In a move that probably caused the simultaneous bursting of a thousand-thousand Republican aneurysms, President Donald Trump took to Twitter more than a week after his administration announced the end of DACA, the Obama-era program that gave temporary two-year work visas to immigrants who came to the country illegally as minors.
“Does anybody really want to throw out good, educated and accomplished young people who have jobs, some serving in the military? Really!…..” said Trump in two Tweets. “…They have been in our country for many years through no fault of their own – brought in by parents at young age. Plus BIG border security.”
Written hours after seeing a girl running on the treadmill who was an exact replica of Taylor Swift in the commercial where she’s sprinting on a treadmill like a Suburban Girl on Black Friday and listening to Drake. Blunt bangs and all. Still shaken.
A few days ago, I started seeing someone. It’s amazing and it’s new, so I haven’t talked about it much. I’m always skeptical of love, and it’s not even been a month, but I think I can safely say that I’m in love. God! That’s so crazy to write out!!!
Part of why I haven’t said anything is because this person isn’t really my type. And that’s because it’s a “she.” GUESS WHO’S STRAIGHT.
YOU OBVIOUSLY DIDN’T BELIEVE THAT BECAUSE YOU’VE READ THIS BLOG/KNOW ME IN REAL LIFE.
So why is it that when a friend of mine jokingly asked me to be in a relationship with her on Facebook (because I’m hot), which I did (because I’m nice), people instantly started liking the proclamation. First, it was just a few friends. This is acceptable because I know them and she knew them and they were obviously like “Oh funny haha cute” OBVIOUSLY UNDERSTANDING THE IRONY.
Then, the likes start rolling in. On her end, I understand if people start liking the status without knowing I’m gay. I am, after all, surprisingly good-looking for someone who is this funny. But on my end, people I went to high school with (WHERE I WAS OUT OF THE CLOSET) start liking the status. They don’t know my friend, we don’t talk anymore, so they have no reason of understanding the joke. They just think that I’m straight now.
Side bar: I was the president of my PRIVATE ALL-BOYS CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL’s first Gay-Straight Alliance (which was mostly just a Gay Bulwark or a Homosexual Council). AND I took off all the buttons on my pants and re-sewed them on with pink thread. I mean, you wouldn’t know that unless you were undressing me and I looked like a naked mole rat in high school so that never happened. AND I wore cardigans.
Side bar: I told someone else that Nina kept calling me a cockblock because everyone thought I looked straight, and she just looks at me, takes a beat, and says, “So this is before they hear you speak, right?” BURN.
But as a new Straight White Male™, I’m still getting used to this newfound level of privilege. I jay-walk whenever I want. I can never recall a time where I didn’t have all the rights. AND I was at Starbucks yesterday during a study-break coffee time, and the girl accidentally charged me one dollar more than I was supposed to, so she comped me a whole extra slice of the lemon pound cake, which is DEFINITELY MORE THAN A DOLLAR. God, I’m swimming in privilege.
Source: Twitter// I started going crazy while writing an essay on Walt Whitman.
In other nudes, besides me being on top of the world, I’m in the midst of finals right now. I spent so much time yesterday staring at a screen that I thought I was gonna vomit. I didn’t, and after getting home from the library I proceeded to watch an hour of Netflix. So clearly, I was fucking fine.
I’m one essay and one article done, one essay and two finals to go. It’s so hard trying to maintain being smart for this long. I almost never do work (when you look like I do and talk like I do, people basically let you get away with whatever you want), so now I’m having to make up for all the work I coasted on because of my charisma. How do regular (-looking) people do this??
I hope that you’re having a good Monday, and that someday, you’ll get to live a life as rich and easy as mine. You probably won’t, but that won’t stop me from dreaming (GOD, I’M NICE TOO? GOD DOES GIFT WITH A HEAVY HAND!).
Yesterday I was trapped in a black hole of E! YouTube clips. It began with those two-minute house tours of various “celebrities”—B-list at highest—where the “tour” is just them opening the door, going, “Come on in” showing approximately two rooms in what is inevitably a 30-room house and some light panning that you have to pause the video for because the shots are so tightly sequenced together.
After watching that, I stumbled—“stumbled”—onto a video of four E! anchors discussing Chrissy Teigen’s alleged proposal to act as the surrogate for Kim Kardashian West. It’s kind of weird, given how cossested and incestuous the entertainment industry is, that they were discussing the reproduction habits of two people that they’ve probably met on several occasions. But that’s not the point of me bringing them up.
One of the anchors said that she could never be a surrogate for a close friend for the fearful responsibility. “What if you get into a car accident, and you’re carrying your friend’s child?” I never thought about it, but that paralyzing fear of carrying someone else’s most precious thing must be overwhelming.
But listen, I actually have a point about this.
Today, in Zen Meditation, we had our “final.” We had to push our shoes on and pair up. Once we were in our pairs, we learned what the final was. It would stretch 50 minutes. For 25 minutes, one person would act as the Communicator—eyes closed but allowed to talk. They would be led around by the Guide—eyes open but mute. After 25 minutes, they would switch. The catch is that, for the entirety of the 50 minutes, we had to remain in physical contact.
I was the Guide first, and had the task of leading someone around campus, where there’s trolleys rolling down the road and people and cars and cyclists—the banes of my existence. And for 25 minutes, I was Chrissy Teigen carrying the Kimye baby—which, if it ever happens, I still pray is named Ocean or Galaxy, because HOW BOMB would that be?? I was responsible for someone else, and I couldn’t even say anything. I had to led my partner in silence, guide her with subtle shifting in my arms and hands.
25 minutes suddenly becomes an eternity when you’re silently dragging a blind person around the streets of Boston. We sat on benches, touched branches, walked through leaves, grazed our fingers against plants.
It was actually harder for me to be the Guide than it was to be the Communicator. But not having sight and having no one to answer is a lot like therapy—ALL ABOUT ME. Here are a few things I said while I was blinded:
1). “Isn’t it crazy that butterflies have migration patterns ingrained in their DNA?”
2). “Are you going to push me in front of a car?”
3). “Are we walking up a hill? Wait. No.”
4). (intermittent shrieking as I think something is looming in front of me but it’s just the shadows from the branches above)
5). “Where are we going? Wait, you can’t answer.”
6). “If you could answer, what would your favorite drink be?”
7). “AhH! What was that?!” (a shrub)
8). “If we’re about to get hit by a car, feel free to yank me out of the way. I won’t get scared. I mean, I will get scared, but I’d rather shit my pants than get hit by a car.”
9). “Where are we?” (we haven’t moved)
10). (On stairs) “I could totally do it.”
11). (On you not expecting there to be no more steps and you overextend your footing) “Whoa!”
12). (On underestimating how many stairs are left on the way down) “Whoops!”
13). “I could see why people would be scared if a dog came up to them.”
14). “I wish I had a cane.”
15). “We walked past a fat guy sitting on the sidewalk smoking a cigar—I hope we don’t pass him again.” (Pause). “Omg are we walking past him right now?” (No answer, obviously). (Whispers) “Are we walking past him?” (Obviously, still no answer)
16). “This hill is really big. Or maybe I just think that because I can’t see.”
17). “What was that?!” (Upon hearing a car in the vicinity)
18). (On being able to track direction based on the sun’s movement) “We’re moving north. No. South. No, wait, north.”
19). (On the same train of thought) “Wait, does the sun rise in the east or the west? Fuck.”
20). (On thinking upon it for a little longer) “East.”
In other nudes, I was trying to rip an ingrown hair from my beatific face, and now I have a thumbprint-sized bruise on my cheek, thus completely defeating the point of clearing my skin. It looks like I was hit in the face by a ping-pong ball.
Also, I had this Tweet last night, which got a shockingly large amount of play. Which goes to show you, I have no idea what is funny and what isn’t. Yen will it happen again? Get it?
Written while getting increasingly erratic and jealous of a photo I posted on Instagram of a leaf. It’s somehow gotten more likes than my other most recent photo—me, looking thin—and I actually couldn’t make up how crazy it’s making me. IT’S A FUCKING LEAF, PPL. IS SHE HOTTER THAN ME? IS THAT WHAT IT IS?! WHAT DOES THIS LEAF HAVE THAT I DON’T? IT’LL BE DEAD AND CRISPY IN TWO DAYS. If I were smarter, I would stop giving this leaf promo, but my rage-envy is giving me tunnel vision.
The beginning // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy
Trying to cope // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy
Full descent into madness // Source: Twitter.com/dnnymccrthy
Halloween always stresses me out. As a kid, it was the blinding anxiety of the whole night being without rules. As a gaydult, it’s shifted to the crippling anxiety of trying to find the perfect Halloween costume. Halloween is Gay Christmas (Christmas is Gay Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving is just Gay, and the Super Bowl is Gay Arbor Day—no one cares about it and only Beyoncé makes it better). Also, Labor Day is the same in both Gay and Straight.
I can’t remember if I did anything for Halloween in high school. Granted, as evidenced by the photos I’ve been looking at lately, in high school I was cosplaying as a cadaver 24/7 (I was thin, you guys, and not “chic” thin or even “are you okay” thin (my favorite kind of thin) but like “gangly as fuck” thin, which is never a good look). I’m pretty lean now, and it’s only now that I realize there’s a solid difference between “thin” and “lean.”
I thought I was such hot shit in high school—omg the fucking ego I had—and now looking bad, I was literally all bad skin and mile-long limbs and HORRIFIC taste in clothing (I wore decorative scarves all the time). I’m on such a tangent but thinking about how no one gave me an intervention makes me so mad.
Anywayanyway, what should I be for Halloween for my senior year—the capstone four years in the making?
I was a “dead pirate” but everyone just thought I was “beat up Where’s Waldo.” Nothing against Where’s Waldo but definitely not what I was going for.
Sophomore year of college
I decided to go as a pun. BIG MISTAKE BECAUSE NO ONE GETS PUNS ON HALLOWEEN. I was “Dick In A Box.” The idea for the costume centered around the fact that I had this outfit that I looked so cute in, and I also had a cardboard box. I hung the box around me from spooky skull suspenders and then put a name-tag that said “Hi! I’m Richard” on the box. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that NO ONE GOT IT. Was I too nuanced? Should I have said “Hi I’m Dick”? What did I do wrong?!
Junior year of college #LondonEdition
The elusive, sexy Halloweekend. On Friday night, I went on a bar crawl through Shoreditch and dressed as Sexy Dead Lumberjack (L.L.Bean boots, short-shorts, red flannel unbuttoned to my navel, gray beanie, and a “slash” across my throat in red lipstick). Saturday I was supposed to be Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers, but after my RA thought I was simply in my pajamas, I changed. I did my face in skull makeup (free hand) and drew a tombstone on a white t-shirt, scrawling above it “My Dreams.” I was “My Dreams Are Dead.” Pretty funny and people moderately got it. The highlight of this night was eating duck confit and waffles forty floors above misty London at four a.m.
But so far, I haven’t thought of anything that’s really grabbing me. Here are some potential (actual potential, not like “joke for the blog”) options that I’ve been mulling over:
There’s a subtle difference between a “fuckboy” and a “fuckboi” because a “fuckboi” is secretly gay. Me and my “friend” Nina* have this long-running joke where we morph into what I like to think of as the gay fratty version of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and just riff off each other. Just two dudes who think it’s not gay to fall into the loving embrace of another man. The kind of guys who say “A hole is a hole” and “I’m not gay, but I would totally bottom for Tom Brady.” Just str8boi things.
*I fucking hate that nine-fingered bitch.
I think there has been no greater gift to humanity than the “Let’s Turn Regular Things Sexy” trend. I mean, fire is a pretty close second, but seriously this tops that. As a “joke” (where I float an actual idea but clothe it in humor to avoid being embarrassed) the possibility of being a “Sexy Baby” but the reaction from my focus groups was (probably rightfully) almost unanimous disgust. So that goes in the “Maybe” pile.
But I think being a Sexy Dentist could be hilarious because I love doing the whole “Unsexy Things Becoming Sexy but Doing Unsexy Things.” Like I do this dance at the club called “Sad Stripper” where it’s just me pussy-popping while crying. So as Sexy Dentist, I could wear a too-tight scrubs shirt, short shorts, maybe a mouth thingy, and then just stick my fingers in people’s unsuspecting mouths and ask them questions about school.
Like, a long time goes by.
Okay, so apparently I didn’t have a third potential option, and instead of brainstorming funny ideas just for the sake of having a trio (threesomes are so hard to coordinate, I’ve learned) I went back through my blog and read funny posts. You guys, I was actually funny. What’s happened? Anyway, I can’t even think of a third choice, so let’s just say that those are my two major options. It’s hard thinking of things to make funny. I mean, I’m not funny, so I wouldn’t actually know. I imagine it’s hard though.
Btw, here’s my playlist for Fall 2k16!!!! Last year I put up my Christmas playlist, but I made one for the season of the Dying of the Leaves!! Check it out if you want.
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.
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 RealHousewives 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 HappyEndings 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.
Alternate titles: “How To Disguise Your Flagrant Narcissism as Genuine Confidence” or “How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.”
First, I’d like to just say right off the bat that if you’re funny, you could essentially get away with whatever you want. Actually wait, that’s not entirely true; if you’re hot, you can actually get away with whatever you want. And I’m not even limiting that to getting away with narcissism. If you’re hot, you can do anything. Like Gwyneth Paltrow and GOOP. Do you think Gwyneth is qualified to recommend organic lube? Of course not.
So, if you’re above an 8 (the scale varies re your location), please disregard this blog post. You’re already set for life. Actually, you could give me some advice. If you have a high level of skill in getting people to like you (being blindingly funny, or a natural blonde), then this post can serve as more of light entertainment. But if, like me and rest of the plebeian majority, your flagrant narcissism is unequal to the level of your attractiveness and/or wit (just kidding, no one can be both hot and funny), this article is your savior.
THE NARCISSYSTEM—soon to be trademarked, but it’s not done yet so don’t steal it, you guys. I’m serious.
First I should point out that I’m butchering “narcissism” in the same way that Khloe Kardashian has a video series on her app called “Khlo-C-D.” I know that I’m not referring to clinical narcissisim. Don’t send me your letters. I’m referring to the casual narcissism, the millennial narcissism.
Our generation has been bred for casual narcissism in the same way that pugs and other brachycephalics were bred to look like E.T. It’s almost not our fault, it’s the fault of others…Which is something that a casual narcissist would say to avoid taking the blame for their actions. Moving on. I don’t think that someone could be around so many front-facing cameras and not be a little bit of a narcissist. There are Instagram models, people—open your eyes. It’s completely out of our hands now.
However, it’s a complete double-edged sword. We’re all narcissists, but you can’t be too openly narcissistic, because people don’t like seeing the physical manifestations of their souls. It’s too creepy (similar to the “Uncanny Valley”). It’s a mixture of the joy of having someone to hate—thus redirecting some of that self-hate that every millennial has—and the pure rage of someone having the balls to say what we’re all thinking. But on the other hand, you can’t be too modest. People hate modesty more than they hate ostentation because modesty means you don’t know/accept how good you have it, and people cannot handle that. It’s the Anne Hathaway Syndrome: don’t be too modest or people will want to skin you alive.
Like everything else in the world—it makes no fucking sense. The very act of maintaining social media presence implies some inherent narcissism: you think that what you’re putting out is funny or pretty or palatable enough to be worthy of consumption en masse. Even the Internet troll exhibits some base form of narcissism (mutated, though; in the same way that an actual turtle is tangentially like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles); they believe their vitriol is good enough to be coattailed onto creative content. And if you don’t have any social media presence, it’s assumed that either A) you’re Amish or B) you think you’re too good/authentic/uninhibited for social media.
So if you’re stuck between too open and too modest, finding the right balance requires a mixture of humor, timeliness, bold disregard for social norms, and a pinch of spunk.
If you’re deeply self-involved, but also critically insecure, here’s a great way to both get compliments and sympathy. I, as a gay 6 and a Boston 7, will say things like, “It’s hard because I’m so hot,” or “I wonder if I could get away with some of the things I say if I were ugly.”
Then wait, staring silently at your friends/personal assistants and wait for them to laugh or say nothing. If they laugh, it’s because they know that you’re ugly and you’re talking like an 8+, and if they’re silent, either they agree or they’re letting you have this. In either case for the second option, you win. The practice revolves on being hilarious, which is an excellent mask for the fact that you think that you’re actually that hot. Like I think I’m actually hot enough to get away with the things I say. Modern science, as well as my checkered dating history, provides a pretty strong counterpoint to that, however.
Here is where two roads diverge in the woods. Which path you takes depends on whether you’re hot or funny. We have established previously that you can only be either hot or funny, so I don’t have to worry about making up some third, weird combo path. Two paths. Accept it.
If you’re hot, take the Instagram. With a great enough following (or simply a like-happy following) you can bask in the social acceptance of your flagrant displays of narcissism. Outside of early Facebook-late MySpace, taking selfies has never been so publicly accepted. However, if you chose to Instagram, mingle your selfies with landscape shots, shots of dogs bounding freely, and/or simple, white aesthetic shots of food or furniture. Invest in a proper editing app, such as Afterlight or VSCO. Have a wide breadth of edited shots to upload at a moment’s notice (as long as that moment’s notice lies within the bracket of heavy traffic times). I edit my photos in the bathroom so when I’m out and about, I don’t have to edit at a moment’s notice.
If you’re funny (or ugly), go via Twitter. I, shockingly for a L.A. 5 and Milwaukee 8, use Twitter. Twitter allows me to be the most viciously funny, sloppy version of myself. It’s the social media equivalent of being so deep into a long-term relationship you exclusively wear sweatpants. Twitter has seen me at my worst and accepts me for it. In fact, it encourages my worst. I have never been dumber, funnier, ruder or sharper than I am in my best moments on Twitter. At my funeral, I’m going to have a flat-screen above my casket that plays a slideshow of my greatest Tweets.
Lastly, pretend that you’re in on the joke. If people knew that you were actually being serious, they would abandon you on an iceberg. But if they think you’re being funny, skewering our narcissistic society with your acute view and biting wit, then they’ll be into it. Here are some ways to coat your self-centeredness in “humor.” A). Amp up your narcissism ever so slightly, in the vein of shows like Candidly Nicole and Inside Amy Schumer (specifically the skit where she uses Tig Notaro’s breast cancer diagnosis to get people to be nice to her). B). Write a humorous article, maybe entitled “How To Be A Narcissist and Get Away With It” on your excellent, but not widely appreciated (because your humor goes over everyone’s heads), blog called the Blunderkindof and make it seem as if you’re emulating the vapid pleasure-society that we all inhabit. No one will catch on that you yourself are a wildly spiraling tornado of narcissism. It’s foolproof.
If everything else fails—fake your death and subsequent “resurrection.” This one guy did it 2000 years ago and he got a book deal out of it. So extra.
I hope you liked this snunny (snarky + funny + nihilism) post! I had an absolute blast writing it, and usually the only thing I enjoy is inflicting pain upon the masses! What a departure! But seriously, I actually loved writing this insane, silly, rude post and I hope that you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Or if that’s too tall an order, I hope that you had a modicum of the pleasure I had while writing it. I’d like to thank Nina for bouncing ideas off (even though she thinks I’m not pulling off being a functioning narcissist).
Growing up as a millennial can be a unique experience. You have the constant fear of someone bringing up a bad photo of you from seventh grade, or your mom trying to friend you—my mom does not because she “doesn’t want to see what’s on my page”—or your crush reading a message you sent but not responding.
There’s a lot of articles online about dating in the digital age, or doing your taxes in the digital age, or applying for jobs in the digital age. But there’s really nothing dedicated to being friends with someone in the digital age. And not capital-f Friends. We’re not talking Facebook friends—the idea of Facebook friends overlapping with your actual friends is basically an urban myth.
So since I have to guide you into the light—not in an angel-y way, but in a cool way—on other issues—race, gender, what to order at McDonald’s—then it’s only fitting that I guide you through this process. So are you ready? Are you ready? Let’s go!
Here’s rule number one, right off the bat. Group chats are literally Satan’s asshole, but they’re a necessary evil. Just, for the love of all things holy, put it in Facebook so I can at least mute the conversation. I’ve turned a deaf ear to at least half of the groups I’m in.
Rule number two: Do your civilian duty and take yourself off “private” in your social media. The very fact that you’re on social media implies, at least a little bit, that you’re a fame monster (Buy ARTPOP on iTunes). We live in the age of media-stalking, so just assume that someone wants to get a cute look at you.
In fact, the Golden Rule of Social Media: Do unto your social media as you would wish others to do unto theirs. I.e. if you’re stalking, you better open up the digital gates so people can return the favor.
Rule number three: Follow people back on Twitter and Instagram. The only time it is acceptable to not follow people back is if they’re strangers or if you’re a celebrity. If you’re not a celebrity, and I follow you, it’s because I know you. Don’t throw shade and not follow me back. That happened to me once. I met a really cool girl, had a good conversation with her, and then followed her on Twitter. She didn’t follow me back, and now she is on my List. You’re not Madonna. You can afford to alter your ratio. I’m stretching out an olive branch.
Rule number four: But conversely, don’t feel obliged to Favorite, Like, or Retweet everything I do. Sometimes I have an off day and my tweet is a little sloppily crafted. You don’t have to placate me with a flurry of Likes. Save those for when I’m really funny (which is 99 times out of 100).
Note: This does not apply to Instagram. Like my Instagram or I will hunt you down and gut you like a fish.
Rule number five: I will allow you to crop me out of photos if you look really good. I don’t anticipate it happening often, and be careful how you crop. If it’s a simple group chat, go nuts. But if we’re entwined in some sort of gymnastics, and you crop the living sh*t out of the photo to the point where if you click on the photo, it’s just a small square of your face surrounded by black, then we have a problem. I understand that good photos are like shooting stars—they happen only ever so often. But have some sense of decorum.
Rule number six: Landscape, never portrait. Don’t play with fire.
And because I need to preserve my sanity, rule number seven: keep conversations to one medium. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a conversation with a friend in Facebook, and had a separate, distinct conversation with the same friend over text. Okay, it’s only happened twice. But still, it’s a thing.
Rule number eight: Ghost with integrity. If and when you decide to stop being friends with someone, it’s a little harder than just ducking or avoiding them on the street. No. Now that we’re living in an age where nothing ever dies online, you need to learn how to ghost with grace. Ghosting is basically—it’s a trend, and I’m hopping on the trend—when you slowly slip out of someone’s life. You take longer to answer texts. You can’t FaceTime anymore. You “forget” to tag them in your popular blog posts that everyone loves but is too afraid to say that they love, so they ask things like “What’s the Wunderkindof?” and “Oh, I didn’t know you blogged” and—oh, I’m projecting. It’s fine when you want to ditch people. We’ve all done it. Just be smart about it.
Rule number nine: Tag me, but don’t drag me. I look good from approximately two angles. So I can’t tell you how visceral the fear is when I see that little notification pop up in the “Photos of You” tab in Instagram. You can tag me in your photos—actually, please do—but realize that if it’s an unflattering angle or me doing something “hilarious,” that you are putting your life, the lives of your future children, and the life of your iPhone at risk.
Also side bar: No one ever looks good in “funny photos.”
And lastly, rule number ten: social media isn’t a substitute for quality time. Yes, I love tagging Jenny in funny Instagrams, or texting Shelby whenever something salacious happens in the celebrity world, or g-chatting (gay-chatting) with Marco, or sending ambiguous emojis to Mitchell. But that is just a complement to being with them. So rule number ten-b: don’t let social media rule your life. Let me rule your life. Through social media. I understand how confusing this might be. Just give me your Social Security number and everything will be okay.
Living in the digital age is hard; everything should be quicker and more immediate, but it often ends up lost in a haze of misinterpretation. Did he mean to send me that winky emoji? How long is too long for me to return someone’s text? What is “fam” and how is it being used in the vernacular? All of these things are questions that I know that I have.
An in-depth dissection of what went down on Wednesday.
I triaged to the triad of the Kanye West-Wiz Khalifa-Amber Rose mess (suck my ass, Shelby)—
Side bar: I don’t actually know the real meaning of “triage” but that’s not gonna stop me from triaging—
And I’m not going to do a full rundown of the entire history of the triangle, because Sam Stryker from BuzzFeed already did that and he probably did it better than me, so I’m just going to highlight the best moments.
Okay, so if you were living under a rock—or under The Rock, amiright ladies—then you might not know what went down on Wednesday. But mama’s here to tell you. I’m mama, for reference.
First, for references:
Kanye dated Amber Rose before marrying Kim Kardashian, and Amber Rose has a child with Wiz Khalifa. Amber’s former friend is Kim Kardashian, and her current best friend is Blac Chyna, who has a child with Tyga who is currently dating Kylie Jenner, and Blac Chyna has recently begun a relationship with Rob Kardashian. Khloe Kardashian has had major beef with Blac Chyna over Kylie Jenner, and recently tweeted some shady things about “not going against the fambily (Caroline Manzo voice)” that could be interpreted about Rob and Chyna’s new relationship. Okay, are we all good?
On Tuesday, Ye—‘Ye* (?)—announced that he was changing the name of his album to WAVES. First of all, I enjoy it. But then Wiz tweeted at him basically saying that he didn’t like the name change and that Kanye should “hit this kk” and get back to his roots. Apparently “kk” is code for that sweet dank kush—marijuana—as well as me when I’m trying to be salty over text, but Kanye took it as a slight dig at his wifey, Kim Kardashian West.
That, clearly, didn’t go over well. Over a series of more than seventeen tweets, Kanye proceeded to wreck all over Wiz, insulting his music, his pants (?), his slim frame, and—and this is important—Amber Rose, Wiz’s ex. And since it wouldn’t be Kanye if Kanye wasn’t promoting Kanye, Kanye also made the tweets a backdoor brag for himself, claiming that though he wasn’t “tall and skinny” he was still the greatest artist that ever lived and is the pinnacle of music creation. Maybe that’s not so much of a backdoor brag as it is a full-out BRAAAAAAAAG.
So the fourth tweet is where things get interesting. Kanye says, “You let a stripper trap you.” The “stripper” in question is Amber Rose, a mutual ex of both Kanye and Wiz. Kanye dated Amber first, and then when they broke up, Amber and Wiz got together, eventually having a son, Sebastian Taylor Thomaz (which is straight up such a cute name). Kanye went on to marry Kim, and have two children: North and Saint.
Kanye has disparaged Amber in the past, claiming that he had to take “thirty showers” after being with Amber before he could be with Kim, and has taunted Wiz saying that Amber “trapped” Wiz for 18 years with their son, and that he basically “owned” Wiz and Amber’s son and made him happen.
Now, we all know that Kanye is a complete egomaniac and has said on multiple occasions that the biggest crime of human history is that he will never get to see himself live. I disagree, but let’s not split hairs. But his comments on Twitter—which he has since deleted—contain such a heavy misogyny and double-standard that it’s painful.
Amber Rose seems to be shaded by past men in her life, to the point where they’re practically obsessed with her. Her past as a stripper and her outspoken sexuality are demonized by Wiz and Kanye, but she refuses to bend, appearing at the 2015 VMAs with Blac Chyna wearing dresses covered in misogynistic slurs, and hosting the Slut Walk soon after. So, she’s basically amazing and refers to herself as “Muva” in the third person on Twitter.
Amber hit back against Kanye by saying that she was hurt by his words and wouldn’t ever attack him like he’s attacked her, because regardless of where they are now, they were once in love. She’s so dope. But she’s also not taking shit, so she entered the dialogue with this iconic tweet:
And later on the Allegedly podcast, Amber said that she would never talk shit about Kanye’s kids because A) she’s classy, and B) they’re kids. She’s disgusted that Kanye would talk about her son, but she’s not surprised. And are any of us surprised?
It was Tyler Oakley who said that if you hate someone, then why would you give them promo? And Kanye West has been essentially giving promo to Amber for years. He calls her a slut and a stripper and tries to demolish her, but they dated for over two years. They went around the world together. His anger towards her is curious and interesting, and it goes beyond just a nasty break-up.
Kanye West employs a dangerous double-standard, lauding his wife Kim and demonizing his ex Amber. But how can you do that? How can you do that? How can you have a wife and a daughter whom you praise and cherish and completely trash on someone else’s mother, someone else’s daughter? You can’t. You shouldn’t.
How can you slut-shame when you have seen firsthand people do the same to your wife and watched her go through that? How can you witness that and then turn around and completely shame another woman?
Kanye’s misogyny is dangerous, because it employs the stereotype that owning your sexuality makes you a slut, and being married makes you virtuous. I love Kim and the entire Kardashian clan, but how different are they from Amber? All are strong, independent, capable women who own their sexuality. But Amber is slut-shamed and shunned whereas we applaud Kim, Khloe, Kourtney, and Kylie.
You don’t have to love everyone, but you should always respect them. And Kanye’s treatment of Amber shows that to him, respect for women is circumstantial. That if you’re on his bad side, you’re a whore and a bitch and a slut. But if you’re on his good side, you are virtuous and noteworthy. But how easy is it to slip from side to side? Answer: very easy.
Kanye is teaching the world that however much he loves and honors the women in his life, he is still a misogynist because he relies on sexist, misogynistic and derogatory language to tear down a woman for her sexuality and her independence. His rhetoric is damaging for his listeners, his daughter, and his family, because he is perpetuating slut-shaming. Like bro, can we not? Can we absolutely abstain from slut-shaming?
Muva Amber doesn’t need my help in defending herself, so I won’t go into all of her amazing attributes. But I will say this. She is strong, and she defends herself. And she refuses to be ashamed or stoop to low levels. She has respect for Kanye when he doesn’t have respect for her, and that is such a hard thing to remain on the high road when some asshole is slinging mud at you from below.
So now you’re all caught up, and, frankly, you’re welcome. It was exhausting. I suppose what we’re supposed to do now is just watch and wait and see what happens. Either way, I don’t really anticipate anything beyond Amber owning it and Kanye just digging himself into a hole with a gold-plated shovel. Über-chic, but still tragic.
Over the last week, I have made several questionable decisions. Here are a few of those decisions:
I finally had to Google “spoopy” today, like a forty-year-old. After two weeks of seeing it on Tumblr and reading it on my friend’s—Shelby—Twitter, I was like, “Okay, I need to know.”
I cut my bangs with scissors in the bathroom sink.
I bought a large jar of chocolate icing and proceeded to eat it. Just the icing.
I dropped some butternut squash on the kitchen floor while I was cutting it, and for multiple milliseconds, I was like, “Oh that’s fine,” but then someone walked in while it was on the floor, so I had to pick it up and throw it out.
I also waited until two days before it was due to start reading a 500-page novel for my English class, but that’s not so much a questionable decision as it is a manifestation of my crippling laziness.
Okay, I’ll level with you guys. My last post—“You’re Bad At Picking People”—was—wait, lemme just do all the shameless self-promotion while I’m at it (Twitter: @thedanosaurus, Instagram: @thedanosaurus, Tumblr: thelastdanosaurus.tumblr.com) Follow me—kinda emotional and it got a lot more traffic than the regular, non-emotionally psychotic posts do, and it was weird because I wrote that post in twenty minutes and published without really thinking about. I used “You” as the primary subject, but—spoiler alert—it was about me.
And whenever I post emotionally charged articles—i.e. every other week—I always feel like I need to do a cheerful post to even it out and make me not seem like a sobbing, quivering mess. I’m not a quivering mess.
Like I feel like I have to walk on eggshells a little, but I’m a goddamn bull in a china shop, so that doesn’t really work. Also, no one can walk on eggshells without breaking them. Is that what the saying is supposed to mean? That everyone attempts to tread lightly but they end up fucking everything up? And also, why are there eggshells all over this floor? Whose chickens are cracking their eggs all over the floor? Or is this a “peeling the hard-boiled egg” situation? This idiom is idiotic. And what’s it all meta-for anyway? AYOO.
I apologize. But didn’t I neatly distract you from the emotional hurricane I was in last week? How slick! How sly!
Side bar: I had to google “walking on eggshells” to figure out what that thing is called when it’s like a saying, but also a meaning? I thought it was colloquialism but it’s not. It’s an idiom.
What if I literally spent this entire blog just putzing around and not writing about my life or anything? Haha wouldn’t that be so spoopy. That’s not how you use that word. But that’s how I use that word. I tried to capitalize “I” to give it inflection but it doesn’t really have the same effect. I suppose I could’ve italicized it. I think that’s a good idea. Meh. Not that effective.
I’m trying to do that thing where when I disagree with people on things, I don’t immediately try to sock them in the face. I’m trying to be able to “agree to disagree,” which is not as much fun as hitting people in the nose, but earns me less strikes on my personal record. Like, the other day, someone—let’s call them Wrong—said that Taylor Swift did not have a good singing voice.
I gripped my knuckles, and dug my fingernails into my palms. “She. Is. Talented,” I hissed through clenched teeth, enamel flaking off with the force of my jaws clamped together.
Like, I don’t understand how people can’t think Taylor Swift has a good singing voice. I’m not asking you to love her. I’m not asking you to hold her hand while she gives birth. I’m not even asking you to pick her up from the airport. I’m just asking you to admit that—objectively, you fuck—the woman who is a megamillionaire due to her singing has a good singing voice. Is that so hard—you abominable nosepicker—? Isn’t it plausible—even for your tiny, idiot brain to comprehend, you poopyface—that the woman who has built an empire might not have “tricked people” with voodoo but might ACTUALLY POSSESS TALENT? IS THAT SO IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE?
Side bar: *takes deep breaths*
But yeah, anyway, I’m really trying to be more mature. I only threatened to punch someone in the face once today. Well, I guess twice, since I just wrote about wanting to punch someone in the face a few lines above this. Your Honor, I’m not a threat.
I’m thinking of doing something ~fun~ and ~crazy~ and ~ambitious~ for the Christmas season on my blog this year, to celebrate the end of The Wunderkindof’s—follow me on Twitter—first year online. But I’m not going to write it out because if it doesn’t pan out—i.e. if I get lazy and/or eat more icing—I don’t want evidence of my shame living on the Internet forever. Speaking of shame living on the Internet forever, I was thinking about AIM today and wishing I could read archives of old AIM conversations I had in the “good ole days” before I came out of the closet and discovered a decent acne cream.
Spoiler alert: it’s not this.
I’m being Bob Belcher for Halloween. I figured since I’m not going to a gay club for Halloween—a.k.a. Gay Christmas—I wouldn’t need to dress sexy. So for my costume, I’m wearing gray sweatpants and ugly man clogs. I love it. But since I’m going “out” on a “pub crawl” on “Friday,” I need to come up with another costume, and I want to be something both sexy and grotesque. Maybe a sexy standardized test? Slutty office supplies?
Okay, so bye? Maybe I’ll do a bonus post detailing my Hallowieners experience and if I score some boy-on-boy hand-holding? Unlikely, but not impossible.
Sorry hold on.
(Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Yeah. Okay.)
I’m getting confirmation from our source on the ground that it is, indeed, impossible that I will get boy-on-boy hand-holding this Halloween season. Back to you, Rick.