college, Humor, Life


Written after wearing a NASA baseball cap in Starbucks and running into a guy wearing an (acid-washed, but we all make mistakes) NASA t-shirt and saying goodbye to him as my “NASA buddy”. In related news, I’m planning a spring wedding, space-themed.  

I’m sitting on a bench in front of my college, having just ordered a “grande cold brew, with an espresso shot. Light ice” in a high, irritating voice, because if my drink order is going to be complicated as fuck, then I might as well go the full mile. Also, I didn’t get it sweetened because I firmly believe that if your order requires three specifications or more, you’re outing yourself to the world as a potential serial killer. I also put “three” because I’m trying to conceal the fact that I’m a potential serial killer for as long as possible.

I had my first “Zen Meditation” class today, and besides the mortal fear of farting into the silence, I actually found it to be a really interesting experience. We sat like pretzels—srry for appropriating dough culture—we laid down and listened to music, and we talked about shit like “being okay with mental discomfort” and finding more value in the “question, rather than the answer.” Because once you have an answer, you put yourself into a tiny little box and you die.

As I was telling my friend Shelby—remember that salty old bitch?—I feel like a lot of things in my life are getting together and producing a cosmic neon sign about my life. That’s such a millennial thing to think, by the way, that all the forces of the universe are cooperating to send some dickhead blogger a message about his post-graduate aspirations (asspirations, amiright hahaihatemyself). But let me back up.

Here are the signs the universe has been sending me (at the low low cost of $0.99 per text).


1). Zen Meditation: Our teacher (professor? Shaman? Medicine man? Witch?) told us a lot of mdeditation is not following every thought and letting ourselves immerse in the murkiness of the unknown. He didn’t say it as eloquently as that, but I’m embellishing. So much of life is unknown, but the more you worry about it, the more you suck away at the present and lose life. Rough. Rough stuff.

2). Chelsea: I’ve been watching a lot of Chelsea Handler, and she was interviewed by Ashly Perez of BuzzFeed (wow, Microsoft Word recognizes “Ashly” but not “BuzzFeed”), and basically just talked about pursuing what you’re passionate about. That’s an easy thing for a multimillionaire to say, but she brought up Sophia Amoruso, the founder of Nasty Gal. Amoruso started out dumpster-diving for vintage stuff and selling it on eBay. She followed her passion for vintage clothing and it led somewhere lucrative. Doing things purely for money leads you to glassy-eyed, dead-souled hell.

As a graduating senior, the idea of following your dreams is scary as hell, and often gets masked by the need for “job security” and a “healthy income” and a “401k” (idk I think there’s a period in there somewhere but who knows?). our parents want to see returns on the investment they made, and so we feel this pressure (external and internal) to prove that the last four years have resulted in something.

3). Blerg: I’m taking a beat reporting class, and we had to do “mock-interviews” with a partner, research that partner online and then turn that interview into a 100-word profile. Mine was fucking well-written, and my partner discovered my fat whale of a blog. When people discover my blog, I treat it like an entertaining, but stupid, child of mine. Like I’m proud that it’s made you laugh, but I don’t want you to delve too deeply into it and see what I’ve done wrong. In the profile done on me, my interviewer said that I was “hesitant to label myself a journalist” (true) but that I had a lot to say (very fucking true). Part of my weirdness about school is that I’m not a very “journalist-y” journalist. Unbiased reporting bores me. I like drama, I like weirdness, I like being funny. I have no interest in being impartial, or ferreting out the “story.” So to have someone see my blog, arguably the most raw/polished online representation of myself, and ask what I wanted to do for a career, felt a little bit like someone bursting into me taking a shower and asking me what I planned to do about my problem areas.



The interview thing happened before the Zen thing, so I feel like the universe heard my question of “Da fuck am I supposed to do” and answered with “idk but chill out dude.” Technically the question is supposed to be more important than the answer, and I’m not supposed to be comfortable in answers, so maybe the universe actually didn’t answer me, or it was a wrong number. But I’m going to take it as my own.

I don’t have any direction. I don’t have any goal. But I know what I’m good at. And if the universe/Chelsea Handler has made one thing clear, it’s that that’s what I should focus on. Following what drives my passion, what I’m good at, and finding solace in that. And trusting in that.

Did this make any sense? Should it make any sense? Maybe I should pretend that the reason it’s all rambling is because it’s actually elevated thinking and it’s not supposed to make sense and then it seems like I’m smarter than you. Yeah, I’m gonna do that. Just ignore that train of thought and focus on the fact that I’m smarter than you. Much smarter.

In related news, what do you think the Universe thinks of the iPhone 7? Do you think it’s a matte-black or jet-black kind of bitch? What kind of bitch am I? Will I ever be confident enough to get a jet-black phone? Or will I forever float in the safety of silver?

Also I can’t wait for all the horrible monster-gays to decide what phone means what sexual preference you are. I don’t even know if they updated the chart (cuz there’s definitely a chart) for the inclusion of Rose Gold. If anyone says the gays are beasts, they’re totally fucking right.

Omg I just saw someone I have a crush on and I need to look hotter but I don’t. Fuck my life.

Humor, Rambles


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.