Tag Archives: Ina Garten

pop culture, Things Happening RN

THINGS HAPPENING RN: WESTWORLD, INA GARTEN & ANARCHY

It’s 6:55, I just ate orange chicken from Trader Joe’s, and the only thing I’ve done to prepare for this blog in any way is screenshot and alter this photo from the new Ina Garten Facebook page I joined recently. The level of intensity is something I can relate to.

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Source: Danny McCarthy via Facebook

So when I have no ideas, I really like to do this rambling, sexy, elusive, elegant Human Centipede of a blog post—ew—called “Things Happening RN”. It’s a quick and easy way to disappoint and lower expectations when you’re in a time crunch.

1). Westworld

I’m watching HBO’s Westworld and I’m so obsessed with it that I sometimes just scroll through Reddit and look up words like “simulacrum.” I’ve brought it up in conversation with at least two different people, and I badger the girl in my class who told me about it constantly. I’m beginning to think that she probably feels like Dr. Faustus or Dorian Grey—you thought the thing you did was a good idea and now all you want to do is die but you’ve you’re your soul to the Devil (me). I haven’t been hooked on a show-show in a long time, especially a thriller. Between KUWTK and the entire Real Housewives franchise, I’m a very busy TV watcher, but there’s not a lot of substance in the stuff I consume.

Westworld is sci-fi and Western and has this really hot old guy, and thrills and twists and turns. It’s so good; I might do a “recap” or “review” for the finale, BECAUSE THERE’S ONLY TWO EPISODES LEFT, POTENTIALLY UNTIL 2018. I’m gonna start looking into cryogenic freezing a la Walt Disney so that I can go to “sleep” and wake up in 2018, having skipped over the strenuous process of “finding a job” and “figuring out my life.” Such a drag—I’d rather be a frozen carcass for two years. What was I saying again? I’ve lost my train of thought.

2). Kylie Jenner is a grandmother

On Sunday, I was in a coffeehouse with Shelby and she mentioned that Kylie Jenner’s dogs—Norman and Bambi—had babies. At the time, I didn’t believe her, and pretty rudely told her she was a liar and a phony and a fraud. I said this because no news source was covering it, and I could see no baby bump in any of Bambi’s Instagram photos (I don’t follow @normieandbambijenner on Instagram, but obviously I know the name). However, later I discovered that Shelby was—for once—correct about something and that the two dogs had procreated and brought forth two new miniature Italian greyhounds into the world.

There are two things I find unbelievable about this story. Number 1: that Kylie didn’t have her dogs neutered. If you have dogs of opposite sexes, GET THEM NEUTERED. And if you have dogs of the same sex, also get them neutered because otherwise, they’ll fall in love, get married, and adopt the squirrel from the neighbor’s yard. Either way, get your dogs neutered and spayed. Number 2: that Kylie is now a grandmother! She looks amazing, her skin is amazing, and I can’t believe that she’s old enough to have grandbabies. God, time really does fly.

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Source: Danny McCarthy// I’m big enough to admit when (rarely) I’ve been wrong.

3). Ina Garten

I joined an Ina Garten Facebook page because the Real Housewives fanpage of the Real Housewives Fan Podcast page that I was following has been deleted. It was deleted for good reason, because within the course of five months, it had turned into a self-hating, anarchistic hellscape, and had already splintered off into warring secret faction groups. I literally wish I were kidding. I’m not. Anyway, hopefully the childless gays and middle-aged women in the group can be my new Facebook fodder. Judging from the aforementioned screenshot, I would safely bet that I’m in pretty good hands.

4). Thanksgiving

Let’s celebrate the colonists giving smallpox to the Native Americans by overeating undercooked turkey and liquid-y mashed potatoes. Or as I call them “mashed potitties” or “mashed potatas”. Just kidding. I love Thanskgiving. I love eating (watching people eat), I think I’m going to a “football game” with my high school friends (I’ll dress cute and spend the entire time trying to find good lighting despite the early morning gloom), and my family is obsessed with me (they tolerate me). But most of all, I’m excited for the Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life revival. There is literally, and I say this with no hyperbole, no more important thing in my life than this revival. I would let civilizations burn to the ground just to see the revival a few days earlier.

It’s 7:13 and I really don’t think that I can write anymore or get even darker than I already have. I’ve discussed pop culture, television, anarchy, and arson. What else is there to discuss, when you actually think about it? NOTHING. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT. I’ll probably post something on Thanksgiving, but in the meantime—send me some cash on Venmo. I could use it.

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Source: Twitter// I love this meme.

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Life, Rambles

MEMORY CANNIBAL, also known as THE TONYA HARDING STORY

As a writer, you’re constantly handling the balance of how much of your personal life to divulge to your audience. As a comedy person, you’re constantly balancing how much of the painful details to twist into a funny anecdote. So when you’re a comedy writer, you’re basically playing the game of “Which horrific moment of my life can be a funny essay without me completely selling my soul to the Devil, Faustus-style?”

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Source: thatslutinthearmchair.tumblr.com via Giphy. Caveat: I’ve been watching a lot of Happy Endings recently and all of the gifs will come from there. You’re welcome.

I’m not a comedy writer, or a comedy person, or a writer. I’m not even legally a human. But as a professional Ina Garten drag impersonator and someone who operates a blog, I find that more and more, I’m running into that issue. When nothing was happening in my personal life, it was easy to write about it. But as I grow and evolve, and the issues in my life grow and evolve, I am beginning to notice a line in the sand that is harder and harder to cross.

And it’s only until things actually started happening in my life that I realized that the “life” that I was writing about was literally nothing. But now my life is actually starting to roll, and not just in the same sense as the Gloucester Cheese Roll Competition. Because that’s funny.

There is an intense impulse to publish for writers. My journalism professor talks about that impulse all the time, or at least I’m assuming he does, because I spend most of my time in that class reading RuPaul’s Drag Race recaps. But when something happens to me, like that time I fell down the stairs or the time I sat on a plate of quesadillas or any time I make a fool of myself in front of a boy, my first instinct is to share it, Tweet it, or blog it. And that instinct is more than just the desire to share something that happens. It’s the desire to take back control of the situation.

Blogging incapsulates your life, packaging it into palatable, hilarious little morsels. The tale of me getting hurt by the first boy I cared about becomes a funny essay. A bad date becomes fodder for griping. The various aches and pains of existing as a real-life scarecrow—my brand—translates into rubbery antics. Writing takes the sting out of embarrassment and hurt and pain, and turns it into comedy. And on one hand, it’s extremely cathartic. It provides me the distance to process and dissect something, to take myself out of the equation.

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Source: jparx.tumblr.com via Giphy

Recently things have been happening to me. Some are amazing. Some are terrible. And my first instinct has always been to blog about them. But for the wrong reasons. I want to take myself out of these moments, but I’m also afraid to. I’m afraid to talk about the crazy, shitty things that are monumental in my life because then I relinquish control of them. They cease being intimate to me. They become content, public domain. They are no longer mine. And that’s been hard to come to terms with. That some things could easily be sting-less and funny and palatable, but that would mean losing my place in them. It would be accepting them as past and renaming them as something meant to be consumed.

My wanting to blog them is my wanting to stop them from hurting. Things have been rough lately, and that kneejerk reaction to make the bad thing stop is very much in play. But sometimes things have to hurt. I can’t—I shouldn’t—blog my way out of this. I’m trying not to make it into a joke or a punchline or a laugh. I’m trying to give it gravity. It’s really fucking hard, and lousy and frustrating. Because my instinct, as a writer and a former dork and a wannabe cool kid, is to cannibalize, produce and de-sting all the awkard’s and ew’s and damn’s of my life.

I’m a memory cannibal, and that’s not always a bad thing. A lot of amazing things come out of shitty situations, but I’m in this weird position of realizing that if I mean to take this writing thing seriously, there are lines in the sand that I have to respect. One of my favorite writers, Ryan O’Connell, wrote about the same kind of experience. And as he got older, he realized that he couldn’t just write about every drug trip, bad sexual experience, and “Ouch-funny” moment that happened. That knowing the difference is the divide between “writing” and “being a writer.”

So in true self-absorbed writer fashion, I’m writing about writing about something. Maybe one day in the future, when I have enough money to hire a defense lawyer, I’ll tell some of the stories that I’m keeping in the vault. They’ll be good then, and I’ll have distance. And in my tell-all book, Telling It All—The Tonya Harding Story (Just Kidding, It’s Me, Danny), I’ll reference this blog post, and people will go to their antique Macs and pull up the article while sitting in their hover-houses with their pleasure-robots (I hope).

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Celebrity Sunday, Life, pop culture, Rambles

WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING: KYLIE JENNER HAS HER GRIP ON THE THROAT OF POP CULTURE AND NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING TO STOP IT

Did you miss these? You didn’t care? That’s fine. I didn’t care either. I didn’t even THINK ABOUT IT, DEREK. Just kidding, I thought of you all the time. I wrote you every day for a year. That’s from The Notebook, right? That seems like a lot of work. Also, did you not get the hint when a year went by without a response? Take a hint: either she’s dead, illiterate, or over you.

I ate like complete garbage this weekend, and my body is sorely paying me back for the abuse I’ve put it through. I’ll try to be better, body. Although the other day, I woke up, looked in the mirror, and just thought that my body looked snatched. In a good way; not in a “snatched as in Taken” kind of way.

Anyway, anyway—let’s dive into some good, old-fashioned, Wunderkindof-prime, grade A beef.

WHAT’S HAPPENING RN:

1). Kylie Jenner released her new line of glosses: If you didn’t get that tidbit from her gloss-release video, that’s fine. That video was more confusing than watching an old Italian movie sans subtitles. It basically involves Kylie lounging in a Rolls Royce while three girls—the embodiment of her glosses “Like,” “Literally,” and “So Cute”—serve us some Breaking Bad–Nikita realness.

It’s smart of Kylie to branch out into something other than the Lip Kit, and the release of the glosses prove me right when I predicted that the change of her Instagram name from “lipkitbykylie” to “kyliecosmetics” means that she’s going to be a make-up mogul. If she releases a line of jungle-themed cosmetics, then she might be a make-up Mowgli. Ah? Ah? No? That’s fine.

The addition of “Like,” “Literally,” and “So Cute” up her lipcare products to eleven, and cement her dainty, Cartier Love bracelet grip on the throat of pop culture.

2). Beyoncé released a clothing line called Ivy Park: Everyone is jumping on this athleisure train and Beyoncé is leading as conductor, which would actually be a fitting sequel to “Telephone.” It’s a lot of black and gray and white, with “IVY PARK” branded everywhere—which is…chic, let’s be honest. But is it weird that I’m a tiny bit over it already? Maybe it’s the fact that everywhere we look we have celebrity products—let us all take a moment for Yeezy Season Threezy—but I want to be wowed. I’ll be wowed by the Formation album, but let me know when Beyoncé drops a line of affordable menswear capes.

3). Trump stuck in his foot in his mouth and somehow this time managed to screw up: Donald Trump said, when pushed by MSBNC town hall host Chris Matthews, that women who receive abortions should be punished. This then set off a whirling dervish of statements, reversals, and redactions, which proves that Trump neither has no idea what he’s saying and really doesn’t actually care. I’m glad that people are starting to hold him accountable, and force him to take a stance, rather than allow him to hide behind bluffing, waffling, and running out the clock. I wrote an entire article about it for The Odyssey Online, which I’ll link here when it comes out, because I don’t feel like repeating myself.

4). I started watching The Real O’Neals and Difficult People and both made me only mildly uncomfortable: Because I spent most of this weekend trying to lure people to my apartment—friends, not lovers or strangers—I ended up watching a lot of Hulu. I used to hate Hulu because it’s kind of the fucking worst, but it has some good shows on it. I found The Real O’Neals which is both unrealistic on a Catholic level and on a homosexual level, but it makes me feel slightly better about being a gay from a private Catholic school background, and also slightly worse because why can my skin have been that flawless while I was in high school? Then Difficult People makes me feel both slightly better about being mean to people and infinitely worse about wanting to make people laugh at/like me a profession.

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Source: Giphy

5). Will I ever not read into cute boys following me on Instagram?: Survey says…probably not.

6). I dressed in blacks and grays today, and did a Mary-Kate Olsen mouth: Which is neither a cry for help nor a victory, but somehow both and neither. This weekend I actively tried to be lazy. I succeeded, and somehow that didn’t make me feel better. It didn’t make me feel worse though, so I guess that’s a success.

7). Can I rant for a second: So I was sitting at Pavement, a coffeehouse on campus because sometimes I can’t help but be insufferably stereotypical—I also stare out of windows when it’s raining, so get those stones ready—and my laptop was dying because it’s old and the free Internet was about to run out. I stand up, start putting my stuff into my bag and before I could say “Beetlejuice” three times, someone was already standing right next to me.

“Are you leaving?” she asked. “Oh, yeah, I am,” I said, brightly. Then she starts dumping her stuff onto the table, nearly crushing my new J.Crew sunglasses. Now, I can hover with the best of them when it comes to securing coffeehouse tables, but there are rules, as typical to any civilized society. One: don’t move in before I’m ready. Two: don’t mess with my stuff. Three: back off, bitch, you’ll get your table.

I wanted to pinch her so hard, but I needed coffee more, and even though I was in a coffee shop, I walked four minutes away to the nearest Starbucks because my mom gave me a gift card and I’m skint.

8). What is the acceptable amount of time to absent-mindedly stare at someone before it gets weird: I was on the street the other day, and I read a text from a friend who had seen me walking on the street, commented on my outfit, leading me to absently stare around, looking for him. I then realize, when a person started walking toward me, that I had been staring accidentally at an acquaintance and she thought I was non-absently looking at her.

It wasn’t a horrible interaction, but I keep getting caught doing things like this—staring at people accidentally, or smiling at them when I don’t mean to but that small desire to be liked wins out. I thought I had an unlikable face—in fact, I was kind of banking on it—but the world refuses to acknowledge that, and everyone thinks that I want to be their best friend. Truth update: I have one best friend, and her name is Ina Garten and she doesn’t know I exist. There’s no other room in my world for extraneous people. Cue the mantra: “Don’t be extra-nice to extraneous.” In my head, that kind of worked.

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I only got mildly misanthropic in this blog post, so it’s a win. But then again, I managed to turn a “what’s happening in the world” post into a “what’s currently wrong in the seventh-grade science fair experiment that is my life” so let’s call today an Even-Stevens.

On a side note, I can’t wait to be 37 and bitter. Being 20 and bitter is exhausting, and—frankly—not great for my skin.

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Holidannys

MISCELLANEOUS MONDAY: I WENT BACK TO THE GYM AND IT WAS AWFUL

How do I get the life of Ina Garten, Hamptons house and a Jewish husband and all that, without having to go through her career of a White House budget analyst and cooking store mogul? Ponder that while you read this post and then message me privately. I would be very curious to know.

It’s Miscellaneous Monday on da blog, so I’m just going to ramble about the various goings-on of my life. Prepare for glamour. Pause for chic. Buckle in for disappointment.

Okay, so I wrote that paragraph and then immediately sunk back into Ina’s world and am now watching her make carrot salad. She’s already done a coq au vin, a chocolate cheesecake, stuffed Cornish hens, garlic mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, and made an entire chocolate wedding cake. I think her show counts more in the science fiction realm, rather than cookery, because literally how is she not 1,000 pounds? And how is Jeffrey not dead from consuming so much chocolate ganache?

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literally me typing this blog.

I was watching while I was wrapping presents, and despite not having a ton of presents to wrap, it took me a while. I’m not a great wrapper—or a great rapper—so it’s a process. And Ina really makes me move slowly, as slowly as molasses dripping onto a freshly made Belgian waffle.

I’m also moving slowly because I started back up at the gym this week. I’ve done a legs-and-abs workout, a triceps-and-shoulders workout, and a back-and-biceps workout, and I literally feel like I am about to die. I forgot how sore you can be, and it’s been almost two months since I really worked out in any solid capacity. But I think I was completely ready to get back into the swing of things, even though not working out gives you so much free time to watch Netflix and eat ice cream. Like, truly, that’s all I did.

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I went to the mall today—let’s go to the mall!—and I was shopping and I kind of hate all shop workers. Like, I know that it’s your job to say hi to me and ask me if I need help, but I hate you. I have to do the same thing; I get it, we all work in the service industry, but please let me browse these LUSH bath bombs in peace. I don’t need you to draw attention to the fact that I’ve been deciding between two different facial cleansers for the last ten minutes. We both know what’s been happening.

And the thing I noticed a lot is that they wanted my email a lot. Usually, they don’t ask, but this time they did, and I was so put off that I just gave it to them. But why do you need it? Why can’t I just buy this lotion in peace, and then slink off to Urban Outfitters to secretly check the sales, even though Urban is awful humanitarian-wise and I shouldn’t give them my business?

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So gymming and shopping for Christmas presents—that’s really all I’ve done. Oh, and I keep doing this thing where I’ll dress like a human being for 1-2 hours when I go outside, and then as soon as I’m back in my house, I get into my Primark sweatpants and lie on the floor of my room. I have a bed. I just don’t use it. Right now I’m leaning against an armchair. Only after an hour of doing this with a sore butt did I think it might be a possibility for me to go into the armchair. But that’s too much work.

Everything is futile and everything will be sucked into the ether eventually!

HAPPY HOLIDANNYS!

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Humor, Life, Rambles

FRATTY FIFTEEN

I’m not going to lie to you guys—I didn’t dress up as Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers for Halloween. I was totally going to, but I put on the t-shirt and sweatpants and looked down at myself and felt so acutely un-cute that I was like, “Errrr.” And then I was in my kitchen and my flatmate comes in and he asked me what I was doing for Halloween and I told him and then he asked me when I was getting into my costume.

“I am in my costume,” I stare at him.

He stares back at me. Eyes flick down to the sweatpants. “Oh. I thought you were in pajamas.”

I wordlessly scream at him.

So I decided to put on a pair of black skinny jeans, draw a tombstone on my shirt and write “My Dream” above it. I was going to write out “My Dreams” but I’m not good at planning and—frankly—I ran out of space. And then on top of that, I painted my face like a skull.

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Really, I’ve never looked better.

So for Halloween this year, I went as “My Dreams Are Dead!”

“Oh!” My mom shrieked a little bit when I showed her my make-up.

I felt bad for ditching my original costume, but I didn’t feel that bad because it’s not an actual person and even if it was, I have difficulty processing emotions. So. On Actual Halloween I went to a club with a DJ who insisted on playing The Worst Of The ‘80s and then we waited in line for almost two hours to go to this really fancy 24-hour restaurant on the 40th floor of a downtown London skyscraper to have duck confit and waffle and by the time I got home it was 5:30 am and even now everything is fuzzy. On Fake Halloween—aka Friday—aka the Beginning of Halloweekend—

Side bar: I fucking hate when people say Halloweekend even though I used it this weekend but I’m allowed to (ironically, obviously)

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Danny + Jenny 4NEVER

—I went on a pub crawl in a ~hip~ and ~cool~ part of London called Shoreditch and I was a sexy lumberjack—short khaki shorts that I cuffed even higher on my pale thighs; red flannel shirt unbuttoned almost to my bellybutton; gray beanie—but to make it ~spooky~ I painted on a slit throat because I wanted to add depth to my performance. It was very well received. People were very attracted to me. Rightly. Interestingly enough, people were less attracted to me when I was a skeleton, even though my entire mug was completely covered in paint. Weird.

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Speaking of ugly mugs, I was looking through pictures of people I went to high school with. AYOOOO WHAT A SEGUE. No there is really something very satisfying and emotionally vindicating about going through the photos of people from high school and being able to decide whether or not they’ve gotten worse-looking or not.

I was talking to a guy I went to high school with; we were friends but more friendly but friends but also I think we were both a little bit of a bitch in high school and that really bonds two people. My friend—let’s call him Lucas—also likes dudes so we were dishing and there is something very satisfying about talking to someone from my high school—all boys—about boys. I was grilling him about his hot friends. He wasn’t grilling me about mine because I was the hottest friend. And then we just started looking at the guys we went to high school with.

Some of them have gained what I call the “Fratty Fifteen” where you join a fraternity, drink enough beer to feed/drown an Amish village, and gain fifteen pounds in your neck/face area, and also I’m hotter than you. Side effects of the Fratty Fifteen also include a beer gut and a superiority complex inherited by me. So yeah, a bunch of them look like forty-year-old dads and I am living for it.

Still stings. Just kidding I'm fine. I have no pride or dignity.

Still stings. Just kidding I’m fine. I have no pride or dignity.

Of course there’s the guys who have gotten way hotter since high school but those I just make into voodoo dolls for later. Halloween may be over but being a witchy bitch is year-round. It was nice to connect to him. Lucas, if you’re reading this, you go girl! And if you can’t figure out if I’m talking about you, dafuq dude? Seriously?

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white ppl, amiright?

white ppl, amiright?

With the advent of a new month, I have done away with all of my Halloween social media fixings. For my laptop wallpaper, I went with a simple Pinterest-y background. I try to find something funny for my wallpaper, like “Hocus Pocus and Chill” but nothing really funny happens in November and Thanksgiving isn’t really funny because of the Trail of Tears and smallpox and just generally white people and also feeling fat, so I decided to go for the “pretty” route.

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

For my Facebook and Twitter headers, I went for a “Queens of Cooking” theme and did Ina Garten for my Twitter, and my Kween Kris Jenner on the kover of her kookbook. Also, why has Kris Jenner not released a holiday-themed cookbook and called it “Merry Krismas?” Like I don’t want to do the job of her marketing team, but come on people the opportunity is shaking its tits in your face. Metaphorically, of course.

@KrisJenner, let's talk about

@KrisJenner, let’s talk about “Merry Krismas”? Call me?

My phone background is currently Kris Jenner and Ina Garten as well, but that’s more of a placeholder until I find something else. I change my phone background more than Kylie Jenner changes wigs—

*Holds for canned audience applause and knocks on my microphone—“Is this thing on?”*

—and it really depends on my mood.

Side bar: it took me a solid five minutes of minute adjustment to get these photos centered. So be happy. S/o to Shelby. Ily and our joint love of artisanal glass-blown dildos. And that’s not the only thing being blown. AYOO I’ll leave.

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I went grocery shopping today and bought more donuts. I regret nothing. I regret some things. But not this. Never this.

*****

P.S. I look so chiseled as a skeleton.

Okay bye!

Xoxo Gossip Squirrel

I want to get this to 1000 words, so imagine that Gossip Girl was actually a squirrel.

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Humor

I KILLED KRIS JENNER. I KILLED THE TEEN DREAM.

I rarely remember my dreams, and usually they dissolve from my memory within minutes of waking up. But recently I’ve been having crazy-vivid dreams, so I thought I would share a few of them. The dreams I remember the most fall into two categories: either they’re about me kissing someone, or they’re about me regretting something.

Dream #1: I purchased a grey suede Marc Jacobs briefcase for $1600. I don’t know why I purchased this, or how, but I apparently did. The color was bomb; and I think a rich, charcoal-silver grey suede is one of the most chic things ever.

Dream #2: I accidentally killed Kris Jenner and Scott Disick with a plague and then had to cover up the deaths.Screen Shot 2015-07-05 at 6.31.57 PM

Now, weirdly enough, I can kind of explain these dreams. Firstly, the grey suede Marc Jacobs briefcase: the previous day I was watching Rich Kids of Beverly Hills—an all-time favorite of mine—and one of the characters—is it called a character if it’s a reality show?—who is an interior decorator, was looking at sofas and saw this bomb grey suede sofa and it was luxurious.

Rich Kids of Beverly Hills holds a special place in my heart. Primarily, it’s an amazing show that has really given me the gift of unparalleled gifs. Secondarily, on one of the only “friend-dates” I’ve ever gone on, I went over to my—now very close—friend Shelby’s room and we watched Rich Kids and bonded over our mutual love of screaming suburban mothers’ names out loud. The main star of RKOBH, Morgan Stewart, calls her mother by her first name: “Susan.” Shelby and I found that—for whatever reason—so unbelievably funny and it’s been our calling card, our inside joke, ever since. So whenever I watch RKOBH I’m reminded of Shelby and Susan and friend-dating and awkwardly asking someone I only tangentially knew to watch one of my favorite shows with me.

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Morgan laying down some stone cold truth.

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SUSAN

Side bar: another one of my friend dates was inviting over a—again, now very close—friend to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and eat snacks. For all intents and purposes, I’ll call him Marco. Side, side bar: wasn’t blown away by Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Side, side, side bar: will I be stabbed for saying that?

ANYWAY, ANYWAY, ANYWAY

I don’t know where the briefcase comes into the story because A) briefcases are so irrelevant know that we all have iPads and B) I’m like twelve why would I be thinking of briefcases? Regardless, in my dream I was sticking by my decision, but when I woke up—still in the haze of fresh-dream-slumber—I snatched up my phone and checked the balance of my bank account. Side bar: I just had to pay my phone bill, and now I’m like real life low-key depressed about how little is left in my account.

The briefcase dream reminded me of another dream I had, months ago when I was still in spring semester. If you’ve ever talked to me for more than ten minutes, you know that eventually I want to get tattoos. I’m waiting until I’m out of college, but it’s definitely something I’m going to do. But I’m not going to list out the tattoos I want because you’ll have to chat to me to find out—Hint, it’s going to be a pair of angel wings right over my crotch. Oops, that’s not really a hint. But anyway, in the dream, I had gotten a tattoo of the outline of the United States—continental, of course—and dotting the inside of the tattoo were stars in every place where I’ve said “I love you.”

Weirdly enough—or not weirdly enough—I only had like two stars, and both were in random places. One was in upstate New York, and one was in Colorado-area. Like, dude, I can barely point out Colorado on a map.

But in both of these dreams, I’ve woken up and still had the clinging threads of the dreams in my head. When I woke up from the tattoo, I jolted upright, looked at my wrist, saw bare skin, and then flopped back against the pillows.

The second dream—the original second dream—is a lot harder to explain. Okay, it’s impossible to explain. I love Kris Jenner and I NEVER want her to die. I would throw myself in front of a train before I ever harmed her or her Celine sunglasses. I also don’t want to analyze these homicidal dream tendencies because let’s not open up that can of worms. All I can say is that it was a nightmare and even though it was a dream, I would like to formally apologize to Kris Jenner and Scott Disick. Kris, I love you. Always. Call me. Let’s get lunch.

While writing this post, I spent a good twenty minutes perusing the Internet. Five minutes was spent reading through the Twitter handle @DrunkInaGarten and fifteen minutes was spent reading about media in Salt Lake City, Utah. I have this weird obsession—firstly with Ina—with Salt Lake City, and I’ve always fantasized about moving there, so I was looking up what media they have in the city that I can work at. And just looking at the magazines and radio stations and TV stations made me wonder how on Earth I’m going to be able to find a job where I can write whatever I want and make enough money to become friends with Ina Garten. I’m not saying Ina pays for friends; I’m just saying that there’s a definite minimum level of wealth before she’ll even turn her head towards your general direction.

How do people have their dream jobs? Maybe I shouldn’t have my dream job, because my dreams consist of buying things I can’t afford, getting horrible tattoos, and accidentally killing pop culture matriarchs. But those might classify as nightmares, so right now is this a moot point? God knows.

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