Perfecting the art of being blunt since 1989.

Traveling like a Paranoid Psycho

Ever since I was a small child I was always a bit on the paranoid side. Before I went to bed every night I used to ask my parents a list of questions and concerns I had before falling asleep including but not limited to; is someone going to break into the house? is the house going to catch on fire? is a plane going to crash into my bedroom? is my American Girl doll going to come to life in the middle of the night and murder me? .. How my parents didn’t check me into an institution back then will forever baffle me. 

Years later not much has changed (I still might sleep with the lights on *cough*) and I’m paranoid as fuck. Whatever the situation, my mind will immediately think up these insane predicaments that may occur and if I were to speak them aloud, people may start sizing me up for a strait jacket.

This happens especially when I’m flying anywhere. Now, I’ve been traveling since the age of three so why all of a sudden my anxiety goes through the roof whenever I step into an airport is beyond me. However, it usually doesn’t begin until I reach the boarding gate. I then become an extremely Judgy Jason about everyone who looks like they will be on my flight. 

Now, like Michael Jackson said - “it don’t matter if you’re black or white” so I don’t size up by race/color/whathaveyou - I only judge you on a scale of innocent as a baby lamb -> being SUPER shady. My formula for what qualifies as shady in my mystifying mind is not capable of being put into words - but I’m sure anyone who travels often can’t deny doing this once in awhile. I just happen to do it every time. And goddamnit do I hate when people travel alone - at that point you’re just telling me you have nothing to lose and you might stab someone in the jugular with a pair of tweezers … or you might just be on a business trip. I’m not hanging around long enough to  find out.

There have definitely been times where I’ve considered changing my flight, but that is pretty costly these days. There have also been other times where I have considered asking one of these shady person or persons if they plan on doing anything particularly dangerous whilst on the plane - but then I think hmmmm .. won’t that be awkward at the baggage claim? “Oh hey there, sooooo glad you didn’t try to murder us all, have a great vacation!” Nah, I like to keep my outward appearance cool as a cucumber. 

All in all it’s exhausting, and sometimes it doesn’t even stop at the airport. Usually we have some sort of driver for the trip from the terminal to the hotel and even then my lunacy doesn’t rest. I’ll be like - what if this cab driver killed the REAL cab driver in a plot to lure some unsuspecting tourists into his trap and sell us all on the black market! - Yup, total normalcy right there.

I’m sure I’m not alone in these feelings, maybe not to this extremity but there’s got to be like a SUPER PARANOID TRAVELERS ANONYMOUS out there. If you have these worries, do yourself a favor and take a Xanax or have a shit ton of Tequila shots before boarding, this way you will be in a happy little daze the entire flight. And if not for your yourself, do it for your fellow travelers who I’m sure don’t want some deranged lunatic ruining their trip.


Forever Means FOR-EV-ER

A couple of weeks ago I turned a quarter of a century old, sure I spent a lot of time weeping over it in forlorn of my all but extinct childhood - but then I realized several things; One, that I pretty much do the same things I did when I was fourteen (e.g.; play video games and scavenge the internet) and two, that I am in a seemingly much better place than most of my equal-aged peers. 

I have noticed recently through Facebook feeds, Twitter timelines and the like that a lot of people seem to have an itchy ring finger and thus, dozens of engagements have been flooding the social media gates. While I’m all for the glee and bliss that comes along with a couple who decides that they want to spend the rest of their lives together, my skepticism lies in the latter thought - does the word forever really mean anything to them?  Or do they just want to be able to use the hashtag “engaged” on their Instagram post.

What some people don’t seem to realize is that after the wedding shower, the lavish party and the dozens of gifts showered upon you and your significant other, it will be just the two of you until the end of your days. I’m not saying that everyone doesn’t realize this and is super confident in their commitment, it’s just that some people seem to believe that marriage means “until I get bored” rather than “until death do us part.”

As for me, luckily I don’t have any marriage mongering girlfriends although I have had some men in my life that were ready to marry the next thing that caught their peripheral vision.  I’m sure eventually a dude will be able to coax me into chillin’ with him permanently but for now I’m in no rush - and you shouldn’t be either!

Showing Your Butt to Strangers and Other Perks of Being a Female

It is fucking expensive being a girl, there’s no doubt about that. You have to have the chest of a pornstar and the vag of a twelve year old. There’s constant primping, priming and pushing - yes pushing - your stomach down, your boobs up. whatever. All of this comes with a plethora of awkward situations with complete strangers.

For example, spray tanning. Now personally, I am not one who enjoys having tangerine tits - but once in awhile for special occasions I’ll get a bit of artificial shading done. Since I don’t particularly enjoy having my naked bod on display for some girl with a glorified air gun shooting ice cold brown shit everywhere, I’ll usually adorn a bikini of some sort. But there are others that go naked, and props to them but being in a bikini is mortifying enough because those girls go into every crevice imaginable. Protip - definitely shave the nether regions prior to having this done because I’m sure the poor woman doesn’t always have to spray the most glorious bodies on the planet and having a stray pube poke her in the eye whilst making your lower lips look bronze is not the icing on the cake.

Speaking of the great down under - a moreso sticky situation (no pun intended,) is the dreaded brazilian wax. I am grateful to have only experienced this once but it is forever burned into my mind. There’s no quicker way to get rid of a shy complex then lying on a table spread eagle in front of woman who has no doubt seen the strangest of vaginas. And as you painfully have your womanhood plucked and pulled you curse the society that created this trend. But of course the adventure doesn’t end there. Most brazilians include a complimentary butt hole waxing - and who could ever pass up such an offer? Besides, now your waxer and you share a special kind of relationship that leaves no mystery to the mind whatsoever. Protip: You better fucking shower before this because no one wants to wax off a goddamn dingleberry. 

In short. It’s not the 70s anymore. Suck it up.


The Trials and Tribulations of Chronic Bitchface

Everyone knows the phrase that goes “love is patient, love is kind..” Welp, if similar poetic nature was to be created to describe the female race it would go something along the lines of - “girls are cunty .. girls are judgmental..” Not to say that I can’t (at times) be the most judgmental cunt of them all, however ever since I was a wee little lass I have always had trouble bonding with those of my kind.

From the seemingly innocent kindergarten kingdom to present day, I’ve always felt more comfortable hangin’ with the boys. Perhaps it was because while I was growing up, I was a bit of a tomboy, (cut to my mom begrudgingly shopping down all the toy aisles filled with Power Rangers, Pokemon and Star Wars paraphernalia) 

And it’s not as though I have zero girlfriends, there are a select few who I’ve seen great promise in, although I don’t need more than two hands to count them. I’ve just always been SUPER fucking awkward around other girls. Like what do I even say - “ohhh word, did you hear about that new kind of chocolate that just came out?”

It’s a conundrum that has been rather difficult to solve, especially since most girls I meet seem to immediately either dislike me or think I have developed a premature hatred for them. For example, during one of my first college parties a bunch of girls who I had neither uttered a word to nor even glanced at turned to me before they left and yelled, “HEY! WE THINK YOU’RE A HUGE CUNT!” Needless to say I was a big aghast and perplexed. I gave zero fucks about their odd yet somewhat correct judgement of character but what confused me the most is how they had reached this conclusion. Surely, their brains combined had no less of an IQ than your common houseplant. 

But this is something that has plagued me for ages and I could never find a reasoning behind this great divide until the other day when i was lamenting to one of my friends about how the girls at our frequently visited Starbucks seemed to develop a distaste for me. Her answer to that was simple yet profound - “Well, it’s probably because you have chronic bitchface.” At first I was all WHHHHAAAAT, but the more I thought about it the more I realized she was absolutely correct. 

You see, I have a staring problem, meaning that I often space out and stare at whatever object is in my direct line of vision. And I SUPPOSE that when I am in my catatonic state the object I bore my eyes into has a vagina, they’re all “SHEEEEET what that bitch be starin’ at? I’ll shank that hoe.” And this is where my conflict derives from. 

So that’s it, I have chronic bitchface. I suppose it is a blessing and a curse. Some people may not want to mess with me, however others will think I hate them before we exchange the slightest formality. 

I suppose next time you see me staring at you with what looks like the bitchiest of gazes, remember that I probably don’t mean it. Or maybe I do. Ah, well.


Pajama Pants Peeves

GODDAMNIT if there is one thing that irks me it is girls wearing sweatpants. And most definitely not in the - oh shiiit look at me I’m wearing Adidas pants with Alexander Wang heels sheeeet girl put me on the cover of Nylon. Somuchnope.jpg. I’m talking about the prissy girls on this godforsaken LongneedsanewplagueIsland -  the ones that think they are the hottest thing that ever walked this planet with their grey, ratty sweatpants tucked into their Uggs that smell similar to the odor of someone farting on a dead body. That look didn’t work for you in the seventh grade and it sure as hell won’t get guys hankering for your veej ten years later.

I know most girls will protest this peeve of mine by saying that comfort is the true factor here. But to that I say nay, in this brilliant world of fashion and design that we find ourselves living in there are a plethora of ways to be comfortable whilst not being confused with a preteen boy. 

It most definitely does not help that every girl I have the distinct displeasure of meeting, that finds these hideous combinations as proper garments, contain the personality of a complete cuntball  - and I use that term loosely, like their vaginas. 

So next time you’re swimming mind has you up in the wee hours of the AM and you find yourself drooling over the TV informercial for Pajama Pants please heed my advice and know that it does get better. Help is there if you need it my dear ladies. 


The Little Bag Snob That Could

I’ve always been two types of girl -> the girl that can shoot a gun, assassinate a templar and rescue some Japanese chick (all in the name of my Xbox console) AND the girl who loves really fucking expensive handbags. Not many know about the latter but goddamn is it an exorbitant amusement. Being an avid gamer and a fashion lover at heart has got to be two of the worst hobbies a female with a habit of overspending can have. 

When I’m not getting confused for a prepubescent boy on Xbox live (i.e. learning who has fucked my mom in the past week ) I’m weeping over the thirty some-odd tabs I have open in my browser loaded with shit I can’t afford. But where there’s a will there’s a way - and yesterday I received the little bugger pictured above in the mail. A Proenza Schouler PS1. As I gazed upon this little bundle of joy I knew then what a mother must feel like gazing upon her newborn child - except this won’t stretch my vagina and poop itself. 

Naturally, I had to save a heap of money to purchase it and the Gods of eBay must have been smiling upon me this month because I found one at a pretty decent price. So fear not, those who still have prevailing taste but have spiderwebs in their piggy bank, eating ramen noodles for eight weeks is a feat only those with true perseverance can master. Food schmood.

Unfortunately I don’t have anything witty to end this post with so I’ll just say this - if you want something, just fucking go for it  and don’t let anyone give you shit. Make yourself happy, even if that happiness comes in the form of Italian leather and gold hardware like it did for me. 


The Rise & Fall of Instagram-ships.

Ah Instagram, at first it was the little social network that could and now it has stolen our hearts and our attention spans. There are many different types of Insta-users: there are those that use it solely to post their artsy-fartsy images, others who stalk celebrities and use that connection to psychologically trick themselves into thinking they have forged some sort of bond with Kendall Jenner and will be best friends for life and then the rest of us - we actually know each other and use it just as any other social network - to peer into someone else’s point of view.

And of course, with any social network, there is the code of camaraderie. I follow you, you follow me. I look at pictures of your puppy and you look at pictures of my turkey sandwich. And the infinite loop of peace and happiness of watching your ‘likes’ and ‘followers’ steadily tick upwards instills in you a false sense of importance. 

Having a lot of friends that rely heavily on their mobile social media lives I know the heartbreak and confusion that is involved when all of a sudden that infinite loop breaks, and the followers decrease. A sense of panic overrides you as you nervously scroll through your list, your thumb producing tiny beads of sweat that condense on your smartphone screen. “Who is it, who could it be?” your mind paces at the outrage of this betrayal. And then you figure it out, you have sudden mathematical prowess that couldn’t help you in high school but now all of a sudden your Ms. Good Will Hunting and you link it to one of your so-called friends. “Why me?” you ponder. “Were my kittens not cute enough? Suns not sunny enough? Grilled cheeses not cheesy enough?” But alas, the reason escapes you. 

Your heart feels heavy, you feel shunned, alone, Insta-sad. But through all that, you know that you must kick that dirt off your shoulder and keep your head held high and stay focused on the most important thing, the most precious question of your little Insta-life - what goddamn filter do I use?!



Break time drink. #relax #alcoholism #noproblemshere

Alcohol is a solution, not a problem


Break time drink. #relax #alcoholism #noproblemshere

Alcohol is a solution, not a problem

I’m a sucker for leather sleeves + trench coats. This Rebecca Minkoff piece is sa-weet for $698. Mo’ money mo’ clothes.

I’m a sucker for leather sleeves + trench coats. This Rebecca Minkoff piece is sa-weet for $698. Mo’ money mo’ clothes.