200 words of a blog post about millennials, and I really don’t know what I was thinking. I was writing about the housing market, you guys. The housing market; not a doughnut market or a flea market—now that’s a flea-sized market, not a flea-market, with like couches or anything—which are normally my areas of expertise, but the real housing market. And I scared myself.

Side bar, did anyone else know that “millennials” have that extra, sneaky, secret “n” in it? I’ve been spelling it “millenials” forever.

But in the wake of having no previous essays about my life and not having anything excruciatingly embarrassing happen to me since my last post, I’m going to go a la The Bloggess and do a life-y, non-essay post. “The second mention of the Bloggess in two posts?” you ask, “Are you trying to get her attention?”

“YES” is the correct answer.

Oh wait, something embarrassing did happen to me. Well, mildly embarrassing. Someone commented on my nipples. I have weird nipples. Not weird in appearance or spirit, but weird in that I feel like they’ve generated more conversation about themselves than the average nipple accrues in its lifetime.

I was shirtless and about to go into the pool at work when someone commented on the hairs around my nipples. Yes, I have hairs around my nipples. Apparently, my body—which is about as hairless and unmasculine as a Sphynx cat—grows sparse hairs on my chest, around those nips and below my belly button. I don’t have sexy chest hair. and the guy was like, “Why don’t you trim them?” and I was like “Um, I do trim them, I just left a little on because I have very pale nipples and I don’t want to appear nipple-less.”

The other time is when boys on the track team would point out that my nipples were visible through the liquid-like texture of those running, sports-material shirts. Like I said, these bad boys have started a lot of conversation.

Anyway, I feel like it should be a general rule that A) No one talks about my nipples ever again and B) We all stop talking about each other’s bodies. Because, honey, I know my nipples better than anyone in this world. I don’t need you to tell me about my nipples.

I’m going to stop typing out the word “nipples” because even I’m getting creeped out now.

THERE’S NO SEGUE FROM THAT STORY

This keeps popping up? Fafuq?

I just watched the awkward interview of Cara Delevingne with Good Day, Sacramento and I want to punch those anchors in the head. They were so rude and very “adults being condescending to a teenager whom they think is beneath them” and I would’ve been the same way. They called her “Carla.” Like journalism 101 is knowing the name of the person you’re interviewing.

And then The View ladies bashed her too. The young people—Raven Symone, my queen—was defending her and the old people—WHOOPI—were being so rude. Whoopi Goldberg said Cara wasn’t a famous actress. But who at this point hasn’t heard of fucking world supermodel Cara Delevingne? Also, Raven you look amazing! That hair! Those eyebrows! That berry lip!

I feel like the older generations are constantly looking down our generation. Like, they caused the housing crisis and have fought numerous wars, but suddenly we’re the fuckups for Tweeting while walking?

You go, Cara, and you go, Raven.

What else is annoying me?

Oh, why can’t I look hot—temperature—and hot—appearance—at the same time? Today it was a high of 97 degrees, and I was a greasy pizza mess. Note, I did not have pizza, that was just the state of my appearance. But I was near one of my coworkers—keeping this vague because some of them read this (Hi, guys!)—and the sweat was making his hair flawless and natural and he looked gorgeous. Why am I a Totino’s pizza roll and he is a Parisian croissant?

Side bar, when did Raven go on The View? Is Barbara Walters still alive? Where is Elisabeth Hasslebeck? Who is the lady in the middle complaining about being “hangry?”

OMG FUCKING SIDEST OF SIDE BARS: I hate it when people say “hangry.” It is, without a doubt, one of my top ten least favorite words. The only thing I can think of that tops the list is the name “Madison.” Just not a fan; no hate, though, Madisons of the world.

I figured out how to tie in the unrelated title. Everyone I’ve complained about—Whoopi, the nipple-obsessed co-worker, the Good Day Sacramento anchors—are being total fatheads. Yes, I’ve validated it.

Lorde knows

Lorde knows I could kvetch for hours—typed that as “hors” and immediately thought that “kvetch for hors d’oeurves” would be a great catchphrase. Also has anyone else ever seen the words “hors d’oeurves” written out and said in their heads, “Whores devour?” Or is that just me? It’s fine if it’s just me.

Whores devour!

OMFG did I just find a new signoff?

Rambles

STONED IN GLASS HOUSES

Itchy of eyes, strong of spirit, is my current emotional epigraph. I just looked up the difference between epigraph and epitaph; the former is pithy phrases on coins and the chapters of books, the latter is an inscription on a tombstone. So really, either could work.

Okay, so I don’t know if it’s “taboo” to say this, but I have pinkeye. And no, it’s not contagious unless I swipe my fingers across my eyes and then stick them directly into your mouth and eyes and nose. For some reason, I feel like having pinkeye garners the same level as repugnancy as having herpes. Like, one is a relatively harmless, innocently-gotten simple itch, and the other is pinkeye. HEYO.

If there’s anything that could make me feel more unattractive, it’s having pinkeye. Like on top of the farmer’s tan, the congested nose and the—in my opinion, disarming and charming—grating tone that aforementioned nose has given my voice, I should also just have red eyes to rival a pothead’s.

Also I write these posts a day ahead, so when you—a.k.a. the one reader in England and myself at a later date—are reading this, I might be literally bright-eyed and figuratively bushy-tailed. And cleared of the herpes.

The herpes thing is a joke. I don’t have herpes, future boyfriend(s).

This is my second post of the evening, and I can’t decide if it’s coolly meta or weirdly meta to reference a blog post within a blog post. I’m not sure if I’ll post the other one. If I do, was it good? Or was it rambling? I feel like it might’ve been rambling.

With my pinkeye—can we change the name? I mean, I know that the actual name is conjunctivitis, which is about as attractive as a pair of capri pants—I legitimately look stoned, and I wondered if I could pull it off and just pretend I was hitting that dank kush instead of having pinkeye. In this world, being a pothead might be more socially-accepted than having the pink. Nope, can’t call it the pink. Just sounds like a VD.

I wasn’t originally going to write about having pinkeye, because my last article was about embarrassing myself at a party, and it gets pretty depressing when you’re trying to think of an article topic by just going back in your mental Rolodex of times you want to set yourself on fire from embarrassment. It feels like accidentally waving to someone who wasn’t actually waving at you. Just a quick-cold-sliver of embarrassment setting up house in my large intestine.

Writing about embarrassments is cathartic, but soon the cauterizing effect just starts to feel like your flesh is burning. Look, that’s a total callback, and I used cauterizing to bring it back full circle. That is Pulitzer-level shit. Someone congratulate me on that at a later date.

I’m sure that there’s a psychological reason behind why I feel the desire to mention all the times I’m a gross human on the Internet.

Also, side bar, I mentioned that I was so not into thinking about flirting at work, because I was “disgusting” and this happened twice and both times the person was like, “No, you’re not disgusting!” Like I was fishing for compliments, but actually I meant—and I told them this—disgusting in like the “sunburned, congested, generally sweaty” disgusting way. Trust and believe, you would know if I was fishing for compliments.

Is the title clever? I thought it was clever. Originally it was “He without sin should throw the first stoned,” but that was a mouthful. And also I’m already such a big sinner—Illuminati—so I really don’t need to add anything to the list, and I feel like reworking a Bible verse to include potheads is a big, fat “No.” But I could be wrong.

I’m not wrong. I’m a Satan worshipper.

There is really no way to end this post. Oh, don’t hate on me for having pinkeye. I’m actually cool for talking about it.

Life, Rambles

SANDRA BULLOCK, THE EPISCOPALIAN CHURCH, & MY MESSED-UP KNEE

I’m typing this on my blue shag rug, and I think I’ve fucked up my knee from leaning against the wooden floor. I’ve tried to crack it back to normal, but it’s not working. Can anyone else crack their knees? Or is that something I should get checked out?

Today at work, one of my campers came up to me, pushed a used Band-Aid into my hands and asked me to “hold it” for him.

I spent an hour in a black hole of watching YouTube videos of “The Voice” competitors. Also side bar I almost wrote “spent an hour in a K hole” because I just assumed it meant the same thing as “black hole” and then I Screen Shot 2015-07-01 at 9.35.20 PM Googled it and found out that it’s a drug reference which led me to realize that I’m not cool enough to even know the names of drugs.

I feel like I eat relatively healthy at work—salads, yogurts, water—and I’m essentially sprinting after seven-year-olds today—also wait side bar, I played soccer with my campers today and I thought I was so good until I realized that I was playing against second-graders and then I realized that I might just be okay—but then I get home and ingest a pint of gelato and it seems cosmically cruel and unfair that the bad things I eat count more than the good things I eat. Who thought of this system?

I just saw the interview of Sandra Bullock after she was named the “Most Beautiful Woman in the World” by People Magazine and I A) thought it was weird that we can categorically decide that fact, B) loved her dress, and C) thought it was weird that People Magazine was the authority of this highly contentious and amorphous idea of beauty. But I really loved what she had to say. She said that she only accepted the “title” (?) if she could use the platform to talk about the women who inspire her, who protect and value each other, who support other women against the onslaught of media criticism.

And that’s so important—well, duh—because it makes me nauseous when I think of the pressures of beauty ideals that we put on women and girls. Even with campaigns and role models, I don’t know how much progress we as a society have made to make girls and women feel like they are enough, and are in no need of airbrushing away freckles or photoshopping thigh gaps. And I know saying that veers towards the “you’re beautiful and you don’t know it” territory that has been clearly claimed by One Direction and John Legend, which I don’t want to encroach upon. I’m not trying to be like, “Oh you think you’re ugly but you’re so beautiful,” I’m trying to say that women, girls, men, boys, everyone, all of us, are strong and lovely and fragile and we are twisting ourselves and mangling ourselves for external approval. And that sucks.

And I feel that so much. Do you think I like eating salads? Salads are awesome but I don’t eat them because they’re awesome I eat them because I want to be Kate Moss. And I hate that I want to be Kate Moss because bringing back “heroin chic” is not something I want to be on my Wikipedia page when I’m eighty and doing enough chemical peels to melt titanium. I want “finally made “fetch” happen” and “repopularized pagan rituals in mainstream America” to be so associated with my name that it’s even in the short little summary at the top of my Wikipedia page.

I just spent 20 minutes reading about Holly Madison and her tell-all book about her time in the Playboy Mansion, so I really lost my train of thought. But I suppose she’s related to the notion of women being forced into fulfilling certain ideal in society.

The Episcopalian Church just voted and will now allow religious same-sex marriages! While I don’t anticipate the Catholic Church following suit anytime soon, at least without a bunch of nuns rioting in the streets, it’s incredible for a religious organization to be standing behind same-sex marriage. Religion remains one of the last bastions of same-sex marriage opponents, so without that, they have one less leg to stand on. They’re basically hobbling around on peg-legs at this point.

It’s funny how the world can move so slowly for absolute ages and then within the span of a few weeks, things come to a head. In the span of a few weeks, we’ve seen an Olympian come out as transgender, a woman spark dialogue about racial identity, same-sex marriage become legalized across the country, and so, so much more. It makes me glad that I’m alive to see this. We came from generations of fighters and feminists and equalists and it’s heartbreaking that they didn’t see the fruits of their fights, but they fought for us, so that we could see it, and the fact that we had people who thought so far into the future and saw us and cherished us is enough to make me remember that however fucked up I feel or depressed I am, I was fought for.

Update on my knee, it’s still fucked-up, and I put ice on it, which just served to make it numb and fucked-up. Why does ice make anything better? Because it reduces swelling? Or it is a placebo? What would heat do? Maybe it’ll swell up and then I’ll have a peg-leg just like the bigots! Then I’ll be so #relatable to them and they won’t hate me anymore!

This post was an absolute cluster-fuck of thoughts. But I almost like them as much as my “essays about my life in which I exploit painful memories for metaphorical profit” posts, because this is much more reflective of my thought train. Like, when I’m writing those life essay posts, I’m poised and I edit and I’m so goddamn classy, and when I write posts like this one, it’s essentially like when you give a monkey a keyboard and it just drags its hands (paws?) against the keys.

BAI-BAI, BAES 😉

REAL JOURNALISM

Humor, Rambles

MAD RAMBLINGS, OCEAN WEST, & SELF-TANNING STRIPPERS

This is literally my fourth attempt at writing this post. And when you’ve got writer’s block for a blog that is essentially the ramblings of a crazy person, you know it’s bad. So instead of trying to force out a compelling essay or analysis of pop culture, I’m going to instead write stream-of-consciously. How original.

Self-tanning lotion makes me smell like what I imagine a Las Vegas suburbs stripper to smell like. Notice that I specified “suburbs.” Like, a stripper who lives in the zip code of Las Vegas, but that’s the closest similarity.

I’m self-tanning, and that was going to be the original idea for this essay. But then I couldn’t really get the words to flow. Essentially, I’ve decided to take up fake-tanning again, which is probably not a good idea because my sunburn is finally peeling off, making it look like I’m covered in dried flakes of pizza grease. If I wasn’t so in love with pizza, I would be embarrassed.

I bleached my teeth last night, and now they feel sore, like I danced on them or something. I love how when I put in the bleaching trays, all of a sudden my salivary glands start pumping out that good shit like it’s cocaine and my mouth is a Hollywood nightclub and it’s the early 2000s. I don’t understand that simile anymore than you understand that simile.

Current background

I was looking through Kim Kardashian’s Instagram today, and discovered that I really miss her blonde hair. She looked so galactic and high-glamour. Going through her photos is also how I found out that she is pregnant with a boy! And I’ve already picked out the perfect name for him: Galaxy West. Or Ocean West. Something as large and amorphous as a direction, without being a direction. Hey, if she doesn’t want to do a direction for her next baby, maybe she’ll name him Zayn. TOO SOON FOR ONE DIRECTION JOKES. Still too soon.

Previous background #RonSwanson

Since I only have one phone case, I frequently change my background to jazz up my phone. It’s currently Khloe Kardashian, after a long stint of drag queens.

I’m halfway through Orange Is The New Black and I’m proud to say that I haven’t been emotionally scarred once! This season is funny, heartwarming, and not as depressing since Vee isn’t around to order shankings and beatdowns in the bathroom. Oh, what a wonderful world!

I finished Game of Thrones and—earlier in the summer—three seasons of RuPaul’s Drag Race and I find myself in need of a good show to binge after I finish OITNB. I’m thinking Friday Night Lights because I’ve been in a very “blonde Sandra Bullock The Blind Side” meets “small town glory Finn during his football scenes in Glee” kind of mood and I imagine that that is what Friday Night Lights is.

I still haven’t seen Jurassic World, and can I just say that it really grinds my gears how everyone is so obsessed with Chris Pratt all of a sudden? Like, I was appreciating his comedic genius and his butt since the beginning of Parks and Rec but ever since he got “conventionally attractive,” everyone wants a piece? That’s unfair. Leave him to those who loved him through—literally—thick and thin.

I’m listening to a lot of podcasts at the moment, jumping between Shane Dawson’s, Tyler Oakley’s, and Ross Mathews’, and it’s so soothing while I’m doing laundry, or going to the gym, or assassinating someone, or emptying the dishwashers. Yes, I have boring chores.

Well, I think I’ll leave it at that, and hopefully I’ll have a stronger essay for Friday. Oh my god. I just realized that today isn’t Tuesday. It’s Monday. I wanted to have a post up every Tuesday and Friday, and I’ve been busting my ass for the last two hours trying to write something for tonight, i.e. Tuesday, when this motherfucker has been Monday all along. I literally haven’t known the day all day. I can’t even.

I literally cannot. Bye. Maybe I’ll write something also for tomorrow, but this post is like almost-expired milk: I gotta put it up now or never. Also like almost-expired milk, this post will leave you with a stomachache and a distrust of dairy.

Rambles

THE PIN-UP, THE FUCK-UP, AND INA GARTEN

I started to write a blog post, and it was very sappy and faux-intellectual and a result of me trying too hard.

So I’m not gonna try hard. Isn’t that a good attitude to have?

I’m sitting on my deck, and everything is green leaves and blue sky and it seems impossible that only a few months ago, the world was a ice construction and everything was crystal and cold and crafted. Now I’m sitting outside, eating homemade hummus and listening to Spotify. I did not make the hummus.

I’m done with sophomore year, and it’s kind of freaking me out. Like, whenever I think about it, there is this swelling in my chest, the kind of restrained scream that is part primal terror and excitement. Because I’m a fetus; I am nascent; I am infantile. How can I be halfway done with college? When I was a kid, college students were impossibly old, and now that I am one, I realize how stupid that kid was. Like, I feel younger as a college student than I did as a middle-schooler. I felt very old as a middle-schooler, very over it.

I want to start writing more essays, more things about my life. Because this blog should be a time capsule, a literary photo album. Wait, I guess that would be called just a diary. I’m really kind of stupid. But anyway, it’s hard as fuck to write essays because you kind of feel like you have to scrape together life experiences to write about, or go out and experience life to write about it, which seems kind of backwards.

So I’m going to try to write essays, but I’m also going to continue to be a professional fuck-up. Someone once asked me why I call myself a fuck-up, because I’m technically not a “fuck-up” in the traditional sense. Or in the Biblical sense. That was a bad joke. I don’t even know if it makes sense. What else is new?

But anyway, I feel like a “fuck-up” is someone who is gladly messing up and clumsily stomping through life. I am buffalo-ing it through my world, stomping and being messy and I kind of like it. It’s more fun to be a fuck-up than a pin-up, and by pin-up I mean more in a metaphorical “keeping it together and looking perfect on the outside” way and less in a “kind of old-fashioned classy porn that sailors used possibly to masturbate to? It is very unclear as to what purpose pin-up girls actually served in the war effort except to provide Johnny with a little pleasure of the Biblical sense,” way. God, I’m definitely going to Hell.

*a few hours later*

SOS I’m obsessed with Ina Garten. I go through these weird patches where I become obsessed with someone/something and all I can do is watch them, and I guess Ina is my new obsession. It came on so quickly, but there’s something about her low-quality, butter-filled, “quaint,” “no stress,” extravagant meals that MAKES ME FEEL THINGS.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but I always find myself obsessed with older, fabulous ladies. Like Kris Jenner. She is a literal goddess. And now I can add Ina to my Pantheon. I also started watching Grace & Frankie, so I might soon add Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. But that’s to be determined.

I have to go. I have to watch more Ina Garten. Xoxo. Also an Ina Garten parody account responded to my tweet about Ina. So I’m #winning?

Humor, Rambles

THE CURSE

So I fell down the stairs.

I was finishing up a tweet, ironically enough about the likelihood of me getting hit by a train while tweeting and dying, while walking down stairs. Suddenly, my world tilted as my feet slipped on the slick, rubberized stairs and I tumbled down about six steps. My phone was all scuffed from the fall. My heart was pounding, and I made a fuck-ton of a noise.

My first reaction was to finish my tweet. And then I stood up and looked around. No one had seen, and I can’t decide if I’m more relieved or pissed. Relieved because when I fall it’s like a slow-motion deflating of those wavy-armed blow-up guys at car sales—is that a thing?—and it was a slow defeat. Pissed because I wasn’t hurt and I just wanted someone to be able to bask in the glory of that hilarity with me.

I originally started this post on Tuesday—the day of the falling—but the week has slipped through my fingers like tiny sand particles slipping through a sieve with particularly porous lines. And plus, now I can fully look back on my week and confirm that I am—indeed—cursed.

On Monday—

SOS WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO LET YOU KNOW THAT A CUTE BOY WITH A NOSE PIERCING IS SITTING AT THE TABLE NEXT TO ME IN THE DINING HALL. But I’m wearing a workout sweatshirt, glasses and track pants. I AM NOT CUTE ENOUGH TO BE NEAR HIM RIGHT NOW.

—I had to move my ladder (I live in a lofted bed) to get to the dresser underneath it. To get socks. So not even worth it. And I guess when I put the ladder back, I didn’t make sure that it was fully locked in place. So I started chatting with my roommate and climbed up on my ladder to make my bed. Yes, I make my bed. I’m so good. Husband me up, rich older businessmen with no other heirs and a few years to live.

Suddenly, the ladder d—

UM HE JUST KISSED A GIRL NEVER MIND ABORT MISSION

—ropped from below me, leaving me clutching the bed and dangling. My roommate pulled the ladder from beneath my churning feet and told me I could drop to the floor. It was only like six inches, and I’m a very tall person, so it wasn’t that bad. But still, the curse had begun.

Tuesday, I fell down the stairs, and immediately ran into an attractive human, literally shaking.

Wednesday, I was getting some salsa for my quesadilla in the dining hall. I had some sweet potato fries on the same plate, and when I leaned over to get the salsa, the plate tipped and all the fries scattered into the tubs of salsa and sour cream. CURSED.

Thursday, well nothing really happened on Thursday. Or on Friday, except that CUTE BOY HAD A GIRLFRIEND. CURSED.

However, the week ended on an AMAZING note. Me and my friend Shelby—who literally insisted on being included in this post—received some shirts from the store of one of our favorite YouTubers—TRISHA PAYTAS. Former stripper, current PERFECTION, she is our favorite guilty pleasure. She also recently got a Swarovski-encrusted bicycle. AND SHE RETWEETED AND RESPONDED TO MY TWEETS ABOUT THE T-SHIRTS.

So that maybe proves that one can thrive despite a very real, basically confirmed curse. I’m so brave. I also realized that Interstellar and Gravity are both movies about space that were released very close to each other. Why did that happen? Did Interstellar do worse? Should I watch The Devil Wears Prada again, even though it’s been less than two weeks since my last viewing of it? So many questions and hardly any answers. Except “Yes” to the last one.

I guess I should sign off. This post took me an uncomfortably long time to write. Like, I started it on Tuesday. It is Friday night—turn up #turnt—and I’m just finishing it now. Sue me for having a social life; since when did being popular become a crime? Answer: Jawbreakers.

I think I’m going to get McDonalds. Cheers to making horrifying decisions!

Life, Rambles

THE SPRING BREAKER

It’s been like four days since I’ve last posted, and since last week I blogged three (?) times, I’m not ashamed to admit that I miss it. Which is a good thing, right? I’m trying to get into the habit of blogging regularly, not just when I’m in a spiral.

I’m on spreak (spring break, duh) and so I have a lot of free time. Obviously there are the parties and the club appearances, but those are fictional, so during the day I’m doing basically nothing. I have eaten spectacularly bad since being home, but I have gone to the gym twice. When I was home for Christmas break, I only went to the gym the last week out of like five weeks. So going to the gym two days in a row after being home three days isn’t that bad. Right? Super-fit? Super-handsome? Super-humble?

I started watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, and caught up on the first two episodes.

My sister: What did you do last night?

Me: I just watched TV. RuPaul.

My sister: (judging look) You would.

Me: How dare you.

Normally I find it very hard to keep up with RuPaul’s Drag Race, because the queens keep changing their outfits and I can never end up telling them apart or remembering which ones I like. However, this season I have fallen in love with one of the contestants. Her name is Pearl, and out of drag she is so unbelievably hot. Out of drag, her name is Matt—I’m getting so confused about gender pronouns—and he has a septum piercing and perfect hair and he’s so deadpan I love it. So it’s very compelling to watch although I wish that the entire thing were just him. He doesn’t even have to speak. If it were just gifs of him rolling his eyes for forty minutes, that would be fine by me.

I’m sitting in the sun on my couch, and the light is striking the computer screen and illuminating the grubby dustiness of my laptop. How charming. I’m also listening to Spotify and I can’t decide if I should get Spotify Premium or not. I really want endless music on my phone, because I’m not sure how much longer I can go on shuffle mode. Additionally, the “limited skips” business is really not designed for someone as flighty as me. I’m like a sex addict: I use a song for about thirty seconds and then I get bored with it and move onto the next one. I guess I didn’t really need to say the sex addict part, I could’ve just said the second half of the sentence. Live and learn.

A bunch of people I know are in Florida and part of me is jealous and part of me is just tired thinking about walking on sand and not having easy access to soft surfaces, aka my bed. So, in other words, I’m glad I’m just chilling at home.

*Listens to Kelly Clarkson’s new album*

I have a soft spot for Kelly Clarkson because I listened to her Stronger album constantly when I was traveling in France and Italy my junior year of high school. I have this very distinct memory of being on a train through the Swiss Alps and listening to “You Can’t Win,” and it was only a few months after I had come out of the closet, so it really was striking a homosexual chord with me. I realize how bourgeoisie this entire paragraph was. We can just not talk about it.

Also, Kelly Clarkson was on one of my favorite shows, “Who Do You Think You Are?” which is a NBC (an NBC?) show about celebrity genealogy. Did you know that Brooke Shields is descended from Italian and French nobility? Like her grandmother is an Italian princess. Gwyneth Paltrow is white Barbadian, which is…interesting. I really love genealogy. I think it’s so fascinating to trace back your family history, because you can literally see what your ancestors went through if they lived in certain areas at certain points in history. GENEALOGY ROX.

I literally have no segue from this. Can you believe that people think you spell segue as “Segway”? PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUCEMENT: A segue is a seamless transition between two sentences, paragraphs, ideas, etc. A Segway is what Paul Blart rides. Also, didn’t the creator of the Segway ride off a cliff accidentally?

Speaking of cliffs—did I just do a Segway segue—I saw someone’s Instagram of the Grand Canyon. I really want to go to the Grand Canyon. I literally can’t even fathom how big it must be. You know how people use “literally” hyperbolically? I’m not using it like that; I actually cannot fathom how big the Grand Canyon must be. Are there Medium-Grand Canyons? Like where is the “Ehh, I’ve Seen Bigger” Canyon? Or the “I Guess The Camera Adds On Ten Pounds” Canyon? I require justice for canyons of all sizes; not just the grand ones.

In other world news, I watched The Devil Wears Prada yesterday (Sunday) and I have decided two things. One: There is nothing on this earth that is more satisfying/draws more of an audience than the prospect of Anne Hathaway getting a makeover. Two: The Devil Wears Prada SHOULD have ended with Andrea accepting Miranda’s offer to be on her elite team and them doing a virgin sacrifice together. I literally love the section of the movie from Andy’s makeover to right before she quits for the last time. If I could reedit it, I would make that the entire movie, have Andy go over to the dark side and join Miranda for ritualistic magic. EVERYONE WANTS TO BE US, ANDREA. Everyone.

Apparently, nothing gets me as fired up or activist-y as The Devil Wears Prada. I’m betting the U.S. government wishes the American youth cared as much about world politics as I do about Miranda Priestly’s outfits. Like, we would literally be unstoppable. Again, not being hyperbolic.

I keep using the word “histrionic” in everyday conversation and I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends are getting tired of me saying it. They’re being so histrionic.

I have a fear that someday I’ll misuse a word and someone will call me out on it and all the carefully cultivated condescension I have towards everyone about grammar and English and vocabulary will crumble. I feel like that is very much an English major’s fear.

If I’m being honest, like an hour has gone by since I wrote the previous sentence. So I think that signifies that this post is done. It was awesome. You don’t need to say it.

Life, Rambles

THE WEIRD FEELING IN MY STOMACH

I just had to Google Image “gimp mask” for a tweet. And that’s a pretty accurate representation of what today has been like.

I’m drinking coffee—okay, a vanilla latte—because I stayed up until two a.m. the last two nights writing a paper. And by “stayed up until two,” I mean “stayed in the study lounge until two, and then stumbled back to my dorm.” Also, when I got back to my dorm last night/early this morning at 2:30 a.m., it was entirely dark. Like, Mariana’s Trench dark, because the power had gone out. It was freaky.

Tonight will probably be another late night. I have one more paper to write, and I have to finish my application for study abroad. I have to write a CV—“curriculum vitae”—and that just seems like the worst idea ever. It’s basically a list of all your accomplishments, and I’m guessing I can’t just copy-and-paste a compiled list of all the re-tweets I’ve gotten into a Microsoft Word document. Or can I? Can I?

I want to have everything done and finished before I go home for spring break so that I can reach my full potential and actually become a potato wedged into couch cushions. I think I can really go for the gold this year, you guys.

Side bar: If you ever want to feel weirder than you already probably do, sing “Brave” by Sara Bareilles but in the voice of Christopher Walken. I just did it, and I am forever altered by the experience.

I’m writing this post because I have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s part nerves from getting everything done on time, part excitement for being home, and part vomit because of romantical things. Ugh, I legitimately hate that I just typed out those words. I like this human being—let’s call him Patient Zero; not because he has a weird disease, but just because I was thinking about calling him “Victim of Love” but that makes me sound like a serial killer—and I think—heavy, heavy, Mercury-heavy emphasis on “think”—that it is possible that he could possibly, maybe, potentially have some non-neutral but non-negative feelings towards me.

And so on one hand, I’m excited for that and I want to ask him to a second location—WHY AM I SOUNDING LIKE A SERIAL KILLER—and hang out. But on the other hand, there is also a very real possibility—a probability, in fact; actual I don’t know the difference; I was terrible in statistics—that he could very much not like me. I act really weird around him. Not “mentioning diarrhea or slavery” weird, but “I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands which suddenly seem very weird” weird.

I don’t get uncomfortable often—I seem to lack the ability to be embarrassed. I think it’s because when something awkward happens, I’m too busy imagining the Tweet I’m going to write about it to actually get embarrassed. But I’m way uncomfortable around Patient Zero. I think because he’s cool, and I’m a melted puddle of sludge, and whenever he sees me, he’s probably wondering why the tall, slim, hot guy in front of him is acting like Jabba the Hutt. (I am that tall, slim hot guy who is acting like Jabba the Hutt. Also, nearly typed out “Jabba the Slut” and am now wondering if there is a stripper/pornstar with that stage name. But I am afraid to Google it because there are some things you can’t un-see.)

I’m actually feeling kind of weird writing this out, like “Oh should I not say this?” but who the fuck cares? This is a blog, not the Pentagon Papers. And writing things out, not having them roll around in my head, helps a lot. And I’ve been feeling shitty enough at times that I know I need to do anything that helps me. And this is my blog, my space to vent. And to discuss vents. Ventilation is so important, you guys.

Side bar, Microsoft wants me to correct “who the fuck cares” to “whom the fuck cares” but that just seems too pretentious, even for me.

I have a pimple on my cheekbone. Like, right on my cheekbone. And yes, it draws the eye to my high cheekbones, which are a definite plus for my face, but still, I’m not thrilled about looking like I have the Black Plague. Too soon? Also in class, I was looking at the weird dry patch of skin I have on my—perfectly sculpted bicep—and noticed two longer, darker hairs. My armhair is very blonde and fine—fine—so this was weird. Wait, now I can’t find them. Wait never mind. I found them.

Music-wise, I keep oscillating between Meghan Trainor, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj and Banks. The Pinkprint is so good, but so is Title, and nothing helps me more when I feel like ramming a car through a brick wall than “Black Skinhead.”

I was thinking today that if I end up being a writer for my life/job, how will I have enough words to span an entire life? I mean, even now I was scrambling to find an accurate metaphor before thinking of “Jabba the Hutt” to describe my behavior. But if it all goes to plan, my writing will be about my life, and as long as I keep being uncomfortable and awkward—which, considering the week I’ve had, is a definite possibility—I suppose I’ll always have material to write about. And eventually I’ll probably have kids or a dog, so then I’ll have another creature’s life to milk for product endorsements and book deals. No, but I’ll be a great parent to any humans/dogs that come into my life.

The coffee has now all been drunk, and I’m in the “nervous energy jittery shivering” phase of my caffeine fix. I regret saying “caffeine fix.” But it happened. I suppose I could delete it, but I want you to know that I’M HUMAN TOO. I MAKE MISTAKES TOO.

Side bar, Spotify is pushing HARD for me to upgrade to Spotify Premium and I just want to be like “GOD, GET OFF MY BACK” whenever they play a commercial and it just ends up being an ad for themselves.

Maybe I should go after Star Wars nerds, since I act like Jabba the Hutt. Wait, is it Star Trek? Dammit, now the Trekkies and the War-ies (?) will be mad at me for mixing it up. Now I’m definitely not going to get a boyfriend. I’ve alienated the nerds. Not that Star Wars is nerdy…I mean, it is. But cool-nerdy. Like how Drake was on Degrassi and now he’s a rapper. It’s, like, cool. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

The Wunderkindof

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

Category Archives: Rambles

TRADE

AN ASS LIKE A THROW PILLOW

FATHEADS

STONED IN GLASS HOUSES

SANDRA BULLOCK, THE EPISCOPALIAN CHURCH, & MY MESSED-UP KNEE

MAD RAMBLINGS, OCEAN WEST, & SELF-TANNING STRIPPERS

THE PIN-UP, THE FUCK-UP, AND INA GARTEN

THE CURSE

THE SPRING BREAKER

THE WEIRD FEELING IN MY STOMACH