Humor, Life, pop culture

WHAT’S HAPPENING RN: I’M A ROLE MODEL BUT I REALLY SHOULDN’T BE

Written after I just contributed to my friend’s blog so I’m ridING HIGH AND FEELING GOOD.  

Read the article I wrote for The Odyssey Online responding to Donald Trump’s claims that he will protect the LGBTQ community here!

In the past week, I have been extremely social. I went to a bar on Wednesday, I went to a party on Friday, and I hung out with two of my best friends on Saturday. Part of me is exhilarated with the contact of people who are not seven years old, and part of me is so over-exerted that I want to hang upside down like a bat and fall asleep forever.

It was a fun change of pace to hang out with different people in different settings, and it only made me mildly misanthropic. Sometimes even I think me using big words is just a ploy for attention. Like, I have used the word “fastidious” in common conversation probably thrice in the last week. Omg, fuck—I cannot stop myself.

After contributing to another blog, I’ve realized that a lot of my blog posts have been rather repetitious and I want to try to branch out again. Remember when I was super into television reviews? How fun was that! I never thought I would say this, but I’m—almost—tired of writing about myself. Scary thought. I would suggest that it’s merely I’m becoming less narcissistic, but we all know that that’s not the case. I spent twenty minutes staring at myself in the mirror to decide which t-shirt I looked better in—black, white, or gray. I chose black. I look so hot in black. But I also look so hot in white. You see my dilemma.

Anywayanywayanyway.

Before I stop being so self-centered/writing about myself so much, I want to dish about Things That Are Happening RN/Have Been Happening In My Life.

Things That Are Happening RN:

1). First and foremost, I was called a role model a few days ago, and I have never been high-key more insulted: Let’s dress the scene (not an expression, but I’m going with it). I’m at a party, and someone who is a mere two years younger than me called me their “role model.” Now, I understand that I am model-thin and model-tall. I also understand that I am capable of “rolling with the homies.” However, these two things do not a role model make. I have role models, but who are decades older than me and are accomplished. This is not a back-door brag, or an attempt to linger in my own praises—you guys know that I’m more than comfortable in talking about myself and my maaaany accomplishments.

But for someone who is TWO YEARS YOUNGER than me to call me their role model makes me feel A) unsexy, B) old, and C) OLD AS FUCK. I mean, I suppose on one end I am flattered that someone thinks I’m worthy of that, but on the other hand I’M NOT A THOUSAND YEARS OLD. I’m a mere child. I’m twelve. Granted, he was completely sloshed when emphatically telling me this, but I’M NOT A ROLE MODEL. I’M JUST A REGULAR MODEL. This experience has traumatized me, and I have regressed even futher into my antics so that NO. ONE. EVER. CALLS. ME. A. ROLE MODEL. EVER. AGAIN.

Mark my words, I will act so horribly that no one will ever look up to me ever again. Maybe if I got arrested, he would change his opinion. I’m too good for my own good.

2). I joined a private Facebook group that is a fanclub for a Real Housewives franchise breakdown podcast: Since apparently people think I’m basically forty, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. I have been listening to Bitch Sesh for a few months, which I highly highly highly recommend for anyone who watches any Real Housewives series. The co-hosts, Casey Wilson (of Happy Endings fame) and Danielle Schneider (who created The Hotwives of Atlanta on Hulu), are UCB alums and are fucking AMAZING. Anyway, I love them so much that I decided to look up the fan-created Facebook page, “Bitch Sesh by Alene Two” (inside joke), and saw that it was a private group. Before I asked to join, I looked through the people who have already joined, and I s2g I’m not lying when I say it was all middle-aged ladies and middle-aged (for a gay dude) gays.

I was mentioning this to someone the other day, but I can’t wait to be middle-aged. At this point, I’m kinda not into wanting kids, so by forty I want to be pleasantly plump, married to someone hot, a successful writer, and wear ex.clu.sive.ly silk kaftans. And being a part of this Bitch Sesh fanpage makes me feel a modicum closer to my eventual goal.

And the irony is not lost on me that I have joined a fan club for a fan club for the Real Housewives. Remember when I used to be so political? THIS IS BETTER.

3). Kim Kardashian and Taylor Swift: Hilariously, my gym was playing “Bad Blood” off 1989—which is the. Most. Loaded. Song.—and so I—hilariously—tweeted this joke and it was immediately favorited (did you know that “Favorited” is not a recognized word in Microsoft??? Microsoft Word is so not millennial-friendly) by the Twitter account “Zesty Kim K News”—it was not favorited by any Taylor Swift accounts. However, I know that I will literally end friendships if I keep talking about the Taylor-Kim drama, so I’ll try to tone it down.

4). A co-worker’s mother called me “very good-looking” (HER WORDS NOT MINE): This is just a brag. It made me feel very good about myself. Further proof that moms love me. It should be noted that this mother saw me in the morning, before I was subjected to multiple hours in the sun, covered in sweat and sunscreen. Once I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror after the workday (before a shower) and I was horrified at how meth-addict-y I look after so much physical work. Further proof that I should only do jobs inside with AC.

5). I’ve been going on Pinterest more: There are absolutely no male-oriented (but not entirely, because gender isn’t a binary anyway) fashion/style blogs that interest me, but Pinterest has some photos that are more in my wheelhouse. My style is trending towards “sexy science nerd” meets “dad on vacation” meets “timid Seattle grunge”, and that’s not a hot search topic. If anyone has any good Tumblrs that seem like they might encompass some of my style needs, feel free to drop me a line.

I really don’t have more things to talk about. I’m still getting out of that depression slump, but it’s actually getting towards the end. I’m not really upset about that, because I understand that that’s just my body’s natural cycles. Totally understandable (only what a depressed person could say about their depression).

I’m in a weird place romantically because I’m like 99% the Boy I unfollowed on social media unfollowed me back (“unfollowed” is also not a recognized word—Microsoft why r u being so social media-phobic???), which I shouldn’t care about because I unfollowed him first but I’m crazy. I’ll deal. And there are approximately 1.5 viable options of boyz at my work, so THAT’S GREAT. NOT SAD AT ALL.

I’m trying to find new music. I’m veeery into podcasts, but there are times (especially when I’m at the gym) where I can’t power-sprint to two friends dishing about politics, so I need to listen to my Spotify. I am obsessed with the “Discover Weekly” playlists, because sometimes they are incredibly on-trend with me. Sometimes they pick songs that I would describe as only appropriate for a gay caricature or someone without ears. I’ve rediscovered Grace Potter and am listening to her latest album. Not bad.

In other music news, check out this song my best friend—HE’S A DJ, I’M HIP—just put together. It has “Me Too” in it (I don’t know dj lingo, so I’m just using cooking lingo) and a dash of “beats” (get it, like “beets”??) in there too. Totally delicious, and I’m so proud.

P.S. One of my coworkers/friends claimed “Hot Sauce” as her Wunderkindof pseudonym. I should mention that all the previous monikers were entirely jokes, and not meant to represent my coworkers. This coworker decided to make the joke hers and DEVOUR THAT NAME. Love you, Hot Sauce.

Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter and Instagram. Here are some funny jokes I’ve made on Twitter recently. My Instagram is not very funny.

 

Standard
Humor, pop culture

TAYLORGATE: KIM KARDASHIAN IS THE INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST OF OUR GENERATION

Written after a nearly 13-hour workday. So tired I didn’t even consider writing “werkday.” That’s a lie. I thought about it.  

S/o to my coworker/friend/workout buddy Melanie (I’m too tired to think of a real pseudonym) for our extended work day. Also s/o to my other coworkers Lazy-Eye, Thinks She’s Pretty, Mittens, Tonya Harding, Voldemort, Real Housewives, Hot Sauce, and Rumplestiltskin. You guys are awful, but also hot?? I can’t figure it out.

I eventually want to address more serious topics, but the thought of exercising my brain in that direction is too much rn, so we’re going to move onto something that LIGHTS MY FIRE.

So much has gone since 2009 that I can’t even begin to recap it, but I’ll try to do my best. 2009 VMAs, Taylor Swift wins Best Music Video or whatever, over “Single Ladies.” Kanye storms the stage and says Bey deserved the award—true. Taylor gains massive popularity—kind of rightfully. Kanye is totally besmirched in the press—kind of rightfully. Both stars continue on their way, making a tentative peace the same way two rival prides of lions make a tenuous alliance.

All is relatively calm until Kanye releases “Famous” off the album The Life of Pablo. The lines “I think me and Taylor might still have sex; why? I made that bitch famous” strike a fire in Taylor, and she says in a later speech not to pay any mind to people who will try to “undercut and make claims to your fame.” V relatable.

giphy4

Source: People // GIVE US THE FACTS, KIM.

Kanye lashes back and says that Taylor knew and gave consent for the lyrics. Kim K concurs. Taylor basically calls Kim a brainwashed Stepford wife. Kim K says, “Rlly bitch?? We got video, hunty.” Taylor shits her pants but does not back down. The ruckus simmers. Recently, Calvin Harris and Tay broke up, then Calvin badmouthed Taylor (called her boring, again—kind of rightfully) and Taylor leaked that she wrote Harris’ summer Rihanna anthem “This is What You Came For.” Tbh I could take or leave the song. But that’s neither here nor there.

People are calling Taylor a snake, and Kim K—in time for the airing of the KUWTK episode that deals with the “Famous” drama—decides to pull out her fucking Sherlock Holmes cape and SnapChats the entire video that shows Kanye on the phone with a very-on-board Taylor Swift, thus apparently proving that Taylor was a tay-liar, and her high-waisted jorts were v much on fire. Kim showed the world the other side of Tay, and thus proved that she is more influential than Woodward and Bernstein combined. Kim makes Watergate like a middle school rumor mill. Bow down.

Taylor says the part she has an issue with was the “I made that bitch famous,” which she claims Kanye never cleared with her. But from what I glean from TayTay, I doubt that she was fine with “I think I could have sex with Taylor Swift” and not fine with “I made that bitch famous.” Seems like you’re upset about the wrong apart, Tay.

After this—a scene that makes Cersei Lannister blowing up King’s Landing with wildfire look like a FUCKING PLAYGROUND FIGHT—Selena Gomez decides to stop trying to revive her career and tweet on Taylor’s behalf. “Let’s use our platform for real issues,” she said. EXCEPT she has never tweeted about Alton Sterling, or Philando Castile, or any Black Lives Matter movement, or anything of that ilk. She tweeted about Orlando. But when t comes to defending a white woman, suddenly everyone wants to focus on “real issues.” Chloe Grace Moretz concurred with Selena Goawaymez, but she’s tweeted more about shoes than she has about social issues. Khloe got involved and tweeted an unfortunate picture of a girl she thought was Chloe, but it wasn’t. A for effort, Khlo, but no dice.

Part of me thinks this is a conspiracy concocted by Kim K and Tay—the witches of Macbeth—but that seems very extreme, given the excessive vitriol being lashed at Taylor. I think this because it’s very unlike Kim, who keeps everything in her queendom neat and ordered, to go off script like that and show something as messy as unveiling Tayliar Snake. Also, there is the whole “Search” aspect of the Taylor Swift note, which suggests that it was previously written and recalled for the occasion.

I would like to take a line from the Taylor Swift Instagram note. “I would very much like to be excluded from this narrative, one I never asked to be a part of, since 2009.” Most of me thinks that this proves that Taylor Swift is just like everyone in the entertainment industry—largely concerned with projecting their own narrative. Which is fine, dude, but own up to it. Don’t try to destroy other people to protect your own image. Taylor Swift has included herself in that narrative, making herself the victim of Kanye West. She chose to indulge in that dialogue, to make herself a character in that storyline. She is the one who wrote a song about it, who kept bringing it up, who allowed it to buoy her. Don’t throw stones at the glass house you just walked out of. Don’t burn bridges that you might need to cross over again.

Taylor has made bank off of being the victim, playing off the racism in America that allows us to come to the defense of a white woman who is the “victim” of a black man, even when that black man has  done nothing wrong. He wrote a lyric about her? And what has she made her career off of if not writing about other people? Kanye West is not perfect, but stop pretending Taykor is. And this is not a dig at her relationships, or an attempt at slut-shaming. That should not be important to the conversation. What is important is that Taylor Swift is a pop powerhouse and media mogul. She is every bit as powerful as Kanye. She is not the underdog any longer.

And shockingly, I found myself agreeing with Selenirrelevant Gomez—celebrities, use your fucking platforms for something actually constructive. I was grateful for this welcome distraction from issues such as the Dallas shootings, or the Baton Rouge shootings, or the mistreatment of Leslie Jones, or the still prevalent restrictions of abortion—WHICH IS LEGAL—or the still discussion of same-sex marriage, or the fact that Trump made Mike Pence—who LEGALIZED queer discrimination in Indiana—as his VP. Sometimes we need something dumb to give us a breather, and to make us realize what is really important.

We need to care more about social justice issues than social media. I think that the Tayliar situation reflects a lot of how our society thinks, but we need to focus on issues that require real, dynamic change. I’m a complete pop cultural anthropologist/junkie/apologist, but even I understand that this debacle is PENNIES compared to what else is going on. I wish the people I see in my life and on social media who are as fired up about taking sides in the Kan-Tay-Kim fight would be as passionate about other issues. No tea, no shade, but we need to pour our influence towards real change.

And lastly, remember that Beyoncé’s sheer greatness created a feud between two of the most powerful alphas in the entertainment industry. She did this by accident. Imagine what havoc Queen Bey could cause on purpose.

The moral of this article is: Buy “Lemonade” on iTunes. You don’t want to know what might happen if you don’t.

Standard
Life, Rambles

I’M NOT AN ADULT, LET ME DRINK MY CAPRISUN IN PEACE

Written immediately after watching a BuzzFeed video that included a “confidence and style coach” who had put his dreads up into tiny Miley Cyrus/Princess Leia buns, so know that that has deeply affected me and all that I will be doing for the rest of the day.

SOS ADDENDUM: After I went to sleep, #KimExposedTaylorParty happened and I didn’t have time to comment. Now I’m writing this on my way to work. I WILL BE devoting an entire post to this but my workplace doesn’t recognize “Pop Culture Hangover Mental Health Days” despite my lobbying, so I can’t rn. Long story short, Kim released a video via Snapchar proving that Kanye discussed the lyrics to “Famous” with Taylor Swift, who had said previously that the lyrics were a surprise to her. THIS IS MY WATERGATE.

I feel like I’ve spent the last four days just repeating “Writing is the only thing I’m good at” to people. Which, I mean, is basically true. I can’t do math, or science; I have yet to grab the concept of “stocks” (so you buy them, and then what?? You just keep them?); and I lack the patience to learn any other sort of trade. If I weren’t good at writing, then I would be Darwinned out of existence.

I think that if I didn’t have a blind self-adoration and narrow focus about my writing, then I might be deterred to being a little bit more realistic and proactive. As it is now, I just pretend that me having no job and writing with my laptop on my chest and my chin doubling is me “struggling” for my “art.” Also I get to refer to myself as a “creative” which omg is the literary equivalent of saying that you’re “studying kabbalah”.

It’s weird, because I’m being influenced on two fronts. On the personal peer front (the PPF) I’m being bombarded with friends and acquaintances with internships and (what’s another word like “internship” but not? Apprenticeship??) and omg even this girl who I hate/don’t know has her Twitter picture as something obnoxious like “I Won An Award”—I only hate her because she refused to follow me back on Twitter and now Twitter reminds me of that fact constantly by putting her in my “People You Should Follow” bracket; I also hate her because she’s one of those “ugh, over it” people—and people like that can suck an egg.

But on the other side, I’m being heavily buoyed by podcasts and Internet people and writers who are already successful and doing their thing. And usually that would make me want to body-check someone or roll out of a moving car, but for some reason I actually find it very inspiring. These are people who just grabbed what they wanted and decided to do it. And that makes me feel a little less like a loser; and it makes me feel more like “Hey, I could do this; other people did this and aren’t dying on the streets.” My greatest fear is dying on the streets/living with my parents forever. I Rihfuse to do it.

People put intense pressure on themselves and—more unfairly—on others to have things together at a young age. Things aren’t the way they used to be (to be fair, I’m only, like, twelve and a half, so I don’t know how things “used to be”). But here’s a general rule of thumb: if I’m not old enough to drink (legally)*, you shouldn’t be allowed to ask me what my plans are for the rest of my life. Let me drink my CapriSun in peace, you mutant.

*And when I turn 21, the rule will become “If I’m not old enough to rent a car (25), don’t ask me about my life plans.” This will keep updating until A) I figure out my life, or B) I die in a sample sale being half-Nelsoned by an Olsen twin. At this point, I’m open to anything.

Any successful creative will tell you that they probably didn’t know what they were doing at twenty, either. If they did know, then stone them as witches. And you’ll never hear anything from unsuccessful creatives because the Applebee’s where they work doesn’t have good cell reception. Applebee’s or bust.

Takes an eight-hour break whilst writing post.  

I don’t really know how to end this article. In the past eight hours, I have eaten an entire personal pizza, cold brew coffee and an ice cream cone, and somehow the mass-consumption of food has not elucidated any life answers. But I have realized that in order to maintain sanity, I need to eschew successful peers in my life. B’s only, B+ and above need not apply.

I think the weird/frustrating thing is that I do have goals—write a book, be funny, not die on the streets, have enough money to live on, write cool commentary—but I don’t know what is the best way to achieve those goals. Again, I really cannot stress how much I do not want to die on the streets/live with my parents forever. I could just wing, I guess. I don’t really have the easy-going nature to wing it, or the good skin to weather that kind of fiscal stress.

In other news, I have a crush on a boy who doesn’t get a lot of Instagram likes, and I have to admit that I briefly considered whether or not that was a dealbreaker for me; I saw two guys at the gym and had a brief internal debate as to whether they were dating or related; also I was able to lift a wooden pallet over my head (I s2g I almost blacked out though).

I coerced/encouraged/thinspired my coworkers to read my blog and those leeches immediately asked if I could write a post about them. I told them that I don’t write blogs about people in my life (complete lie, omg such a lie), but really I just think I’m prettier/more interesting/I’m not romantically into them, so what’s the point of writing a blog post if not a thinly veiled attempt at flirting?? If you, coworkers, actually read this, then maybe I will. (I won’t).

Also I took an Instagram (@dnnymccrthy) today (Sunday) and I looked so tan in it that I was filled with white-hot rage and an insatiable desire to actually look that tan all the time. also I need to start teeth-smiling in photos because I don’t do it (it’s a sign of aggression in the animal kingdom and that’s the rule I live by) but when I don’t do it, if the angle isn’t exactly right, I end up looking like a mental patient. I mean, I essentially am a mental patient, but I sure as fuck don’t want to look like one.

Standard
Life, pop culture, Rambles, Things I Like

THINGS THAT ARE HAPPENING RN: KATY PERRY, THE COLOR PURPLE (NOT THE MOVIE), TIE-DYE AND DOGGIES

Time for another round of I’m Out of Ideas For This Week and On A Time Crisis! Oh wait, it’s called what? Really? That’s a bit of a sloppy name. Who thought of that? I did? Ugh, whatever. Nevermind, it’s time for Things That Are Happening RN!!

1). BLAHG: I’m obsessed with making header images for my blog. I spent a good hour just goofing around, finding the perfect font that says “Sexy, but approachable” mixed with “Never f*cking talk to me.” And I think I really found it. S.T.U.N.N.I.N.G. I also made a matching banner for my Twitter, which some people might consider a low point but I consider it more of a stepping stone to madness. Which I guess isn’t…better.

2). Katy Perry: Katy Perry made a perfume that’s called “Mad Love,” which is supposedly related to her “Mad Potion” perfume. HOWEVER “Mad love” is actually a Taylor Swift song lyric, as in “Baby now we got bad blood, you know we used to be mad love” (or idk; I don’t know the lyrics by heart). This is SHADE CITY because “Bad Blood” is allegedly about Katy Perry and how she stole dancers from Taylor’s tour and they both fought over John Mayer. A) You can’t steal dancers; they’re people. The last time someone stole a person, it resulted in SLAVERY. B) Why are we fighting over John Mayer? Just find a charismatic homeless person—same effect.

3). Taylor Swift: was dating Calvin Harris—now dating Tom Hiddleston. I realized that when T-Swizzle doesn’t have any new music for me to consume, I really find her very annoying. I don’t think that anyone can deny that she’s a musical powerhouse, but it also serves the alternative purpose of distracting me from her kind of awful personality. But Swiftie 4 life.

4). Bathing suits: I bought swimsuits from Old Navy yesterday. SALEEEEE. But there’s no more vulnerable of a moment than when you’re trying on a bathing suit under the harsh fluorescent lights of your local Old Navy. It really tests the strength of your character, and my character has the solidity of cheesecake.

5). COLOR: I’m really into lime-green and goldenrod-yellow lately. Usually these are some of my least favorite colors—omg I also forgot; I used purple in one of my Wunderkindof banner mockups (for when we’ve moved out of the summer themes) and I HATE purple. What is getting into me??

6). FASHUN: Do you ever buy one article of clothing and suddenly envision an entire capsule collection of your new style? I bought a tie-dye sweatshirt online the other day and it sent me on a science-nerd/grunchy hippie/clean grunge/second-hottest-kid-in-space-camp journey, for which I’m currently living. It’s really amazing what a piece of clothing can do for you.

7). DOG BLANKY: My sister put a picture of our dog onto a blanket and it’s massive and the best thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

8). OITNB: I’m two episodes in but I’m already exhausted. I wish no one else liked it because now I feel like I’m forced to watch it so that I can be a part of the cultural zeitgeist.

I could go on but I love stopping lists at the number 8 because it reaaaaaaaally (I almost forgot the second “L” and then realized, “What the fuck does it matter? I used like seven “A”s) undercuts any sort of expectation you might’ve had for me. And I’m nothing if not excellent at circumventing the expectations heaped upon me.

I werked out my arms today and instead of feeling “buff y ripped” I just feel tired.

Standard
Humor, Rambles

I BUILT A GAY ARMOIRE AND MY DOG THINKS I’M DYING

I’m currently a stay-at-home child. I don’t have a job. When my friends and peers are suiting up and heading out to their internships, I’m deciding whether or not I’ll spring for the chino shorts or if I’ll just slide into another pair of gym shorts and prove that I have fully and truly given up on life.

But because I stay at home—tending the chickens, doing watercolors, and growing yams for my own organic lubricant—I’ve really gotten to know myself on a deeper level and I’ve also developed some amazing hobbies to keep myself busy and keep my mind as sharp as it usually is (a dull 7/10).

I finished building an armoire today. So weird, but every time I say “Armoire” (and I say it a lot because I’m very self-conscious about the fact that I don’t have an internship, so whenever I meet anyone, I blurt out, “I’M BUILDING AN ARMOIRE” like I’m some sort of guerilla interior designer) I feel like I’m one of those Ina Garten gays who wears multi-pattern silk overshirts and paisley ascots. Now that I think about it, I’m kind of into it.

Side bar: I’m that asshole who tries to pronounce everything in the “correct” way. So it’s not “arm-whar.” It’s “arm-mwah (while twirling curlicue mustache)”.

But anyway, yeah I built an armoire. And I can’t even pretend it’s very “masc 4 masc” of me because 1) It’s an armoire (which is the gayest of all furniture storage besides ottomans and Lazy Susans) 2) I did it while listening to podcasts, and 3) I complained so much that out of the six or so hours it took me to put Armand (the armoire) together, five of them were me just complaining to my mother. However, I did use a power drill (or power-screwdriver ? Unclear) and I, like the true serial killer in the making I am, just pressed the button and watched the power-drill whirl around, screeching its beautiful metal melody.

So besides building an armoire, power-washing my front stoop, going to the gym (omg am I secretly the most masc person ever? Is this like the time I didn’t know that I loved Beyoncé?), I’ve been watching a ton of TV and listening to a bunch of amazing podcasts. Is it so boring to name the things I’ve been absorbing lately? Or is that cool? Okay I’m gonna list the podcasts and stuff I’ve been listening to and the shows I’ve been watching, so if you don’t care, just scroll past.

  1. Throwing Shade podcast
  2. Weird Adults With Little Esther podcast
  3. Anna Faris Is Unqualified podcast
  4. Bitch Sesh podcast
  5. Candidly Nicole—a faux VH1 TV about Nicole Richie
  6. Not Safe With Nikki Glaser—tv show
  7. The Week With Charlie Rose—just fucking with you guys.

I’ve also been reading a ton—menus, receipts, subpoenas—which has been soy nice because I’ve just been so oversaturated from my school year of reading serious literature. How boring. Trying to make me a “better person.”

I made this catchy title before I finished writing the post, so I should probably talk about my dog. He’s following me around everywhere—like will not leave me alone at any point. I was washing a cup in the bathroom, he was standing at my heels (size 11 Louboutins). I’m doing laps around the first floor (something I do when I keep forgetting things and have to keep getting them) and his little feet are click-clacking behind me (I forgot to mention that he’s also wearing Louboutins in this scenario). I’ve read somewhere that dogs can sense ghosts. I mean, animals can sense tsunamis or whatever, so I don’t think it’s that big of a stretch that they can sense the supernatural.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that either I’m a tsnumani, or I’m about to die/become a medium/there’s a ghost who is obsessed with me, because my dog cannot leave me alone. I hope it’s that I’m a medium, because that’s the most positive out of all the three possible outcomes I’ve discussed. But if I die then people will find this blog post and think that I’m clairvoyant or that my dog is a witch, and I cannot condone the next round of canine Salem Witch Trials. I will not let this happen.

Also the photos I’ve chosen have no real relevance, I’m just getting burritos and don’t have time to be visually hilarious. Plus those are funny tweets.

Standard
Essay, Humor

CHICKEN WINGIN’ IT

“If anyone asks, we all ate these wings,” I say to the table as my hand hovers over a plate covered with the bony remains of twelve chicken wings.

I’m sweating profusely from eating twelve chicken wings by myself, and I swipe the back of my hand against my forehead. Around the table, there are four other plates piled with chicken bones.

An actual gif of me.

An actual gif of me.

*****

This post was basically decided for me, thanks to two of my coworkers/friends—let’s call them Melody and Aerin, you know who you bitches are—so, like, know that I was basically forced to write this like some kind of journalistic prostitute.

I had a post all about Go-gurt half-written for today, Thursday, but I switched to this because last night I—strong of body and narcissistic of mind—went out on a WEEKDAY like a goddamn Carrie Bradshaw.

Side bar, I wrote “Carrie Bradshaw” because she’s the only modern working-going out woman I know of, and I couldn’t remember what Samantha’s last name was in Sex and the City.

Wait, also side bar. Is it Sex In the City?

*****

Before going out to the local bar—and by “local” I mean the bar close to my work, which is forty minutes away for me—we went to a camp variety show, where I got a damp ass from sitting on moist benches. It was…a lot.

“Are you serious?” my coworker—hmmm, Evan (?)—says. He stands up and motions a hand down his front, pointing out his outfit. White t-shirt, olive chino shorts.

“Are you FUCKING serious?” I say. I look down at myself. White t-shirt, olive chino shorts. A few weeks ago, we went to a party and wore the same outfit as each other—black t-shirt and khaki chino shorts—yeah I’m not original. I don’t have a lot of non-gym short options, especially because I’ve gotten fatter but not gotten richer.

The fact that I’m apparently subconsciously psychically linked to this sixteen-year-old is a complete and utter waste of psychic abilities. Either that or God has a rude sense of humor.

Me.

Me.

Warren, in his raspy, young Walter Cronkite voice, laughs.

Every one of my friends—I guess I can call them friends instead of just “coworkers—is looking beautiful. But, frankly, I see them in very worn conditions, so just not have sweat stains larger than the rings of Saturn is an improvement.

We order our wings, after the waitress coming over multiple times, and after a quick but heated debate over the appropriate number of wings for Evan to order, it’s settled. I ordered six sesame and ginger and six tossed in a mixture of barbeque and buffalo.

Side bar, if I ever create a TV show, it will be a sitcom about a redhead, played by me, and an Asian, Sandra Oh, I’m assuming, who are best friends and chefs and I’m calling it Sesame and Ginger because I’m culturally insensitive and also hilarious.

*****

“White was not a good option to wear,” I joke. “You can probably see all of my sweat.”

No, you can’t see my sweat, but Melody points to my shirt, at a spot directly underneath my left collarbone. My stomach drops through the soles of my feet and burrows about six feet into the ground.

“What?” I ask, my voice cracking into a thousand pieces. “What?”

She doesn’t say anything, but keeps pointing. I tug at my shirt, tucking my chin down. And on my shirt is a glob of that fucking barbeque-buffalo sauce. On my WHITE, UNIQLO T-SHIRT.

I waddle—again, I’ve just consumed twelve chicken wings within a fifteen-minute stretch—to the bathroom and wring my hands on the doorknob. It’s locked, so I have to pretend to be a normal, functioning human being instead of a psychotic human volcano. The bathroom’s occupant eventually leaves, and I rush in.

First I wash my hands of any treacherous chicken residue and then examine the spot. In the mirror, the spot looks much smaller, but I imagine I can feel deliciousness soaking through the pearly fibers. I dampen it with a soaked paper towel and spend five minutes just batting at it like a kitten with a toy.

Halfway through the process, I look up at the mirror. Oh damn, I look hot. My shoulders look broad and muscular in the white t-shirt, and my hair lays thickly across my head, with the perfect amount of swoop. Not crazy enough to be a swish but not flat enough to be a flop. Sometimes I forget that I’m a broad person. I still think I’m the scrawny beanpole—with a 10/10 face, of course—but I’ve become…wide—in good ways. I look, like, really hot. Fuck yeah.

Eventually, the glob has diminished into a slight smear, that keeps taunting, but I know have another issue. My shirt is a thin, silky-feeling material, i.e. I now have a wet circle of fabric beneath my collarbone that has all the subtlety of a gunshot wound.

I press my hand neatly against the wet, very “Southern belle,” as I leave the bathroom because A) my last-minute frantic attempts to dry it off have not gone well and B) there’s a very small window where you can be in the bathroom without people thinking you’re shitting.

*****

The whole point of the night was to hang out with coworkers at the bar late into the night until everyone realizes that they’re in love with me. They are, they just need to figure it out. But the bar is so often frequented by fetuses—sixteen-year-olds—that the owner of the bar flips on the lights at 10:30.

Everyone hisses like vampires.

“All right, everyone without an ID get out,” he says. My friends—cool fetuses, not lame fetuses—decide to leave before they’re kicked out. So suddenly our friend group is fractioned off.

Then, later in the night, I spotted a hot British guy, one that Melody and Aerin frequently obsess over. I’m standing five feet away, his back is turned to me, so I say to Evan and another coworker—Miles—“Oh my god, it would kill them if I got a picture of him.”

We debate several different ways to take his photo. I say that I should go with the classic “walk up and take the photo over his shoulder and then change my name and join the Witness Protection Program” but that doesn’t go over so well. Miles and Evan spend a hot second trying to take secret swiping shots of him.

I, in my infinite wisdom, say, “Or we could just do this,” and lift up my phone in clear view, zoom in and hit the button. All of a sudden, my flash goes off. I narrowly avoid smashing my phone on the ground and double over, pressing the flash into the fabric of my shirt as the camera goes off. Serves me right for playacting paparazzi.

Also a real gif of me.

Also a real gif of me.

Eventually my friends and I “leave”—decide to vacate the premises before we are thrown out—and I hiss “Fuck you”s to all of the people my age or younger that I pass on the way out of the door who are being ballsy as shit and staying in the bar.

*****

We hang out a park—no stabbings—for a while, discussing various tidbits of gossip, before splitting up to go home.

I guess, as a college student, the night was a technical fail because we got “kicked out” but I ate twelve chicken wings, so I’m counting last night as a win. And that’s all that really matters.

*****

Side bar, should I publish the Go-gurt post? It’s just essentially 400 words of portable dairy conspiracies. I think I just answered my own question: FUCK YES.

P. FUCKING S. I’m so sorry Marco, but I put Sandra Oh down because I figured in between us traveling the world as a pop duo, our burgeoning organic pudding shop and our podcast, we might need a little space. Mistake rectified; Sandrah Oh is OUT.

Standard
Humor

PAINT-BY-NUMBERS REALNESS

I step out of the shower and grab my towel, slicking the water off my arms and chest, doing each leg. As it swipes over my stomach, I notice a diagonal stripe of normal skin, bracketed by hot, cotton candy-pink sunburn.

*****

Back up a few hours, and I’m lying on a chaise lounge by the pool. I’m reading Mamrie Hart’s book You Deserve A Drink. I’m shirtless, and feeling awkward. I’ve always struggled with body image, which has been simultaneously alleviated and aggravated by going to the gym. But at this moment, it’s not my muscles that are the source of my discomfort. No, it’s my fresh Irish skin.

Through the amber lenses of my steampunk tortoiseshell sunglasses, my skin is tinted tan. I used a sunless tanning moisturizer that gives me a healthy glow, but in direct sunlight, it seems to be bleached of color, returning me to my wintry pallor.

Screen Shot 2015-07-12 at 11.35.51 PM

This photo has no relevance to the post. I think I look really hot in it and was feeling my look. Can I live?

And the pool is probably not the best place to be when you’re feeling hyper-aware of your paleness. It doesn’t helped that I’m sitting in a long line of glistening-skinned women, and my sister, Margot, who has beaten her Irish skin into submission and is a deep honeycomb brown. I’m feeling very judged at this pool.

Screen Shot 2015-07-12 at 11.26.49 PM

So I decide to stall my sunscreen application. Sometimes, a little burn causes my skin to take on a rosy flush. I set a 15-minute timer on my phone and settle back into the horizontal plastic straps of the lounge.

After fifteen minutes, I unstick myself from the tacky plastic and peer underneath my sunglasses at my stomach. I don’t feel burned, so I put off putting on sunscreen until a few minutes later. After that, I don’t think about it until I went to the bathroom. I moved past the mirror towards the urinals—

Wait, TOTAL side bar, but when I was at the pool a few days after, I went into the bathroom and saw this totally hot guy at the urinal a few away from. And whenever I tell this story, it sounds like the beginning of a big gay cruising adventure, but I swear that didn’t happen. Because when I was peeing, he finished up and walked out of the bathroom without washing his hands.

Screen Shot 2015-07-12 at 11.26.57 PM

The beginning of every love story.

And if you don’t know me—actually some people who do know me probably don’t know this—is that I hate dirtiness. I used to hate fruit because I had this irrational fear that it was secretly dirty and filled with maggots inside. I knew rationally that that couldn’t the case but I avoided them like the clap. So washing hands is a major turn-on for me. And this pool Adonis just DIDN’T DO IT. Our autumn wedding crashed and burned.

Also I like how I said it didn’t happen because he didn’t wash his hands, as if anything would’ve happened anyway.

—I noticed that my chest was pale pink from the sun.

Sitting in the car, my short bathing suit, which normally goes halfway down towards my knees, bunches up on my thighs and crotch. A clean line divides the skin that was exposed to the sun and the skin that wasn’t, making it look like I’m wearing a particularly anatomically correct pair of boxers.

*****

Additionally, my skin was two weeks away from really adjusting back to normal after a particularly bad tank top tan line situation.

So with the tank top tan line, the sunless tanner, the book-reading tan lines and the bathing suit tan lines, I was Fifty Shades of Fucked Up. I was dealing with more darks and lights than a noir film. I was doing my best Tony the Tiger impression.

CHzByMFUwAAz4I3

In the light of gay.

I was serving straight up paint-by-numbers realness.

Luckily, because I actually put on sunscreen, the burn was actually more like cotton candy and less like that fluffy pink insulation wool: a.k.a. it would soon melt away. Weird simile but it works (?). Like, simi-let me do this. Can I live?

Side bar: “Can I live?” will remain one of the most iconic lines ever to be uttered. Thanks, Kim Kardashian.

I always feel like there should be some overarching theme to end my posts, like “Don’t sun-tan” or “Drink lots of water,” but I like keeping the bar extremely low. It keeps you pleasantly surprised when I do mediocrely, and that’s really all I’m aiming for.

Side bar: my scrumptious friend—let’s call him Paul—wanted to be included in the post and give a quote.

Screen Shot 2015-07-12 at 11.29.13 PM

Poe-try again, bby.

ICONIC

Standard